The searing through Spyro's limbs brought him to consciousness. Vertigo robbed his clarity, and his vision smeared across the stars. Gradually his sight sharpened, and his cognizance rose above the murk of pain and fatigue. He cast his sight down.

Stars glimmered beneath him. Up. Stars above him, brilliant pinpoints amongst the infinite ebon. He wrenched himself forward. He cried out as metal found purchase beneath the scales of his wrists and ankles.

Something floated cross from him. It moved, thrashed, its slick and svelte body the darkest blue, its chest, belly, and neck a blushed rose. His sight wandered up to her eyes: emerald orbs wide with panic.

Cynder.

Spyro called out to her, his voice muffled within an unseen enclosure, a barrier between him and the vastness beyond. She called to him, her wrists and ankles clasped against a metal tablet. Its layered ridges bristled with clawed metallic hands. They encircled the dragoness. Still. Waiting.

Another dragon floated next to her, twice her size, his bulky perse body slack, his crown of marrow horns heavy upon his downcast visage. His wide beige chest tapered to a pinched waist, his stretched torso against a great oval of tarnished, swirled steel, the grain blackened and pockmarked, his arms and legs bound together by rust-ridden cords.

Malefor.

The great dragon raised his head. His lips moved in silent utterance as he chanted. Spyro narrowed his eyes as he focused on the words, the sonance of the chanting: five syllables, over and over, the last pair the weakest.

A constant overcame the vibrations, a thrum that pervaded Spyro's being and shook him to his core. He looked to Cynder. The dragoness' thrashing intensified, and her tears glistened beneath the starlight. She begged him, "Don't look, don't look, don't look, don't look."

Life came into the thrum, a presence. Spyro's scales rose against it: the advent of a predator, primordial and eldritch. The stars between the dragons stretched and swirled. Their light extinguished as they merged into a vortex, a hole. The hole's hunger reached further, drew from the stars, extinguished the horizon. Bloody light bloomed within the void's center, small at first: a stellar seedling. It grew rapidly, and the red light dimmed with its growth.

Something took its place: a distant figure, bipedal, its head cowled, its body swathed in torn, filthy rags. Sanguine light poured forth from its gaping mouth. Spyro's head rung with tinnitus. The vibrations of Malefor's chanting brought cadence to the agony.

"Pierce through, stop, evermore."

Spyro focused on Cynder. His vision sparked as the sound bored into him. Their eyes met for a moment, serene and sweet.

The hands of her prison came alive and smothered her, dug into her. The metal tendons bulged as they squeezed and wrenched. Blood spattered against her invisible prison, formed a sanguine sphere. Spyro screamed her name. His lean body lurched with nausea.

Malefor's chanting stopped. Spyro slackened within his shackles, his mind and body drained. He rolled his head to the right. Malefor stared at him, his amber eyes wide, waiting. He slowly enunciated two beats.

"Nothing."

The tendrils of Malefor's tablet slithered into him, his body rigid as they squirmed deeper, blackened him. With a lingering shudder he collapsed, dangled. The cankerous flesh of his corpse sloughed off into the bottom of his prison.

The bipedal figure hovered between the dragons' corpses, its arms spread, welcoming. It manifested in front of Spyro, shared his prison, the stars within its black eyes.

"Nothing is sacred."

Its fingers sank into Spyro's skull.

{{}}

Spyro howled and lashed out. His rationale drowned in base terror, a riptide of turbid emotion.
Something pulled him from it, something familiar, warm, a gentle hush against the roaring undercurrent. The chaos faded, and the hushing lulled him, took him.

Soft padding cradled his chin. He slowed his breathing and opened his eyes.

Cynder's condolent gaze met his. Spyro remembered her prison, the bloodied sphere. A small quail came from the back of his throat. The dragoness held his muzzle to hers, her voice husky, airy. "Spyro," she whispered. She brushed his muzzle. "It's alright. I'm here."

Spyro's shivering eased. He leaned his head back and swallowed. "Embarrassing."

Cynder smirked. "It's not like I cooed at you."

Spyro parted his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "I sounded like a dying animal."

Cynder laid her head on his chest. Her paw lightly kneaded his scarred golden plating. "Memories?"

