Luminescent
This torrent of darkness ripped through settlement after settlement like a plague. Their armies were unstoppable, and even individuals were powerful, from what he'd been told. Sliverclaw had stood undamaged for the twelve years that had passed since Fialka's hatching, however, and he was unsure why. They were a nearly defenceless, harmless town towards the coast. An easy kill for them. They had a sizeable abundance of the Dragon Realms' currency, golden coins, piled up from past trading for such a small settlement, and even that wasn't enticing to them.
What were they really after, other than this unending brutality? That was the question that clouded his mind at the moment. There had to be a motive somewhere in this. Hours of thinking and jotting down notes didn't get him anywhere...
Cyril!"
The Guardian, startled out of his thoughts by the calling of his name and a hollow knock on his door, threw his paws into the air, knocking the ink vial's contents across the page he'd been writing on. He grumbled to himself, shaking his head. At least it hadn't been anything important. If this had happened years ago, when he was still writing important documents...
"C'mon, Cyril. Open up the door! I want dinner and it's late."
"Oh, alright, alright," he said, shambling towards his door. Upon opening it, a small purple dragoness looked fixedly up at him, tapping her foot in frustration. "Be patient, young dragoness. My youth is long past me."
"And I can't wait any longer." She rushed down the hall, perching herself on the table he could see out of the corner of his eye. "Hurry up. I'm starving!"
Cyril paced down the hall – his speed was clearly agonising to the young dragoness – and looked through his icebox. He used his element to keep fresh cuts frozen, perfect because he didn't have the energy to go outside and order something for Fialka, not that there was much to order nowadays. He spun his head around to her for a moment. "You know you shouldn't position yourself on top of the table, correct? I thought I explained that to you yesterday; you'll get your grubby paws on the oak."
"I'm clean today!" she piped up. "I sat around and read books on the elements, like you said."
"A blatant untruth, Fialka." He shook his head, examining rashers of their local, prime piggle. Piggle meat had always been one of his favourites. "You shouldn't be dishonest, unless the situation calls for dishonesty. I watched you leave to chat with Alaina. I can see the dirt on your scales as well."
The purple dragoness hid her mortification behind a smile, rubbing away at her scaly hide. "No, I did not..."
"Yes you did. Don't deny it." He scooped the produce up and looked to the window above him, ajar. "You even left the window open. You would make a terrible escape artist, young dragoness. Thankfully, you're not training to be a thief..."
"I... Um... Okay, I'm sorry." She bowed her face. Cyril, once again, shook his head, but a slight smile curled his maw this time.
"Do not fret over it, as long as you dedicate your time to learning about the elements tomorrow. I will tell Alaina you are not available."
"Fine," she murmured. The Guardian, given some respite over her answer, moved to the cast iron pot below the cupboards containing a small variety of kitchen utensils. It wasn't as though he made use of them, however; a dragon's different sharp bits were enough to prepare a meal fit for a lord.
He grasped a flask of old, yellowy fluid and watched as it flowed like honey when he tipped it upside-down. Then, with a wet plop, he dropped the cuts deep into the pot, vanishing at the bottom.
"When will dinner be done?" Fialka cut in.
Cyril sighed. "Patience is a skill you must learn, Fialka. Dinner doesn't cook itself."
"Why are you so slow?"
"Fialka..."
"Oh, can I-"
"Fialka!" He was swift to realise his tone was aggressive. She seemed bewildered when he turned around. "Just... Just be quiet, alright? Dinner will be ready soon. Then you can do whatever you want."
"Even go outside?"
"No!" He put a paw to his forehead. "It's far too dark out there! You don't want to step into an alleyway or that damned forest."
Fialka planted her eyes on the table. She seemed more irritated she couldn't take off and perform the things she desired than upset she was yelled at. "I can take care of myself, you know..."
Cyril could only shake his head for what was probably the six hundredth time, wondering why the Ancestors couldn't have given him somebody as polite and selfless as Spyro. His royal ancestry, gazing down upon him, probably thought him stupid for taking in such a little rascal.
