Inverted hierarchy

In that world, the sky did not tremble for colossal dragons…
They were trembling because they were nervous.
Since ancient times, the draconic hierarchy was not measured by strength, fire, or fangs, but by something much more absurd and cruel:
the size.
The gigantic dragons, living mountains with wings that blocked out the sun, were known for their temperament…
sweet.
Submissive.
Excessively polite.
They were asking for permission to land.
They apologized before roaring.
And if someone shouted at them, they would lower their heads saying something equivalent to "sorry, young dragon lord" in Dragonese.
Instead…
The small dragons—the size of a horse, a large dog, or even smaller—were true tyrants.
Bossy people.
Authoritarian.
With a confidence completely disproportionate to his body mass.
One of those tiny dragons could walk past an ancient colossus and snap its claws, demanding space, food, or silence…
And the colossus obeyed.
Nobody knew why it worked that way.
Some said it was a natural law.
Others, an ancient curse.
The old dragons just sighed and said:
“That’s the way the world is, don’t ask.”
That day, in a region of floating rocks and capricious thermal currents, several dragons of ridiculously different sizes happened to be in the same territory.
The air was thick with tension…
not because of a war.
Not because of a threat.
But because someone small was about to arrive,
And the enormous dragons were already nervously settling in, trying to see each other…
as unobtrusive as possible.

He's gigantic, has a chubby belly, like a giant pillow, he'll do anything to please you, so says the lry.