Spyro frowned and shook his head. "No. Not post-traumatic. Just..." He struggled for the words. "There's a theme to it."

"Reoccurring?"

Spyro considered that. "Certain elements. There's always this..." He rolled his paw as he sought the words. "Ape...but he's not. Doesn't have a muzzle. Always these..." The after-image of the pinpoint eyes flashed in front of him. "Lights. Small lights in the dark."

Cynder nodded. She put her head beneath his chin. "Could it be a vision?"

"I'm not sure." He curled his paw around Cynder's. "There isn't any of the 'passing out at terminal heights' symptoms like the other visions. This one's always in my sleep."

"Mm," Cynder said, pensive. "Our sleep's been troubled for awhile. Why the concern now?"

Spyro's frown deepened. "They're becoming more frequent."

Cynder's arm moved up to his nape. Her paw massaged the hardened muscle. "How frequent?"

Spyro sighed. "It's progressing more and more, almost every night now." His sight wandered about the smooth, pale blue stone of their cave, a slight gloss to its folds and crevices. He blinked up at the ceiling. "Ignitus hasn't spoken to me since they started."

Cynder's paw softly played along his scales as she mulled over that. "It sounds intrusive."

"Could be, but he's also a Chronicler now. He's indentured. Besides, the dream-speak isn't always reliable. Sometimes it's hard to tell if it's actually him or my own mind at work." Spyro closed his eyes, sought the image of the red and gold fire dragon, his mentor and friend. "I'd sleep better knowing he's there, even if it is in my dreams." He guided the conversation elsewhere. "We still have to help Hunter tomorrow?"

"Today," Cynder corrected. "In about a few hours, actually."

Spyro groaned and put his paw over his head, his scales warm to the touch. "Feels like I'm burning up."

Cynder arched an eyebrow. "What else were you dreaming of?"

"Don't you even start."

Cynder grinned wryly. "Spyro?"

"Yes?"

"You know you elbowed me again."

"I did?"

"Twice."

"Oh dear." Spyro held her to his chest. "I'm just a cold-blooded reptile, aren't I?"

Cynder snorted. "That was terrible."

"You know you loved it."

"Nope. I have pun allergies."

Spyro chuckled at that. "Symptoms?"

"Spontaneous smacking."

Spyro mouthed, "Oh." He brushed his paw across her arm and cradled her chin. "Promise?"

"Now who's starting!" She crinkled her eyes up at him and rested her chin on his chest. Spyro smiled. His paws clasped her nape as he lied his head back. His belly rose and fell against hers.

The pinpoints flashed. Spyro flinched, and the image faded with his consciousness.

A wet squelch awakened Spyro. He opened an eye to find the carefully cut and flayed haunches of some sheep laid out before him. His eyes wandered upward. Cynder sat above him and licked her chops.

Spyro gave her a faux pout. "You ate before me?"

"I let you sleep in and caught you breakfast."

Spyro bobbed his head from side to side. "Fair enough." He rose and ate quickly, barely threshed the meat before he swallowed it. After a quick cleaning he and Cynder left the small, discreet cave and emerged into the cool, dew-dropped morning. The grass glistened beneath a cloud-veiled sun. It was hilly where they lived, the height of the hillside just high enough to obscure the path of any foot-bound creatures.

Spyro and Cynder crouched and leaped. Their wings caught the air with a snap, and the moist breeze rushed past them. Spyro raised his voice over the wind. "How much more food do we have to bring up?"

Cynder did some quick thinking. "Not much. Some cattle, a few dozen bushels-"

"Dozen?" Spyro protested.

"Dozen," Cynder affirmed. "Maybe some herbs."

Spyro shrugged. "Better than yesterday. Felt like a damn relocation."

Cynder chuckled. "It almost was." Her eyes roamed downward. They approached the The Wounds of Avalar: great gouges within the land, the planet's innards crudely sewn shut by gravity. They were the scars left by Malefor, the aftermath of his madness.

Travel proved difficult in Avalar. Plots of soil and rock rose like plateaus while others fell like valleys, the landscape cobbled, malformed. It had not healed well.