The pot bubbled and the meat broiled, steaming. He grabbed two dishes from the cupboard above him and raised the cuts with a long pair of iron tongs. Not in the mood for boiling anything else, he allowed the flames to die away and served the meal to the dragoness.
She opened her mouth again. "What's wrong with the forest?"
He turned around, serving his own meal. "Children have chased each other in there before, in older times, but they never returned. We couldn't have the same happening to you now, could we?"
"Sounds spooky." She smirked. It was almost as though she'd forgotten she was yelled at a few minutes ago.
"It is not a matter to be joked about," he said as he lifted his own plate, shuffling towards his office. He stopped a moment later. "Where's Sparx right now?"
"I dunno where Uncle Sparx is," she called back. "He's probably out with Nivia. He's been spending a lot of time with her. I wish he was here more often... Where are you going?"
He exhaled. "To my office. I have things to do."
Fialka didn't say another word as he entered his office; the low sigh she issued barely met Cyril's eardrums. He laid his oily meal beside his papers, sat down, and cleared away the sopping page. Grabbing a new ink vial, he began to write whatever came to mind once again.
Slowly blossoming over opaque hills and rocky outcroppings, the light of a new day painted Sliverclaw in a coat of faint gold. The marketplace shifted even at this time – it was unusual for a town of small numbers – but considering the keepers of the various stalls had initiated their huge sale and festival for the winter, the White Rose, it was no wonder why. Cyril didn't generally partake in the festivities; there was no time for little games and buying inexpensive goods. Today, however, he'd been persuaded by an eager purple dragoness and a growing fire dragoness to escort them. He hadn't a clue where they desired to go first.
"Hello? Earth to Cyril?" Alaina intervened with his thoughts. He turned his head. "Off in dreamland?"
"What is it?"
She shook her head in irritation. "You didn't hear a word of what I just said, isn't that right, you bag of scales?"
"I apologise. I've been focused on other things. What did you say?"
Fialka shrugged innocently. "It doesn't matter. Let's go, Alaina!"
The two scampered off before he could get the first syllable of their names out. Off to entertain themselves, no doubt, not that there would be much to do now. None of the merchants had the will to create something magnificent, but from the things he knew this was supposedly tradition in Sliverclaw. It wasn't like an old, exhausted soul like him could do a thing about them running off. He rolled his eyes, deciding to wander down the cobblestone pathway on his lonesome.
It was only when he was alone and not consumed by his deep thoughts that he noticed how overcrowded the main street was. More than half the townsfolk had been hidden away for some time, but now they had unearthed themselves from their humble little cottages. A rainbow of differing hues moved past and toward him, scaled and furry creatures packaged around flashy stalls. He peered behind himself, toward his house on the hill far from him, and thought about heading back.
Maybe he could use today to lose himself a little. He never participated, and if he kept up his absence he'd never get a chance. Plus, as one of the very few remaining Guardians – perhaps the last – it'd be best if he tried to keep a presence, even if it was around so few people. His old friend Seraphine still told him to soak in the outdoors more.
Loosening up his weary bones, he strode into the crowd and took in the sights. It was difficult to focus with the disorganised mass of creatures rushing about. He found the square quiet, however, in spite of the bustle. Only the occasional murmur met his ear holes. There was talk amongst them of how cities off the coast had been ravaged, even the great Ornhold, which had carried the biggest, greatest military the world had ever seen. He wasn't sure whether to believe it, but the situation told him the events were true. Something like that could happen within twelve years of the purple dragon hatching.
Obviously the people were trying to act normal for the festival, but a huge, gaping maw of fear had swallowed everyone's thoughts and their usually happy conversations. Usually he tried to ignore the bad and focus on things that would land Sliverclaw in a more positive position, but even he shivered in dread. Those positive things never came to him anymore, so what was the point in trying to think about them?
