Prophecy

He didn't expect this to be the last he saw of them.

They'd prepared to travel for a task set by him, accompanied by many people. Now the corpses of a dragon and their lover lay before him, ripping almost every strand of happiness his cold heart had left to shreds. Everybody else had met their end before him – his mother and father, his friends, and more importantly, his mate. They were gone, and had been for a long time now. But he'd desired, and certainly expected, to not outlive them.

That wasn't the case. The cold bodies of the dragon and the lover were mutilated. Their forms were cut, their limbs amputated, their lifeless faces torn from their necks. The brother didn't know what to say; he hadn't seen a moment of the tragedy, slumbering. He returned in tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

He felt the same emotions as the brother. He teared up and cried. He felt anger, then fear. And then, as suddenly as he'd cycled through every other emotion, despair.

There was light, though. There was a glimmer of hope amongst the terror. A singular egg, one he was familiar with yet had never laid his eyes on. Its shell shined beautifully underneath the moons of midnight. It reminded him of only more sadness; he'd had one just like it handed to him thirty eight years ago. The look of scorn and hatred on the parents' faces were burned into his mind when he received it. They probably expected him to dispose of something apparently accursed.

But there had been something special about it. That egg had contained the saviour of their world.

And this egg, just like it, was purple.


Once more, the Guardian of Ice, Cyril, dipped his claw into the inky vial atop his desk, writing a report based on the recent damages to a nearby village. It'd been attacked, almost every last house razed to the ground; fortunately, there hadn't been casualties, but the ruffians who'd ignited the fires and turned the village to rubble had gotten exactly what they'd desired. Food, and especially wealth.

At the time, there hadn't been many capable of defending it; too many meek moles, too many children. They'd all gotten out alive, which was at least the main thing. Cyril was fretting over himself and the town of Sliverclaw, however, where he'd taken to residing. If those bandits were after a huge abundance of gold, this was certainly the place to take it from. They were working along the river, he could tell, and while they weren't the next target, they would be one soon.

He furrowed his brow, pondering his next words. Never did he usually have a blank for what to write next. In his old bones, he felt something wasn't right. An odd feeling spiralled around his stomach, twisting and turning. He wasn't ill, he knew that much. Yet a strong feeling of dread overcame him.

Three hollow knocks on the arched oaken door to his office interrupted his thoughts and writings. He sighed, exasperated. "You may enter."

A purple form walked into his room, his face beaming. "Hi, Cyril. How's work?"

"Good afternoon, Master Spyro," he replied. While he adored the purple dragon – you simply couldn't dislike him, being the saviour of the Dragon Realms and the world thirty five years ago – these constant 'hello's and 'how are you's were slightly annoying. "And difficult, if you really need to know. I'm not in good health, like I used to be. My bones are too exhausted for this consistent workload."

"I figured. You should take a break, I think." Spyro looked up at the mantle piece above the crackling fireplace; portraits of Cyril and his royal lineage were perched upon it, as well as a picture of the Guardian of Electricity, Volteer. He didn't fit in with the other ice dragons, but he deserved a place with those as great as his many ancestors. "Why don't you take some time off? I could do this for you..."

Cyril shook his head. "I express my gratitude." He finally thought of the correct word, and continued dragging his claw along the page. "But I will be fine, I assure you. You have enough to do as is. Plus, we all know your writing is atrocious."

Spyro chuckled at that, nodding in agreement. "Heh, well, you're not wrong. Just an offer, Cyril. You can take me up on it anytime."

The Ice Guardian finished off the final page, read it over quickly, confident it was perfect, and moved it to the side. The report had to go back to Warfang, a train ride west. "You look like you could use a vacation too, Master Spyro. In fact, this paper needs to be delivered to Warfang. Why don't you head there with Cynder, take a few days off protecting us? She's gravid, and I'm sure she'll appreciate a more pleasant bed than the baskets here for when that happens."

"But the attacks, Cyril. I can't just leave..."

"Think of her, Master Spyro." The older dragon smiled weakly. "That hatchling's only days away; I can feel it. I will not allow her to give birth in such unfavourable conditions. We have guards here too, and this report needs to be taken to the Warfang's offices. I'm sure the guards are capable enough if anything does befall us."