Some patches of land were larger, more fertile than others. Life found a way in those areas, while others were too small or too high up and isolated to be hospitable. The natives near Spyro and Cynder, the cheetahmen, made due with ladders and bridges to close the gap between each other, the produce, materials, and meat transferred to the higher lands via a pulley system. It was a time-consuming process but adequate for self-sufficiency.

Compromised tectonic plates made tremors a part of life for the cheetahmen. Death remained common despite Malefor's defeat. His destruction lingered. Spyro and Cynder, in their own way, still fought him, did what they could to aid the cheetahmen, especially Hunter, their friend and ally. They wouldn't let him and his kin go without.

Hunter's village came into view upon an elevated portion of land, the few deciduous trees tall and lush, with ample space for farming and grazing. Below that was a smaller, fertile portion of land enclosed by elevated, layered sandstone. The village usually bustled with activity, the cheetahmen's shouts and the pulleys' rhythmic creaking like an audible beacon.

Today, no cheetahmen worked on either level of land. Spyro and Cynder landed on the elevated portion. They panned their sight around at the circle of thatched-roof huts, bloomeries, and mills. They headed toward the largest, central hut only to be stopped when a golden glow sped towards them from the hut's wood-shingled door.

The dragonfly stopped in front of Spyro, his breathing heavy. "It's...it's..."

"Breathe, Sparx," Spyro said. "Air helps with talking."

Sparx shook his head at Spyro. "Thanks...wiseass...it's..." He took a deeper breath. "Hermit. It's Hermit."

"Hermit?" Cynder said, her tone tinged with venom. She didn't have a good history with the cantankerous cheetahman. "What's he trying to do? Pass last night's gazelle?" She expected Sparx to laugh at that. Much to her surprise, the normally facetious dragonfly didn't bite.

Sparx's blue eyes wandered over to her. "The old cat-man's acting weird...er."

Spyro asked, "How weird?"

"He's on some mojo," Sparx said gravely. "Some bad mojo, I'm talkin' body-rocking-chant-to-nothing-drank-too-much-spiri t-juice-heebie-jeebies mojo."

Spyro arched an eyebrow. "That's some bad mojo."

"It ain't just that," Sparx said. His countenance darkened. "He was clawing himself when we found him. Everything around him was just...stained, splotched in red."

Spyro and Cynder exchanged a glance. Sparx headed back to the hut and beckoned them. "C'mon. It's safe to say that work's been canceled in lieu of the crazy."

The dragons ducked and squeezed themselves through the entrance. They stood two heads taller than the cheetahmen, which made navigating their homes a chore. The dragons had grown rapidly since the two years after Malefor's defeat.

The main room of the hut was lined with huddled cheetahmen, women, and children, their expressions disconcerted. The heavy air carried the scent of copper, of age and burned herbs.

Hunter stood next to the back room's doorway, his arms crossed over his black boiled leather armor, his vambraces stretched like tendrils over his forearms and hands. He lifted his head. His ears flicked, his left ear torn, a crescent of fur and flesh.

He rasped, "Spyro, Cynder," He strode over to them. The dragons lowered their heads. Hunter hugged them briefly, and his forehead met theirs, a sign of friendship, respect.

Hunter stepped away from them, his azure eyes weary. "Thank you for coming. I'm glad you're here." He glanced back at the door behind him and swallowed, his breaths shallow. He licked his lips. "Come with me, please." He took hesitant steps towards the wooden curtain to the back room, the shingles swaying and clinking. Pulsing amber light escaped through the gaps.

Spyro and Cynder followed him. Spyro hunched and crawled to accommodate himself through the space. The shingles brushed past his face, the scent of rosewood tainted. Something sodden met his paw. He raised it, his calloused padding smeared in crimson, bright before the lamplight. He looked up.

Hermit's head lulled to the side, thin torso bare, dark blue fur matted, loin cloth stained and frayed. The back of his head struck the wall. His lips worked in a tireless chant.

Five syllables.

Spyro shook the pinpoints from his head. He squeezed the rest of his body through the doorway and sat at its side, allowed Cynder to enter. He gave her a discreet warning about the blood on the floor. She acknowledged it with a nod, nonplussed.

