The Prophecy Dragon and The Turncoat Dragoness will slay the Dark Master, and the people of Avalar will at first rejoice. But the people will sober from their rapture, for they will bear witness to the Schism with their hearts and minds, and they will gnash their teeth and curse the Prophecy Dragon-
Ignitus slammed the crimson book shut, his turquoise scales rippling as he sought to control his anger. He felt as if the serenity he had once known was seeping out of him with every breath. The book he read, the one called Schism, went on in great detail about the oppression of his protege, his friend.
Spyro didn't deserve this.
Spyro had risked his young life innumerable times for the people of Avalar. He and the black dragoness, Cynder, had defeated Malefor, a dragon of terrible power; a feat that had transcended imagination. They had saved the world.
They deserved praise, they deserved revelry.
Above all, they deserved peace.
This new age this book spoke of, this "Schism," told only of further hardships, of the separation of lands and the chaos ensuing. Told of an infection of insanity, of bloodlust.
The more Ignitus read of the Schism, the heavier his heart grew. Yet he had forced himself to in the hope that he could find a way to help Spyro fight the madness that was swallowing Avalar.
Where this madness had come from was something he could not discern.
As a Chronicler of the Ages, Ignitus was limited in his contact with the physical world. He could appear in the minds of dreamers, or if the situation became desperate, make use of the translucent tuning crystal at his burgundy-swirled, wooden desk.
The dreamers were not as receptive as of late.
He ran his paw across his desk and looked about the chamber. He considered a walk outside, but thought better of it.
The White Isle was an odd place, a sort of cross section where the spirit world and the physical world met. As such, he didn't venture its grounds much. While he found its ice-dappled, snowy sands beautiful, he was unnerved by the armored, skeletal ghouls that lurked about, restlessly searching for intruders to lethally test.
He spent a majority of his time in the main chamber of White Isle's temple, where he could slake his thirst for knowledge from its many books. While he had more than once been intoxicated by the knowledge this place provided, he hadn't been aware of the loneliness that the position of Chronicler entailed (nor had he realized that he would- strangely- lose his former coat of crimson scales, much to his displeasure). Worse yet, a creeping cynicism had begun to form in the mind of the dragon; it felt as if the more he learned, the more he realized how little he knew.
When he had first arrived, the ring of darkness around the main chamber had been like an ebony curtain to the horrors he once knew in life, an assurance that he had done his time, and that he need only concern himself with the history of dragons passed.
Now it seemed that he couldn't keep enough light in the place. Ever since that accursed book had appeared, he found that he could no longer trust the darkness. Torches had been lit around the chamber, dampening the blue glow of the massive, gold-filigree hourglass centered in the room. He felt some semblance to the world he once knew having flooded the chamber with the pulsing, orange light of fire. It helped to some degree, but it didn't replace the comfort of being able to talk to his friend.
When he had first taken the position as Chronicler, it was almost as if he had never left Spyro; their own dreams had become their rendezvous. Every night (almost every night, as Spyro sometimes insisted on privacy, for whatever reason), he and Spyro would talk and joke about little things, be it Volteer's incessant mouth, Cyril's growing pomposity, or Spyro's relationship with Cynder (which he had suspected was robbing him of Spyro's company on certain nights). It was a luxury that, before Malefor's defeat, could not be afforded in a world on the brink of death.
But after awhile Spyro had started to become disturbed, his disposition less compassionate, more resentful. It seemed every night following became more and more of a struggle to contact his protege. He remembered the last conversation with Spyro:
'Spyro, this isn't like you. I know the people have no right to treat you this way. You have every right to be angry. But it's not just anger-'
'Don't say it, Ignitus,' Spyro had said, his head low, his voice beaten and bitter. 'The last thing I need to hear about is Malefor's little gift.'
In the last dream that Ignitus and Spyro had shared, they had been standing atop a floating, stone platform in a black sea of stars. But these stars had not been the kind meant for gazing.
They had been reduced to dark, bleeding pulses of red light. Squirming, red and black creatures crawled in and out of the dying stars, like worms through decay. Spyro himself had been cloaked in shadow, hiding the resplendence of his purple scales. Ignitus had seen the symbolism. Something else had been eating at Spyro.
'What happened, Spyro? You can tell me.'
Spyro raised his head up.
Ignitus remembered his own fear, remembered the hurt he saw on Spyro. The same lecherous things within the stars had been eating him, leaving cankerous little furrows across his lean form. But it was his eyes that had terrified Ignitus.
They were gone.
'She said I scared her Ignitus,' Spyro had said, his voice choked. Tears glistened down from his hollow eyes. 'She said she saw him within me.'