"Cyril..."

"Spyro. We are fine, and will continue to be fine," he reaffirmed. He tossed the purple dragon a pouch of gold coins he kept hidden under his desk after dropping the report into it, to which he caught. Cyril wanted the best for the dragon and his mate, but he knew it would also stop the interruptions everyday, if only temporarily. He'd have silence to embrace for once. "Do what's best for her. Purchase two tickets for the train – three if you need that pesky dragonfly to go with you – and prepare for Warfang. I will not take no for an answer."

Spyro seemed uncertain, but Cyril's firm response was enough to keep him from arguing. "...Alright. But I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise."

"Very good, Master Spyro. Now if you could leave me to my own devices, I would be able to get more work done. Be gone."

Spyro nodded, padding out the door. The blue dragon went back to jotting down notes and scanning papers, happy to see the dragon going, and sighed contentedly. While he didn't openly admit it, he was excited to see the dragon Cynder was going to give birth to. While he wouldn't watch it himself, he was sure the dragoness' newborn would be strong and healthy. He wished the other Guardians could see the egg themselves, but they'd passed away long ago. He'd gotten over their deaths, having known they slipped away from existence peacefully.

For now, the Ice Guardian worked through his papers. He had too much to do at the moment... Maybe he should've taken Spyro up on that offer instead of letting him leave.


"Thank you so much for this, Cyril," Cynder's tone came forth over the Steel Beast's, the train's, tired engine. Her lower torso was swollen with her and Spyro's young, something the Guardian still had to admit he was exceptionally proud of. "I'm just surprised you let you him go."

"You're surprised I let him go?" Cyril laughed. "He always told me he had to stay, Lady Cynder. It took a great deal of persuasion, you realise."

Cynder giggled gleefully with him. "Heh, I guess that's true. Seriously, though, thanks. I really needed this. Even if it is kind of a job too."

"My pleasure." Cyril heard muffled footsteps on the stone path approaching from behind him; Spyro had a look of befuddlement on his face when he walked up to them, a couple cases tied around his back.

"What's this about me?"

Cynder chuckled, nudging his side. "Nothing, nothing. Just talking about you."

"About... what? And have any of you seen Sparx? He should've been here already."

The Guardian shook his head, but as soon as he had the golden dragonfly buzzed over from the town, panting. "R-Right here, bro. J-Just got caught up with the female, ya know what I mean."

Cynder shot him a playful glare. "You are such a boy..."

"Well, what can I say, sis?" He shrugged nonchalantly. "I am a boy. It's funny you realise that now, considering you always call me a girl. Thank you so much."

Cynder looked to be about to retort, but Cyril intervened before the pair could start bickering over negligible things. "You three should hop aboard. The train is about to depart for Warfang."

Most had filed into the Steel Beast already, prepared for their trip to Warfang. The engineer blew the horn, steam billowing out of its wide funnel. Chatter and conversation could be heard ensuing within the carriages, laughter and cheerfulness all around. Many of them sounded glad they were moving away from Sliverclaw.

He caught Cynder looking beyond the train station, but only for a moment. Whitewallow, the timberland utilised in Sliverclaw's fine houses. Despite it being used fairly often, something about its deep, yawning maw chilled Cyril. Rich oak grew for miles inside the huge forest, but all inside was gloomy.

"Come on, Spyro. We're gonna be late."

He tore his eyes away quickly, looking to the purple dragon. "Yes, yes, get moving. I have things to do today."

"...Okay." He seemed confused, but listened to his mate and Cyril anyway. Cynder paced along, taking extreme care with her steps, and Spyro was swiftly by her side. The dragonfly hovered over them, waving to Cyril.

"See ya, big blue guy!"

A smirk curled Cyril's maw as the pair jumped aboard. Grinding together, the train wheels span, and the huffing of the engine picked up in volume. He could spot the pair of dragons through a window, grinning happily. As the train left Sliverclaw Station, he walked off.

Hopefully all would go as planned, and Cynder's beautiful child would cast a finger of sunlight upon his dull, rainy life when they returned.


