Deora

You miss the warmth of the forge, to see the raw materials become little by little something else.
You could create anything with just fire.
You were the smith.
You were happy.
But now you are nothing more than a failure.

"It was an accident," They say, trying to hide the truth of your errors.
"The forge isn't everything," They say, surely too scared to tell you how useless you are.
"Stop moping around!" They say, finally showing how mad they are. It's not like you deserve compassion.

It's winter, it has always been winter since then. You are cold and sick of it all.
But winter should not be eternal.
You hear a passing conversation from a travelling dragon.
He speaks about a doctor in the Starfall Isles obsesse with becoming the best of them all.
You keep listening and hear about her crazy ways; how she would stop at nothing to find a remedy. Not even death itself.
But the number of miracles was even greater than the deaths.
Illnesses thought for millennia uncurable were nothing for her. She created a new future for so many.
And maybe she could give you one.

You don't even bother with goodbyes.
After a sleepless night you take flight - saying to no one in specific that the dragon they knew before would soon come back.

Countless nights come and go, the land constantly changing under you.
You would only stop for food and the rare rest when your wings couldn't more.
Soon you see it, the end of the Scarred Wasteland. The trees from the Star Wood Strand become a beacon of hope.
Even in your tired state you keep going. Every flap of your wings stronger than the one before.
But your body is done with your recklessness.
The tiredness and disorientation start to take control over you.

You were never meant to be fixed.

Even before you understand why the world spins, you crash.
Your last coherent thought reminding you that you are only a failure.