We'd never seen treasure like it before. Miners like us are used to finding the value in black coal that covers your face and stifles your breath, so when we stumbled on the trove, half-buried in calcified stone, our imaginations flared. I scrabbled at a ruby-encrusted crown with my pick, but the work was slow.
"Put it back," Don warned, hand outstretched and eyes turned upwards. We all followed his gaze. Dragons were not supposed to exist. They were the stuff of fairy tales, the playthings of children's imaginations. But we could not deny the beast, poised on its haunches. It, like its hoard, had been calcified, likely the victim of the same ancient spell. Or was it still alive, sleeping, guarding?
Don backed away. The men all followed. A week passed before I disturbed the stagnant cave air with my pick again. After all, the dragon couldn't stop me.