This day was yet another bore for Cyril. He blew small shards of ice over the lush garden beds surrounding his house, watching as they melted. He was astonished because his desks were empty and his mail hadn't been delivered by the couriers yet, meaning no work. The dragon thought this would be an excellent opportunity to have a little time to himself, but the more and more he tried to find something entertaining in even the slightest, the worse his lack of enthusiasm for doing anything became.

There was nothing in his life worth waiting for at the moment, apart from Cynder's hatchling. He'd spent ninety eight years of his life doing horrible work so far: eighteen growing and training to become the Guardian he was today, thirty four waging war in Dante's Freezer, keeping the land free of apes – to which he was unsuccessful. And the rest in his office, writing reports and important documents for people of higher social status. At least fifteen years of those years after the war had been spent in a blossoming relationship with Volteer, which had been about one of the only positives. But every other moment he'd been doing bland work, or on the opposite end of the spectrum, life-threatening work to ensure the safety of his people. He couldn't possibly have been in a worse position. His ancestors would throw curses his way if they knew he hadn't became king, and for all he knew, they could be doing so right now.

But he knew that hadn't been possible. For once, he'd had to swallow his shallow arrogance and do the right thing; he had to become a Guardian. And even though he and his fellow dragons, moles, and cheetahs eventually lost the fight in Dante's Freezer, he'd held the apes back long enough and held the trolls at bay long enough to make a huge difference in the war.

Despite how proud he was of himself, the old dragon found every aspect of his life now boring. He'd been one of those lucky dragons to escape war without any mental damage, and one of the even more fortunate few who'd danced with death and come out on top. Yet he didn't know if that was a good thing. He wasn't really helping anyone. Nobody needed him anymore.

Cyril stopped blowing icy shards over his vegetable garden, looking to the sundial next to his homely wooden house. Twelve in the afternoon. He had half a day left and he had spent it watering and doing casual reading. Really went to show how useful he was.

"Hello, Cyril," a feminine voice broke his train of thoughts. He turned to a slightly familiar red-eyed, red-scaled face, almost as old as himself. "I'm surprised to see you out of your office."

"Lady Seraphine," he greeted her. "How are you?"

She snickered. "Don't call me Lady Seraphine. Sera will do. And I'm fine. I just saw you up this hill back home and came to see why you're suddenly outside. No work today?"

"Um... Alright, Sera." He grinned lopsidedly, nobody having ever told him to not call them by Lady. Maybe she wasn't one for formal titles. "And you're spot on. I'm only just now realising that I'm bored without work as well as with it, though."

"Heh, it is surprising anyway, especially with all the attacks as of late. Are you worried about that band of bandits, Cyril?" She turned her voice to a faint whisper, looking around her before speaking. "Do you think they'll come here? Everybody's afraid they will, if you haven't realised, and even mentioning them almost gets you condemned to hell."

"Of course, I am definitely worried," he muttered. "I'm awaiting the moment they strike, because at the moment, they're on a straight line course for Sliverclaw. But, with the correct fortifications, I sincerely doubt they'll ever make it inside. We have enough guards, and... Well, I don't agree with placing all the pressure on him, but we have Spyro as well. All should be fine, Sera."

Cyril didn't know if he was telling a falsehood. Spyro hadn't fought in years, living peacefully in this small town after the war, and the guards had been slack lately, not training like he'd asked of them. Sure, with a bit of time, they'd relearn the skills necessary to defeat whoever this group of bandits was, but who knew how many of them there were. They could ravage a village in mere minutes; it wouldn't take long to find an imperfection in their defence and split it apart. He didn't know if he could put up anything worth a damn nowadays, either.

"You don't sound sure of yourself, Cyril..."

He jolted upright, shoulders squared. "As I said, all should be fine. We don't know if they'll pass this way yet. They only seem to target the tiny villages and lone houses around us."

"Hm..." She tapped him gently on the back, a warm smile splitting her maw. "I think you're right. Not much to worry about. This group of ruffians is probably just one of those leftover bands of apes. Sliverclaw shouldn't have any trouble taking care of them."

"We shouldn't, but don't underestimate them," he explained. "This could all be worse than we think, although I have my doubts. It won't be anything as bad as the Dark Army, I'm certain, yet they have clearly shown they are a force to be reckoned with, whoever they may be."

