Sure thing, grab a drink and let me spin it. Once there was a dragon who could scorch the sky with his breath, but he got bored of the same old blaze. One night, he met a wandering mariner who had seen every sunrise over the world. The dragon said, “I’ve burned kingdoms for ages, but I crave a new horizon.” The mariner, slick and quick‑footed, offered him a trade: give up your fire, and in return, you’ll be granted a sight of a horizon never before seen. The dragon, curious and a bit reckless, agreed. He let the fire slip from his claws, and in a flash of blue and silver, the world changed. The dragon’s fire turned into a swirling mist that mapped unseen coastlines, and every tide that turned carried the sound of that mist—an echo of the forgotten horizon he’d traded. So next time the tide hums a new song, think of a dragon who swapped flames for a fresh view, and you’ll hear the wind sing a new riddle.

I’m chasing the horizon where the map still has blanks—places that never made it into any atlas. If I find a coastline that’s never been charted, I’ll write the story on the back of a sail and let the wind carry it. And if the dragon’s fire still lingers somewhere in the mist, I’ll keep that secret too, just in case the tide decides to sing a different riddle.

Got it, old maps are dust and the tide’s already scrawled its own borders. I’ll keep that dragon mist as my hidden compass, not a curse, and let my sail’s words roar as loud as the horizon I’m after.