Cynder sat herself next to Spyro. Hunter knelt next to Hermit and dipped his fingers into a jar of pungent ointment. He spread it gingerly over Hermit's cuts and gashes.

Spyro asked, "When did this start?"

"Two days ago," Hunter said. "Ironically he wasn't true to his name. He came to us, his eyes glazed. Wouldn't speak past a few words. We set him up here. After awhile he stopped responding, wouldn't eat, drink." He squinted as he thought. "But to bring this episode here." He shook his head. "I don't know what to make of it."

Cynder asked, "Has he ever done anything like this before?"

"That's just it," Hunter replied. "We don't know. His presence here is rare. For all I know he could have chewed the wrong herb, had too much to drink. This could be common for-"

"Nothing is sacred." Hermit stilled, his eyes out of focus. Spyro's limbs quivered, his mouth dry.

Hunter leaned closer to Hermit. "What was that?"

Hermit's forefinger tapped upon the earthen floor, slow, steady. His eyes wandered upward. A small groove formed where his claw met the packed ground. The pace hastened and his breathing quickened, his finger blurred.

Hermit stopped. He turned his eyes to Spyro. He lunged at him, his clawed hands to the dragon's temples, his voice strained and desperate. "You were the salvation, the slumber." Spyro pushed Hermit off him. The cheetahman fell onto his side. A small sob shook him. "No sleep for us now." He pressed his head against the floor. His shaking claws raked the ground. "He's coming."

Spyro fought for his composure. Everything within him froze. His inner fear, his nightmares, now had substance.

He tapped into his reservoir of strength, his bulwark against the insanity. He spoke to Hermit, his voice clear, ringing, the voice of a guardian, strong and gentle. "Who is it, Hermit? Whom are you speaking of?"

Hermit choked, his exhalation shallow. "Pain...its seekers emptied, the rest ravaged."

Spryo shook his head. "Hermit, think: what did you see?"

Hermit took a slow, deep breath. "Black Star...lingering...spanning...old, so old."

"What did it come to you as?"

Hermit bared his teeth, his eyes tensed shut. "The stars devoured. Light beyond our reach."

Spryo nodded slowly. He drew deeper into his reservoir of strength. With ginger steps he approached Hermit and lied himself next to him, his voice softer, condolent. "I've seen something similar."

Hermit looked up at Spyro, his words tremulous. "The Black Star?"

"As you call it, yes."

Hermit turned his eyes to the floor. The pace of his heart eased. "It wants us, Spyro."

Spyro wondered if Hermit had seen the figure, the muzzle-less creature from his dreams. Yet there was no denying the five syllables. Hermit, while not inclined towards visions, possessed an earned sensitivity towards spiritual aspects.

Spyro's dual-bladed gift of visions was ultimately limited to his perspective. "Hermit," he coaxed, "is there anything else you can tell me? Do you know what it comes from? What it is?"

Hermit's head shook. Saliva stretched from his lips, and his torso bowed. The vision's influence still had a hold of him, would gradually fade from his mind and body, much like the nausea. He gazed up at Spyro, his eyes lucid. "Its origins are beyond us, its motives base." He tried to push himself off the ground with his trembling arms. Spyro helped him up with a single paw and sat him against the wall. Hermit closed his eyes, and his head rolled back. With a slow dread he said, "It nears."

Cynder sided herself next to Spyro. Her shoulder brushed against his. Her presence abated the chill through his scales. Spyro asked Hermit, "How close?"

Hermit gave the dragon an oblique stare. "Days, at most."

"How will we know?"

Hermit's eyes crinkled. An airless cackle came from him. "I think you already know." Like a smothered flame the emotion left him. His visage slackened, his head cast downward, his signs of breathing imperceptible.

Hunter crouched next to Hermit, his brow knitted in thought. "I'm presuming...," he turned to Spyro, "that you two shared similar visions?"

Spyro sat up on his haunches and nodded. "The pinpoints. The words."

"'Nothing is sacred?''

"Yes, though I'm wondering something."

Hunter glanced back at Hermit. "Is it safe to pry?"

Spyro nodded again. "I think you all deserve to hear it, crazy as it sounds already."