Sera turned around, taking a step back down the hill. "I won't, but I will tell the townsfolk to stop bumbling about like fools." She winked at him. "I'll see you around. Come out more often, Cyril. It's a pleasure to talk to somebody who hasn't been driven mad by this ruckus."

He sighed back. "I'll do my best."

The red dragoness walked back down the hill. Before, she'd seemed weary, but there was something about her now that seemed full of energy. Cyril knew exactly how that felt – to be constantly exhausted, never wanting to leave the warmth and comfort of his basket of pillows and blankets – but had never seen somebody as ancient as himself moving with such energy, such happiness. Why she was joyful after a conversation about the recent attacks, he wasn't sure, but it did feel better to be able to give somebody something he never truly felt himself.

Cyril stared down the pathway from his position, bathing in the sunlight above. Sera was correct; he never came out, never really took in the city. The Guardian of Ice remembered choosing this area for his home, on the small hill overlooking Sliverclaw, for the spectacular view alone. He eyed the many oak buildings before him, the plethora of people doing business. He let his eyes descend upon the river, cutting perfectly through the middle of town, glistening beneath the sun, stretching towards the vast mountains on the distant horizon, standing like stone giants.

Maybe he needed to get out the house for once in his life. Perhaps his usually unending workload could wait a few moments for him some days to enjoy the afternoon sun.


By now, midnight, the purple dragon and his black dragoness would've arrived at Warfang. They wouldn't be crowded by raving lunatics and people with a desire to get at least a peak at the world's heroes, and would almost certainly be off slumbering next to each other in a hotel. The thought brought Cyril some peace, that they were safe and sound. Although, his paranoia was probably unneeded. While he did realise during his watch over the town that the tracks ran past the river, past the smouldering ruins of the recently decimated village, the bandits had to have moved on by this time, and there apparently hadn't been any damages to the rail line. And, of course, it was no easy feat of strength to bring the Steel Beast to a grinding halt if they were still around.

Daylight had vanished beneath the western mountain range a long time ago now, but Cyril stayed awake, trying to make the most of his unusual day off writing. He found himself reading a book under the glow of moonlight through his office skylight about handling weaponry, and elemental training and utilisation. While he couldn't hone his combat talents here – certainly not in the middle of the night, where he was bound to awaken the rest of town – he could read up on them in preparation for a session he had planned for tomorrow. It was about time he began training again. The malicious group of bandits responsible for this theft, arson, and occasional murder in the other towns could drop upon the city like a death hound in mere moments, and it was obligatory he was ready for a sudden attack.

Something banged against the door outside; a heavy thud that sounded a total of three times. Somebody was knocking. Who could possibly be up at this time, and why were they visiting him, of every more interesting person they could see?

He got up, shambling along, wiping the exhaustion from his blue eyes. He made his way to the entry, swinging open the door.

Nobody, only the faint pitter-patter of rain. He looked towards town and saw nothing else but the cloak of night. It was just another knock and run. Cyril groaned, turning away from his door.

Something glinted in the corner of his eye before he moved off to his archaic tomes. A folded note, and a fancy, red seal he'd never seen before stamped on the corner of it. The seal had the picture of a bird, its wingspan wide, displaying the beauty of its feathers. He bent down and grasped the page, slamming the door shut behind him, pleasantly surprised.

Greetings, Cyril.

I would waste your time with a long explanation of everything that's happened, but, you see, I'm in a hurry. You can probably tell by my handwriting.

The old Guardian sat behind his desk once more after walking off, putting his open book to the side. He pondered why they would mention their dreadful handwriting if the letter had been given to him in a supposed hurry.

We are a group of bandits, the letter read. We call ourselves the 'Red Phoenix'. But no, I'm not your enemy. I'm willing to help you because the thought of walking into a village to destroy everything that stands disgusts me. This isn't the peace we wanted after the Dark Master's reign. This isn't right.

So, I want to stand against our group. And I'm sure with your help, and perhaps Spyro's, we can put an end to this senseless, violent cruelty.

Don't worry about sending me a reply. I know you received this. I will contact you further down the track with more details. I never have enough time to write these damn things.