Ignitus remembered reaching out to console him, remembered the stone platform beneath him crumbling. He remembered falling into an infinite sea of black, empty and soundless, with no substance for his wings to catch. He had seen Spyro outstretching his arm towards him, growing smaller and smaller as he plummeted.
He remembered bolting up from his slumber, calling out to Spyro, and feeling a heavy sadness when he realized that he could not comfort his friend. That had been the last time he had seen Spyro in their dreams.
"Schism" had appeared a few months later.
Ignitus' brow furrowed as he glared down at the book before him. He would have loved nothing more than to see it burn. He had to stop himself from breathing out an "accidental" huff of flame. He cast a sneer at the book before walking over to the looming stone bookshelf that bordered the chamber.
Over time the books seemed to had taken on a personality; they gave off an aura that prickled certain parts of Ignitus' mind when he looked upon them. It made finding the right one rather convenient, or knowing when a new one had manifested.
Ignitus stopped, his eyes fixed on a new book. This one was the darkest of ebon, with a single, solid white eye embossed on the spine.
Ignitus canted his head and took it from its space, looking over its cover. Like the spine, it had that peculiar, light-absorbing blackness, with a matching white eye in its center. Ignitus brought it over to his desk. He brushed Schism to the side and gave it a spiteful glower before returning his attention to the new book.
He opened it.
On the center of the first page were two words written with an angry, angular hand in black:
WARNING: HELL
He turned to the next page.
WARNING: HELL
The next.
WARNING: HELL
He flipped through the book, the words never deviating. When he reached the final page he found an elegantly written message, as if to mock the ugly penmanship before it:
You said it yourself Ignitus.
When a dragon dies, it does not truly leave this world. Its spirit lives on; binds itself with nature.
A small wail came from behind him, weak at first before heightening into a cacophonous song.
He read the last sentence:
Hope, however, will be buried with the dead.
He looked behind.
He wrenched his head away, grabbed the tuning crystal from his desk and sped from the chamber. He had only caught a glimpse of the thing behind him.
So many eyes, his mind rambled. So many eyes in the dark.
It was as if damnation itself had manifested in his very chamber. Being around the presence seemed to bring out every nightmare in his subconscious, challenge his every hope, make him weep with an anguish so deep that he thought his heart would give up and die. For a brief moment he thought he had sensed Malefor, and while the presence behind him radiated a lust for destruction, it did not carry a distinct personality.
His sense direction had become mangled in the murk of desperation, his fours padding rapidly across the stone floor. All he was focused on was creating distance between him and it.
He could still hear those wailing, lusting cries behind him. He didn't know if fire could hurt it, nor was he willing to risk it. He ran down the stairwell, nearly losing his footing but recovering as he reached the bottom. He turned haphazardly down the winding stone corridors, seeking as much variation as he could.
He ran until the wailing behind him had died. He found an arched, wooden door and sealed himself in. The room he was in was a modest resting chamber; barren yet clean. There was a window with wooden shutters, but it was too small to fit through.
His first priority was to warn Spyro and his comrades.
He clenched the tuning crystal in his paw and closed his eyes. He forced his mind's eye to summon the most vivid details about Spyro, about Cynder, the unlikely black-dragon ally, about Terrador, his green and gold, battle-scarred brother-in-arms, about every one connected to them, summoning their scent, their speech, their idiosyncrasies, their touch, their hopes and sorrows.
The wailing rose in the distance.
He redoubled his concentration. He focused them into a collective essence and latched onto that composition before envisioning it within the crystal. The crystal thrummed in response, and after a moment, displayed an array of images closest to what he had envisioned.
His heart sunk.
His perceptions no longer held the same relevance they once had. He saw broken silhouettes within the crystal, like shadows within a shattered mirror.
Have they changed so much since the Schism?
He let out a weary sigh and spoke his message. "This is Ignitus! To anyone listening, I'm a friend of Spyro! He must be warned! He must know that it's not over!"
The wailing intensified into a grinding screech. He backed away from the door and turned to the window. He reeled from it.
The window's shutters had been sewn closed by thatched tendrils of pulsing stone and wood, gurgling and throbbing like prey within a snake's belly. He fought for his voice over the warbled screams and his own rising terror.
"IT FOUND ME! I DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME!"
The door was ripped asunder in a shower of splinters. The thing that entered consumed all light, with only its thin, white eyes gleaming in the absolute night. Ignitus roared:
"YOU MUST NOT FORSAKE HIM! SPYRO TRUSTED YOU!"
The last thing the tuning crystal picked up was the sound of Ignitus' screaming merging with the hellish song.