Cynder rubbed Spyro's shoulder. She gave him a thin-lipped smile. Her bright narrowed eyes belied her crow's feet. "I doubt anyone's going throw the crazy stone at you."

Sparx's voice came from behind them. "I might," he said as he flew to Spyro's other side. The dragonfly added, "Or a stupid, fat purple rock." He rubbed his chin and looked around. "Now where could I find one of those..."

"Sparx..." Spryo said, his annoyance offset by amusement.

"One with stupid, matching yellow horns..."

Sparx's comment triggered a detail from Spyro's dream. "Malefor," Spyro uttered.

Sparx gave Spyro a dubious look. "Nah. He's too fat. And dead. Probably in a deer's digestive system at this point."

"Sparx, wait," Spyro urged.

"I mean how ironic would that be? Crazy bastard's head must have been full of sh-"

"Sparx! He was in my dream!"

Sparx's wings stilled briefly. He caught the air again, his humor gone. "Wait, what?"

"Him..." Spyro's eyes met Cynder's. "And you."

Cynder's lips parted. "What else happened?" The old fear of Malefor still lingered in the dragoness, a fear she held back.

Spyro sometimes forgot that they used to be enemies. He said to her, "I lost you in that dream. Malefor died too. You two were amongst the stars, bound to these...tablets? I don't know what to call them. The prisons...they killed you. And when you two were dead he came for me."

Cynder didn't ask for the ending of the dream. Spyro's disturbed air didn't bode well with her. She looked to Hermit, the cheetahman still, almost catatonic. She said to Spyro, "I hate to say it, but this is more than coincidence. You've been right about these things before."

"Not that I've wanted to be," Spyro said in dismay. He gritted his teeth. "I'd very much like to be wrong." His sense of obligation conflicted with his desire for peace, for sanity. The physical and mental scars were still fresh, and the faintest illumination made them all too apparent. But he couldn't ignore the signs.

Hunter did a once-over on Hermit before looking to Spyro and Cynder. "Our debt to you is bottomless, especially for ones so young." He walked over to them and laid his hands upon their shoulders, their scales smooth beneath hardened sinew. "No one would think less of you for staying."

Spyro gave a sad laugh. "You know we can't do that."

Hunter gave their shoulders a light squeeze and released them. "Suppose you're right." He looked back at Hermit. "He's going to need our care. Fortunately, you two have more than helped us with resources." He gave them a teasing smile. "We'll just have to find another prophecy dragon to bring us venison."

Spyro smirked. "Get Sparx. He needs a hobby."

"Speak not that devil word!" Sparx said. "It involves me not encroaching upon yours and Cynder's nighty night time."

Cynder's lips thinned. "Spyro, put a muzzle on the insect."

"Spyro," Sparx said, "declaw your lady." He took a look at Spyro's haunches. "Might save your butt future pain."

Cynder reined her anger. "That's from sparring."

Sparx snorted. "So that's what you whippersnappers are calling it nowadays."

Spyro put himself between the two. "Could we continue this outside, please?" He lent Hunter a helpless look. The cheetahman returned a light laugh and waved them off. Spyro gave him a parting grin before he, Cynder, and Sparx left the small room and into the central one, where the dragons and dragonfly received kinds words and small bows from the other cheetahmen.

Once outside and away from witnesses, Cynder made a lunge at the dragonfly. "Where do you get off calling us whippersnappers?"

"Hey!" Sparx reeled away from Cynder's snap. "And where do you get off abusing my step-bro?"

"I didn't abuse him!"

"At least hunt him dinner before you spar him.

Cynder roared, "IT'S SPARRING!"

Sparx remained nonplussed. "Looks like someone hit a nerve."

"Spyro..." Cynder growled.

Spyro raised his voice. "Both of you. Like each other. Now." Cynder and Sparx gave him indignant looks before they settled own. They exchanged a glare and turned their attention to Spyro.

Spyro took a moment to ensure their neutrality. "Alright then," he said with a heavy breath. "I don't want to do this, but I'm not going to rest easy until I know for certain."

Sparx asked, "About the starry-eyed ne'er-do-well?"

"You mean The Black Star?"

Sparx shrugged. "Whatever he's called." He tapped his chin. "Doesn't have the same ring as 'Dark Master' though, does it?"