S.K.

Cyril's creased brow cast a shadow upon the letter. He peered through the box window on the left, making sure there wasn't a soul standing outside. Again, there was nothing.

Why did they want him of all people? What was so special about him that they needed him specifically? He wasn't sure. Any dragon could do almost any job better than him.

Unless this letter was a trick. Maybe this S.K. was trying to create the illusion of assistance towards his town, but only desired to rid themselves of him.

For now, Cyril left it alone. This figure from the 'Red Phoenix' couldn't be trusted. If they'd delivered this letter on their own, then they were still alone, and could probably be found.

Unfortunately, at this time, most of the guardsmen were slumbering, and awakening them all to track down and capture a target would take too long a time. They'd have disappeared by then. There was no point.

So, Cyril went back to studying his tomes. He had far more to gain from reading it than scrutinising the note he'd received.


By dawn, mail had found its way into the box outside. None of it was particularly special; just more lazy, mostly illiterate men requiring detailed reports on a wide variety of subjects. While his occupation did involve some out-and-about things, like overseeing the guards train, that was the bulk of it. While he'd never wish another war upon this world, most of the excitement had come from then, when he was youthful. He recalled being a fearsome fighter – the very best of the Ice Guardians. Still, he thought, those had also been some of the worst years he'd ever experienced. Unending slaughter wasn't what he wanted at all.

Somebody to spar with, however – somebody to warm up his fatigued bones – would've been fantastic. So, that day, instead of getting up and doing whatever the illiterate men told him to do, he headed to the small arena on the opposite side of town to begin tutoring himself in the art of combat once more. Those people could wait patiently if they were in need of his services. He'd make this another of his days.

Walking down the cobblestone path through the town, he was greeted with surprised and shocked looks. Many muttered about his reappearance, about how he'd never once moved from his house until now. Most seemed that way because it was the second time in three days that he'd move away from his house.

Many a greeting was sent his way, and he returned them with a weak smile spread across his muzzle. It did shock him that so many still remembered his name, or at least what he was known for. Everybody knew everybody else in this small town, though, so perhaps it wasn't so astonishing.

The arena stood before him down the path. Originally, it'd been used for settling disputes and for entertainment, but its sandy grounds were only purposes for the training and education of children and guards nowadays. A wooden structure, tall in stature, was built off to the left, the school. He heard the faint murmuring and giggling of children inside it, a lecturer struggling to teach them.

Cyril paced underneath several arches of stone, oval rings protruding from the damp grass. The arena was tall; he could see a stadium through the doorway, row upon row of unoccupied seats curling like a serpent around a ring. It was the most easily recognisable location in Sliverclaw. Who wouldn't notice a massive circle of stone, bigger than several large cottages?

He felt the sand prick at his paw pads, scrunched it into a grainy ball with his claws. Reminders of his previous residence filled his mind. Far in the north, a dorm room next to the grounds for training the mind in the elements' secrets. Magic didn't come from physical strength. It was a matter of control, of concentration on the element, and making sure it didn't force itself through the maw or fizzle out.

The Guardian breathed in the scent of the arena, felt the blood rise in his chest as memories flooded his mind. Before he could think further on it, however, a noise broke his train of thoughts.

"Cyril?"

He whipped his head around to face the tone. A youngish dragon, in around his thirties, angled his head. He had scales of green, and he was noticeably muscular, his legs bulging.

"Master Jedrek." Cyril bowed his head in greeting. "Is all well?"

A group of younger dragons, children of no more than five, followed him through side entrance to the arena. All of the giggled and chattered excitedly amongst each other, as if in preparation for something. "Yeah. I'm surprised to see you is all, especially in the arena again."

Cyril chuckled. "Quite a while has passed since I was last here. I haven't made any efforts to practice in years."

"Oh, I'm sure you're still fit enough, even after sitting around for years." Jedrek spun towards his group of tiny students. Cyril didn't recognise any of them, nor knew who their parents were. He really had been cooped up in his house for a long time, disbelief still striking him. "Which of you wants to spar with Cyril, great warrior of old, Guardian of Ice?"

