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The sun was just beginning to set. The farmer, not as young as he used to be, was grateful that the day's work was finally over. Harvest season had started, and no matter how long he and his sons worked, and how many fae they hired out for extra help, it seemed there was always more to be done. But an overly bountiful harvest was far better than the meager, barely-breaking-even ones past years had provided.
The farmer reclined in the chair in front of his house, content to watch the birds until suppertime. He spied one creature that looked to be a bird circling high in the sky as if searching for carrion, until the black winged shape grew closer and closer, until there was a sickening BANG- and the dragon fell.
There it was, in front of his eyes. Four legs. Two wings. A tail. Glimmering black scales. Horns curled in the way that meant juvenile male. Sharp amber eyes. Red blood staining the grass. A dragon- a young one, barely bigger than a horse- shot in the leg and startled out of the air. The farmer was surprised, though not shocked or scared. More fascinated than anything else. Seeing a dragon was increasingly rare these days. The dragonslayers made sure of it.
The farmer could easily have guessed that the human man running out of the woods and onto the scene was a dragonslayer. But he'd never know the identity of the slayer who now stood gun-in-hand, face-to-face with the dragon, nor that of the dragon himself.
He didn't know that the dragon's name was Obsidian. That his title was Obsidian, Son of Seraph or that it would one day be Obsidian, Maker of the Code. The farmer never knew of Seraph, the matriarch of the last true dragon village. Her full title was Seraph, Savior of the Homeland, Protector of All, Final and Greatest Ruler, Last to be Slain. The human, shooting again and this time clearing a hole through Obsidian's wing, was the last true dragonslayer. The dragonslayers claimed to be honorable. They were lied to and lied to others. But now they were no more.
The farmer didn't know that, as Obsidian roared in pain, he did so just as much in anger. The dragon went to chase after the man, but unable to balance on three points, planted his uninjured wing on the ground. This way, though lopsided and unruly, was fast- fast enough to chase down the slayer and pin him to the ground.
"Let her be the last. Let you be the last," Obsidian hissed, before avenging his mother with a single blow to the head.
He was only a teenager and had just killed a man. He tasted blood. Obsidian stood there, shaking, panting, making a low growling sound- the draconic equivalent of crying. His mother was gone, and she would always be gone, but now her killer was gone as well. That man was the very last dragonslayer. Not because of morality or the changing times, but because there were few dragons left to slay. Obsidian was one of only ten dragons of his species; he knew his kind were not long for this world.
This year, this day, marked the end of the age of dragonslayers, as well as that of dragons. But Obsidian would not go without a legacy of his own. One day, he would create the Code, a way of speaking and writing that hides magical information in ordinary sentences. It would save thousands of lives over hundreds of years. One day, several centuries from now, the story of his wing-walking would inspire a new race of dragons to be created, long after all the others had died out.
Today, Obsidian would don his glamour- a piece of magic to take human form- and return home to tell his siblings that their mother was avenged. They would cheer for vengeance, for glory, for hope; they would mourn for their mother, their people, and their past. Obsidian would never fly again and would walk with a limp for the rest of his life.
Of course, the farmer didn't know any of that. He would never know how historic the event he'd just witnessed was. He merely watched, with mild interest, as a young dragon fell from the sky, got shot and the wing, and then took his revenge. He didn't know that dragons could speak, or 'weep' or have families. He didn't know how few dragons there were left, or how famous this one would become.
As Obsidian walked off on three legs and a wing, towards the town, the sun had almost entirely set. The farmer heard his wife call him inside for supper. He wondered how he could explain the mangled body that now lay in front of their house, and whether his family would even believe him.