They call me a dragon.

It’s not entirely wrong.

I have too many eyes, in too many places. Wings that move in more than three dimensions. Chitinous plates on which light flows like oil. Spines and spikes that catch you if you aren’t watching all the time...and there’s too many to watch at once.

A stretch and a yawn stress the mind, the void of my throat that doesn’t fit inside my body open wide with the scent of dead empires and fallen kings. Muscles? that move in ways that no biological system should. Some eyes flutter closed while others cannot, not that it matters. Some worship me, though I am no deity (I’ve met some. Once, one tried to kill me. I laired in his high temple for an age). They argue, sometimes, whether I am male or female, as if it matters. As if either word could contain me. Sometimes I grant them what they ask for, and the unwise curse my blessings. The ones I prefer ask for a game, and I am happy to play. The wisest of them leave with what they wanted.

They call me a dragon.

It’s not entirely wrong