"My word, Jedrek!" exclaimed a flabbergasted Cyril. "I simply will not fight such small, innocent-"

"Mock fight, buddy." The green dragon shook his head, sniggering. Cyril nodded in embarrassed understanding, clearing his throat.

"Ahem..." He captured the attention of the children. Over exaggerating, he enthralled his small audience. "He is absolutely correct, young dragons. I am a great warrior. I may be, in fact, the greatest warrior ever birthed. I will bet none of you can knock me down, but, if you take the challenge and best me in combat, you will receive... the rest of the day off class!"

After the announcement – Jedrek didn't seem to find it a great idea, but the students were probably not well-versed in conflict, so he let it slide – the class shouted and screamed, raising their paws. Cyril did almost laugh. He was slightly annoyed he wasn't doing what he desired, but he probably was about to thieve the arena away from the kids, maybe train with one of the guards.

"Me!" an energetic, pale red dragoness called now noisily than the rest. Cyril felt she reminded him of Seraphine. Something about her youthful eyes, he thought. Sera, despite being elderly, had that same look in her orbs. A grandchild, maybe?

He directed his outstretched claw to her, if only to sate his curiosity. "You first. Who might you be, dragoness?"

"I'm Alaina!" She bounced out of the crowd enthusiastically. If only she knew what a fight really entailed. "Hi, Mr. Cyril!"

The Guardian lowered his head to her level – Jedrek watched on, grin curving his maw. "Are you sure you wish to fight? You don't look... strong enough."

"I'm super strong, Mr. Cyril!" she proclaimed. "I could kill a death hound! You believe me, right?

A deep chuckle escaped his muzzle before he raised his head and turned around. "Alright. I believe you." He paced down the other end of the sandy arena, readying his paws. "Take aim. Charge. Do whatever you can to bring me down, young one."

Jedrek spoke up. "Clear off, kids. Watch as the master of ice decimates a small dragoness!"

For whatever reason, the other students were excited by the idea of watching one of their fellow classmates be pulverised. Maybe this mock battle would discourage them. Cyril licked his dry maw, drawing a paw through the sand grains. A tingle of energy, a rush of coldness, coursed up his forepaw.

Alaina reached her side of the ring. While Cyril certainly couldn't show her the full extent of a Guardian's powers – he didn't want to injure the enthusiastic dragoness, nor did he think he had the strength to unleash a fury upon her – he'd show her a few techniques. Just from the way she stood – maw open, expelling air that wavered with heat – he could predict her attack. He was surprised he could still analyse a target.

"Fight!" Jedrek shouted, and Alaina scampered towards him. Cyril stood his ground; she was already wasting her energy, moving so swiftly. Unfortunately for him, that energy seemed bottomless from the way she acted.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and he could sense Alaina's confusion, although she still sprinted with exceptional speed, her paws light upon the sand.

He could sense her movement. A building up of heat within her chest. He himself was connected to magic; he'd once devoted his life to it. And still, he hadn't lost his old skills.

Cyril slammed the ground with his front paw before raising it, a thick shield of ice forming across his paw. Just before the encroaching fireball could make its mark, it was bashed to the side with a forceful swing of his shield. He heard the explosion behind him, felt its warmth crawl along his spine. He shivered, for that was a feeling he hadn't felt in very long.

The shield dissipated and the crowd of children roared with excitement. Alaina looked astonished by his power and grace, but kept her eyes on her target, slowing down before beginning to circle him. She had natural talent and instincts, yet definitely needed much work.

He waited for her action, unmoving, watching behind him. "Make your move, dragoness. I await your action."

He thought he heard a guttural growl from the dragoness before she leaped for his back. Cyril span around, catching her paw in his own. She tried to pull away, grunting, but hadn't the strength to do so. "N-No fair!"

Cyril lifted her into the air, laughing. She narrowed her eyes while she swung about. "Young dragon, I think you'll find you've-"

Something tapped his chest: the blunt blade of her tail. He looked at the small red mark she'd made, and then back at her. Shock consumed him.

He'd lost.

Cyril placed her on the ground, brushing the sand off his scales. She seemed extremely disappointed, as if she really wanted to be lifted again.

Once more, he cleared his oesophagus and spoke. "It... looks like you are victorious, young dragon."

