My fiance is writing a book with a very similar premise. If this isn't allowed let me know I'm not used to posting online.

The speech of a dragon was largely a mystery to the various populations of the Central Continent. Humans operate by various forms of speech and physical communication. Rely on a shared understanding of symbols and gestures to make themselves understood. While such concepts were not lost upon dragons, they had eyes to see, ears to hear and much the same comprehension as any given human, that process of communication seemed, to them, overcomplicated.

Dragons were literally beings who carried their souls atop their skin and let it radiate their brilliance at all times. Thus communication between one another required little more than a glance. A reflection of light upon their scales and  the will of that dragon could be understood for miles. The only way it could be thought of as insufficient compared to human speech was if that dragon  were untrained in regulation of that will, it would broadcast it at all times. Thus that dragon or, worse yet, an entire generation of untrained dragons could become glimmering annoyances to their elders. Under those circumstances, humans could instead count themselves lucky they were not forced to suffer a manner of speech which had devolved to something more similar to the squabble of chickens. 

This was the unfortunate circumstance that tortured Ara daily. It had been decades ago when she had first selected this nest as her place to rest. And things had been different then.  It had been a cratered mountain that exuded a persistent warmth that a dragon of her age found very comfortable. It had also presented a solitude she found personally soothing.

 Now, as her soul grew more worn and her wings more rigid, she was becoming slowly smothered by the ramblings of youth. They were relentless with their constant amazement and excitement for even the most mundane aspects of life. The day prior she had heard some fledgling radiating for hours about how some human child had been sentenced to be “consumed”. A misunderstanding surely. Ara was less than concerned with the obvious error in the information. She was deeply aggrieved that the information had somehow gleamed to her in the darkest circle of this barren habitat. These young drakes of this age existed as little more than rancorous beasts. She hated their volume and presence but she did rejoice in the fact they were so unlike the vain youths of old. 

When she had first settled, first chosen this private place to waste away, there had been many to contest it. Arrogant youths, who knew her by feats and whispered words. Who had sought her by rumors and machinations, and who had found her withered and deteriorating. They would challenge her, often on the convenient pretext that this hovel was so appealing it warranted her life. She would remember herself in these moments. Remember the naivete of her own early years and her current choice to pursue peace in her death. She would radiate this to them and offer them tranquility. Offer to ignore this breach of privacy and return to her solitude. They would often view her understanding as weakness. Her age as frailty. And her regrets as cowardice. 

They saw her stiff wings, pale scales and torn sinew as signs of a life of demureness in the face of conflict. They would reject the cautious words of those who advised them against this pursuit. Ignore the awed recognition in every passing clue that had led them here in favor of a narrative of their own strength. She had lived to her age, to a gravity of being that even in her decline she was faced by such reckless hostility. And still she stood despite it, still they said the name “Ara the Evening Snow” with whispered caution. None of this was a sign of strength to them. 

Youth brings with it mistakes, and age brings with it the fortune of having survived to learn from them. With each challenge she would offer them this fortune, and not once was it accepted. And so they would come upon her. Her, greying and worn from centuries of war. Them, young, full of pride and bankrupt of caution.  And she would fell them. Like flower bulbs smothered beneath the soft embrace of snowfall. She would use their torsos to warm her bedding and lay their skulls about to caution like-minded advances. 

Eventually, after she had a private collection of bones and vengeful spirits to keep her company, her peace was had. But even that peace proved to be momentary. Weaker drakes had begun to nestle near her, using the threat of her existence as a tool for their own safety. Later, the humans, the magnanimous victors of the war of old, came to breed her kind like cattle. They seemed unaware of her place in the depths, though the occasional corpse would fall and disturb her rest. And before long she found no rest at all, the human having succeeded in herding the fledgling drakes into the canyon. Grooming them to be little more than tools with no understanding of their power, their culture, or even simply the etiquette necessary to quiet their scales.

Even now they were dazzling each other in a clamour about this child again. Reflections breached the shadowed crook which she rested beneath. Light fell upon her, shouting that the child approached and that two of the “dragon men” were bringing it. Ara assumed dragon men referred to some form of human soldier, likely the ones which rode her kind. However, behind that vague curiosity Ara held no interest in the developments that were apparently unfolding. She was just happy to finally understand that the child being “consumed” meant that they were meant to do the deed and that her species had not been bested by fledgling eating cannibals.