In the age when Gods still walked among mortals and the Muses sang prophecies in mountain streams, there lived in fair Thessara a maiden named Callidora, beloved of wise Athena. Her name meant “gift of beauty,” yet her true gift lay not in her form but in her hunger for wisdom that burned brighter than Helios’s chariot.
In those days, a terror had descended upon the eastern lands—not plague nor war, but something far more mysterious. Heroes would venture forth to face the Drakon Aporia, the Riddle-Wyrm that dwelt in the Cavern of Echoing Thoughts, and none would return. No bodies were found, no bones scattered—they simply vanished as if swallowed by the very air.
“Perhaps,” whispered the old women at their looms, “they have been turned to stone like those who faced Medusa.”
“Or devoured whole,” muttered the warriors, “leaving not even scraps for the crows.”
But Callidora, daughter of Philomelos the shepherd, had heard different whispers—rumors carried by merchants from distant shores that spoke of a transformation beyond mortal death, of heroes who had found something greater than glory.
On the morning when the rosy-fingered Dawn painted the sky, Callidora knelt before the altar of Athena and spoke these words: “Gray-eyed goddess, grant me not the strength of Heracles nor the swiftness of Atalanta, but the clarity to see truth beneath shadows.”
The owl of Athena hooted thrice—a sign of blessing.
The Journey to the Cavern
Through olive groves and across wine-dark rivers, Callidora journeyed eastward. At the boundary stones marking the edge of civilization, she met an ancient crone gathering herbs.
“Turn back, child,” the woman warned, her voice like autumn leaves. “The Drakon takes all who seek it.”
“Tell me, grandmother,” Callidora asked, “what manner of beast is this dragon?”
The crone’s milky eyes grew distant. “It breathes no fire, child. It speaks in riddles that coil around the mind like serpents. Three questions it poses, and with each answer, the seeker steps further from the world they knew.”
“And what becomes of those who answer?”
“That,” said the crone, “is the greatest riddle of all.”
The Cavern of Echoing Thoughts
At last, Callidora stood before a cavern that yawned like the mouth of Hades himself. Strange light flickered within—not the red glow of forge-fire, but something that shifted between silver and gold, like moonlight dancing on water.
As she entered, her footsteps echoed strangely, as if each sound returned changed, carrying whispers of questions she had not yet asked.
In the heart of the cavern, coiled upon a throne of polished obsidian, lay the Drakon Aporia. Its scales gleamed not with reptilian sheen but with a shimmer that seemed to contain all colors and none. Most wondrous and terrible were its eyes—deep as the spaces between stars, holding depths that made mortals forget their own names.
“Another seeker comes,” the dragon spoke, its voice like distant thunder. “Welcome, daughter of Thessara. I am the keeper of the threshold, the guardian of the three gates. Are you prepared to pay the price of wisdom?”
Callidora’s heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird, but she lifted her chin. “I am prepared, ancient one.”
The First Riddle
The dragon’s great head swayed hypnotically. “Then hear the first riddle: What treasure grows vast when freely given, yet withers when hoarded in darkness? What riches increase when scattered like grain upon fertile soil?”
Callidora closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the question. In her mind, she saw her old tutor Sophron, sharing his scrolls with any who would learn. She remembered her mother singing healing songs to sick children, never asking payment. She thought of the bards who traveled from town to town, carrying stories that grew richer with each telling.
“Knowledge,” she answered, her voice growing stronger. “It is knowledge, great Drakon. For when a teacher shares wisdom, both teacher and student become richer. When secrets are hoarded, they grow stale and lose their power.”
The dragon’s eyes flashed like lightning. “Well answered, seeker. The first gate opens.”
Behind the dragon, Callidora glimpsed a shimmering portal, transparent as morning mist.
The Second Riddle
“The second riddle comes,” intoned the Drakon. “What gift multiplies when offered freely, yet starves when clutched with grasping hands? What force grows stronger when it flows like rivers to the sea?”