Alaina's head perked up at that, and a bright smile found its way to her mouth. "I-I am? I won... I won!

Cyril coughed, trying to stomach his mortification. If that'd been a real fight, he would've been dead, his heart having been penetrated. "Um, yes. Pat on the back, good going, all that other rubbish..."

Alaina skipped away gleefully; the children were bewildered, but were happy for their classmate when she returned. Cyril shuffled his paws in the sand. He tried to swallow his shame – shame for being beaten by no more than a child – and looked to Jedrek when he approached.

"Ha ha! That was pretty good, you bag of scales. Good on you for letting her win, though." Jedrek nudged him playfully. "I'm surprised you had it in you to do that."

Cyril nodded swiftly. "Y-Yes, you're welcome. As planned, Master Jedrek. But I will be off now. I have... matters to attend to."

He shook the ground as he took off, spreading his wingspan wide, not hearing Jedrek's response. The dragon felt far too embarrassed to stay any longer. At least Jedrek thought it was but a plan to allow her to come out on top. What would his ancestors say to him? That he was to be shamed upon? That he was a total embarrassment to them?

Cyril didn't know. He just kept flying, unable to accept the fact he'd been beaten by a mere child. Sometimes, he really couldn't stop himself from being arrogant.


Back to scribbling down notes and doing research it was for Cyril (this time he was almost glad he was doing it). Night encroached, dusky fingers spreading far and wide over Sliverclaw. The claws broke all light; unfounded anxiety settled in the depths of the Guardian's mind. He still thought of Spyro and Cynder. He wondered what they were doing as of now. Had Cynder's young came to exist yet? He couldn't know. Maybe they wouldn't come back for a while. His predictions may have been incorrect, for all he knew. It could be a week or two, perhaps a month, before the new child entered their world.

He shook his head, apprehensive. What if something bad did come of her? What then?

Cyril wasn't certain, going back to his notes. He needn't worry over them. They'd be fine.

He scrutinised his next page for several moments, pondering his next choice of words. Volteer had taught him much about language, maybe too much. When Cyril had stopped calling him a blabbermouth, he decided to listen attentively to what he had to say. Much of what he said was intelligent, and he, for no reason at all, acquired his tendency to use more and descriptive words when he didn't need to, and calling people by title had become habitual. Every male was 'Master', every female was 'Lady'.

Sometimes he cursed at himself. He tried to forget the day he'd moved on, journeyed to another plane of existence. Every time he thought of him or his complex dialect of language, sadness ached within him. Disease had struck, made its way through the yellow dragon's veins. There was nothing Cyril could do.

As his thoughts deepened, he heard a distant noise. It broke through the tranquillity of night, a soft chugging that steadily grew louder.

A steam engine, he thought. Had they already come back?

He made his move to inspect the situation, but a rapid – seemingly panicked, it sounded – tapping came from his door. Nobody knocked so quietly, and nobody would be inside his house at this time of night, nor ever. Only Sparx could fit through his front door's keyhole...

"You may enter," he said. As he'd expected, the dragonfly buzzed through the keyhole. "Sparx, what are you doing back... so..."

Cyril frowned; it was the most fearful he thought he'd ever seen the dragonfly. If he peered closely, Cyril thought he could see tears coursing down his little face.

"C-Cyril." His voice shook with fear. "Come quickly. I-It's... It's Spyro, Cyril. Spyro and Cynder."

The dragon's stomach churned. The anxiety swiftly turned to fear. Never had he ever seen somebody like Sparx speak so shakily, so seriously. "W-What's the matter with them, Sparx? What happened?"

"Th-They... Come." The golden dragonfly soared through the keyhole. Cyril felt as if his element was slowly turning the rest of his body to ice. He snapped free of his anxiety, and speedily paced out the door and out of his house.

Sparx illuminated the streets, his soft glow flickering ever so slightly. When in fear or great sadness, a dragonfly's luminous light would quiver. Something was deeply wrong. It chilled Cyril down to his very bone. There was no denying something horrid had come out of all this. Rushing to be by the dragonfly's side, he made his way across the cobblestone path and towards the train station.