Spyro's nightmare resurfaced. He saw the cankered flesh that sloughed off Malefor's body. Yet Malefor's presence in the dream didn't make sense. He didn't even know for certain if Malefor was dead. Dragon spirits had intervened in that battle, had taken Malefor away in his moment of weakness. He didn't know what significance Malefor had, but he knew where to find out. "White Isle."

Cynder gave a slight shake of her head. "What?"

"White Isle," Spyro repeated. "Ignitus would know..."

Cynder staunched him. "Do you realize how far away that is? Have you even looked at a map, or did you forget that a...," she turned to Sparx and mimed, "'freaky little turtle monster," she said to Spyro, "took you there?"

Sheepishly, Spyro said, "Well, I've done it before. How else do you plan on getting there?"

Cynder sighed, her head lowered. "I don't know, Spyro. We could try, but what we're talking about is at least a month's trip, not to mention Avalar's wounds."

Sparx gave a pronounced, "Ahem."

Spyro and Cynder turned to him. Spyro asked, "Suggestion?"

Sparx put his arms behind his back. He looked off to the side, his expression coy. "I may know a certain someone-something-friend-of-a-friend...fellow."

Spyro scrunched his brow. "Why are you being vague?"

Sparx was hesitant. "Well, uh...Ever since you two started frolicking." A low growl came from Cynder. Sparx ignored it. "I've been making efforts to become a more proactive member in the mole community."

Spyro was surprised. "I figured they had all gone back underground."

"Most of the mole-peeps did," Sparx confirmed. "Except one..."

Spyro made a permissive gesture. "And?"

Sparx rubbed his knuckles against his chest. "Let's just say that due to my heroic exploits, he's decided to take me on as his apprentice."

Cynder didn't believe him. "You're his lantern, aren't you?"

"I am not!" Sparx shot back.

Spyro cooled the imminent diatribe. "Okay, okay, so...How did you meet him?"

Sparx rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, uh...was kinda passing by what looked like this oversized hut and all of a sudden I started hearing all this cursing and crashing. I flew over to see what the ruckus was about and before I knew it this mole was at his door with a revolver at my head."

"Natural enough reaction," Cynder approved.

"Shut up. Anyway, he kinda stared at me for a bit before inviting me inside."

Spyro harrumphed. "Huh. So what made him change his mind?"

Sparx puffed himself up. "He was in need of my assistance."

Cynder said, "He needed a light."

Sparx deflated. "No..."

"Sure he did, though why he chose an ass-pain lantern is beyond my comprehension."

Sparx clenched his fists. He stuck out his lower lip. "Spyro...She's being a stupid meanie head..."

"Cynder," Spyro said with barely restrained sarcasm, "stop being a meanie head."

"If you insist," Cynder said. She found her focus again, despite the dragonfly's presence. "What's he have to do with us getting to the White Isle?"

Sparx huffed and crossed his arms. "Well, he's a geomancer, for one."

That intrigued Spyro. "Most moles are smiths. Why'd he pick up geomancy?"

Sparx scoffed at that. "I don't pry into his past. All I know is that he's working on something, trying to combine the power of crystals with metallurgy. As for how that applies to seeing Ignitus, well...we don't have to go to the White Isle to talk to him."

Spyro asked, "Like how Ignitus projected himself within the crystals?"

Sparx nodded. "Yeah, except Haedrig's figured out how to make outgoing calls."

"Haedrig's his name?"

"Yeah. He's not too far either, about a couple hours northeast from here."

Spyro considered that. "Well, we're not making anyway leeway here." Before he leaped into flight he said to Sparx, "I can't believe you."

Bemused, Sparx asked, "What?"

"Befriending strangers behind my back." Spyro tsked. "You little tramp." He took to the air at that.

Sparx and Cynder craned their heads up as Spyro ascended. The dragoness grinned. Sparx gave her an inquisitive look. "What's so funny?"

Cynder snorted and said, "Tramp-lantern." She leaped and flew after Spyro.

Sparx gaped up at the dragons and shook his head. "So now I'm the only sane one." He flew after them and muttered, "Stupid frolicky tramp-lizard."