Callidora thought of her grandmother’s endless embraces, of how the old woman’s heart seemed to expand with each grandchild and great-grandchild. She remembered the merchant Alexios, who gave bread to hungry travelers and whose business prospered while misers went bankrupt.
“Love,” she whispered, then spoke louder. “It is love and kindness, mighty one. For the heart that gives freely finds itself filled beyond measure, while the heart that hoards affection grows cold and empty.”
“Wisdom flows through you like honey from the comb,” rumbled the dragon. “The second gate stands open.”
Now Callidora could see through to a realm beyond—a place where the very air seemed to sing with understanding, where colors existed that had no names in mortal tongues.
The Third Riddle
The Drakon Aporia raised itself to its full height, magnificent and terrible. “Now comes the riddle that has turned back gods and heroes alike. What prison has no walls yet holds all mortals captive? What chain has no links yet binds the soul? What enemy defeats armies without drawing sword?”
The cavern fell silent save for the whisper of Callidora’s breathing. This riddle cut deeper than the others, striking at something fundamental. She thought of all the heroes who had come before—brave souls who had conquered monsters and sailed unknown seas, yet had vanished here, not in defeat but in… what?
Suddenly, she understood. She saw it in the dragon’s eyes, in the strange light of the cavern, in her own journey to this place.
“Illusion,” she breathed. “It is the prison of illusion, great Drakon. The walls we see are of our own making. The chains are forged from fear and false belief. We are bound only by what we think we know, trapped by the stories we tell ourselves about what is real and what is impossible.”
The dragon’s form began to shimmer and shift. For a moment, Callidora saw not a fearsome beast but something else—a guardian, a teacher, perhaps even a god in disguise.
The Revelation
“You see truly, Callidora of Thessara,” the Drakon spoke, and now its voice carried warmth like summer winds. “All who came before you who answered as wisely, all stepped through the three gates into the realm beyond illusion. There they dwell now, free from the shadows that mortals – mistake for reality.”
The three portals blazed with inviting light. Through them, Callidora could see her predecessors—not dead, but transformed. They moved like dancers in a cosmic symphony, their faces radiant with understanding that transcended mortal joy.
“Come,” urged the dragon. “Step through, and know the truth that lies behind all truths.”
The Choice
Callidora stood at the threshold, feeling the pull of that otherworld like the tide calling to rivers. How easy it would be to step forward, to leave behind the small struggles and petty fears of mortal existence.
But then she thought of Thessara—of children growing up in ignorance, of rulers making decisions from fear, of her own people still trapped in the very illusions she had learned to see through.
“Noble guardian,” she said, her voice steady as mountain stone, “I have learned that wisdom hoarded becomes folly, that love kept only for oneself withers, and that truth seen but not shared is the cruelest illusion of all.”
The dragon’s ancient eyes gleamed with something that might have been pride. “You would refuse paradise to return to shadows?”
“I would return as Prometheus returned—bearing fire to kindle other flames. Because he greatest victory is not to escape illusion alone, but to guide others toward the light.”
The Return
When Callidora emerged from the cavern, the world looked different. She could see the invisible threads connecting all things, the stories people told themselves, the fears that held them captive. But now she also possessed something precious—the ability to show others what she had seen.
She returned to Thessara not as a conqueror of monsters, but as a bearer of gifts far more valuable than gold. Through patient teaching and gentle example, she helped her people distinguish between what was real and what was merely shadow on the cave wall.
And sometimes, on nights when the moon was dark and the stars sang their ancient songs, those with eyes to see claimed they could glimpse the Drakon Aporia soaring high above the mountains—not as a terror to be feared, but as a teacher waiting for the next seeker ready to face the greatest riddles of all.
For the wise know that the most fearsome dragons are often the ones that guard the most precious treasures—and the greatest treasure of all is the courage to see clearly, to love freely, and to share the light with those still dwelling in darkness.