The Steel Beast was waiting for him, steam billowing from its funnel, strangely backwards as thought it'd reversed all the way back. There was a mole outside, the engineer, something spherical in his gloved paws, by his waist, an object Cyril didn't recognise under the low light. He couldn't see any passengers – nobody at all but two bags already laid side by side. Cyril was speechless.

The engineer walked up to him and the dragonfly. His look at Cyril was solemn, but his seriousness was a façade over regret and sorrow. "I'm sorry, Sir."

With only that comment, he paced off, taking a seat on the rough path behind the pair. Sparx audibly sobbed beside him. Cyril straightened his features, inhaling deeply. He moved towards the bags.

The steam engine was flecked with red, he noticed. So were the bags. They seemed to leak blood, staining the grass a shade of crimson the blue dragon wouldn't ever forget.

He hovered over the first of the bags. He could already see purple slapped messily together with a disgusting hue of red. That day, Cyril regretted ever opening it.

The lifeless face of the purple dragon severed from his own body. Violet eyes glazed over, pale after death. An unnerving look arching his maw, caked in scarlet fluid. He closed the bag then and there, never daring another look. Cyril couldn't remain nonchalant.

Tears he hadn't cried for years trickled out of his eyes, crossing the bridge of his snout. They fell to the ground; Cyril almost felt as if he could listen to them drip onto the grass. Nothing issued a sound. All remained silent. Sparx stared quietly at him, unmoving.

"What happened? Why did this happen?" Anger rose within his tone.

Sparx didn't seem to be able to answer. He held his mouth, as if about to let loose the contents of his tiny gut. Cyril didn't need to look at Cynder's bag to inspect her. He already knew what'd become of her.

And her child...

"If I may, Sir..." The Guardian turned to face the engineer, teeth bared, who looked on sombrely. The object held between his paws shined under the moonlight. Purple flashed before Cyril's damp eyes.

"What's this?" he asked quietly. The mole held the round object up for him to see. He gasped.

A purple shell. The prophesised one. It glimmered, as though it were a diamond. His anger was replaced by a glint of hope, yet at the same time, almost crippling despair.

"She laid it on the train. We had to stop. We were ambushed, Sir, by forces we don't know of. Spyro, he was... murdered first, off-guard after she laid. Everyone else was killed. They sent me back, out of mercy, with the egg, wanted me to tell you to watch the 'Red Phoenix'. Sparx was asleep in the back of the train, didn't hear anything. Was never caught, Sir."

Cyril nodded, wiping his eyes, but his maw continued to quiver. He straightened his posture, yet only shook. "G-Get a team of guards to dispose of any bodies, get some rest," he ordered. "Hand me the egg as well.

The mole did as he was commanded, shuffling off. The purple egg between his paws was familiar. He'd felt this exact feeling before, just without the look of loathing, of disgust. Sparx floated over, hovering above them. Cyril gave him a look, and something told him Sparx felt the same familiarity.

This was the egg of prophecies. He felt the baby's faint heart beat, felt the warmth building within it. If the young dragon inside really did have the purple scales of the legendary heroes and their father, then something terrible was approaching. This was the world trying to balance its magic. A card of darkness was in play.

Cyril looked to the skies for a moment, back at Spyro, then placed his scaly forehead to the egg. He closed his eyes, reciting Ignitus' blessing to the former purple dragon to the newly delivered egg.

"May the Ancestors look after you," he said. "May they look after us all."


Well, that was that.

Now, before anyone asks, no, Stasis isn't going on hold or anything. This is just a side project I'm casually working on. I suddenly had this idea, and I just wanted to write it out so bad. So, I did, and here's the result so far. I hope you've enjoyed what you've seen (I guess if you got all the way down here, you thought it was at least somewhat interesting).

I decided on Cyril as the main character. He never gets love, and I really wanted to expand upon his character. He is my favourite of the Guardians (other than Volteer :P), but I feel he was underused. I just really liked him!

This story is also going to be far different to my others. It isn't an adventure novel, for one. I hope I can pull this off.

Not much to say but thanks for reading the first chapter of Little Violet. I hope you enjoy the rollercoaster of emotions (maybe if I stop sucking) that I have planned for you fellow readers. :D