He set his sights upon a stall. It was dingy, wooden thing, torn by forces unknown – much like the rest of the stalls, he now realised, that weren't kept in good shape either – but a youngster waited eagerly behind it. Cyril felt bad for him. The shoddy jugs were still full.
He had to nearly shove his way through the crowd. He forced the hides of several people away from him, receiving a few glares, before reaching the tiny mole waiting behind his stall. The thin boy lifted his head, wiping at his spectacles with a grimy rag.
"Hello." The mole leaned over his rotting desk. "Want some lemonade? Only one gold piece."
The Guardian studied the bubbling fluid and licked the tip of his maw. He was parched, and this surely would quench his thirst. "Alright, uh..." He checked for the satchel he'd taken in case the girls desired something and found it missing. He put a paw to his forehead. "I apologise. I...forgot my money."
"Oh, that's okay," the boy said. "Have a free one on me, old man."
Cyril eyed the thin mole and shook his head as he poured a cup. "No, certainly not. I can't just steal your product like this. You look as though you need the money, if I'm being honest."
"Well, yeah, a bit. Mum kinda...moved somewhere else for a while. She left me here." He straightened his glasses. "I just try to make a profit off lemonade. I have a lemon tree out the back. It's kinda dying, though, considering the drought..."
"And you haven't done anything to find her or a potential parent?" he asked. "I am sure somebody in Sliverclaw would be willing to take you in.. The costs of residing here are not high, I must say. Although, maybe the people are a little hesitant right now..."
The boy flashed him a slight grin. "No, no, I have. But I prefer living on my own. Like you said, the prices here are pretty cheap. It's not that hard to get around."
Something remained suspiciously unclear to the Guardian about the boy. "Well, it would be for the greater good if you found comfort in a parent. Or if you are not enrolled in our local academy, I would at least expect you to join the other few children there. You are no dragon, but your small claws could perhaps be put to work in the study of engineering."
The mole sighed. "I'm not really one for any of that stereotyping crap, but thanks for the suggestion. The academy's pretty empty now and I'm not sure if I would even get the chance to do anything of the kind... Now, do you want a cup or not?"
Cyril decided he best not push the issue further, else delve into what appeared to be dangerous territory. He could search for the facts to these circumstances at a later date. "...Alright, lad. Let's see if your lemonade is as strange as your situation."
The mole muttered something incoherent about old people and poured the dragon a glass of fizzy drink. Cyril wrapped his paw around it, examined its contents for a moment, and didn't find anything mysterious about it. Just a normal cup of refreshing lemonade. Its taste was exquisite, he found, especially for such a scruffy mole and a dying lemon tree.
"Rather pleasant, I must say," he complimented. "I would take another, but..."
An unpleasant ringing, like that of a demon wailing, pierced the old Guardian's eardrums. The harsh chime of the clock tower's bell screamed bloody murder. He directed his attention toward the commotion and saw a black plume flickering with fiery amber rise into the air. Then came another wicked explosion.
He dropped his cup and didn't hear it shatter or the mole yell after him as he sprinted off as swiftly as his creaking bones could carry him. The town square was this creature's target, he realised. Whatever it was, he was bent on halting it before it caused further damage.
Cyril ground to a halt as he reached his destination, summing up the situation. Stalls lay in splintered flaming piles, the stone water fountain was in shambles, and the fire spread relentlessly. People ran and screamed and cried around guards already endeavouring to stop the threat in the centre and to put out the buildings ablaze. Three lay dead, cold corpses bleeding out.
He caught an eyeful of the invader, and just as it'd been described to him, he saw the black blob. It moved so fast he couldn't even detect a body shape, turning another stall to splinters. He was quick to join the fray; the guards had been slacking, it seemed.
The shadowy blob seemed to notice him by the way its milky eyes connected with his. It brought a fist formed with its own darkness and threw it into the ground. The ground shook and a black wave that curled outwards, a pulse of tenebrous energy, knocked the other guards off their feet. He couldn't tell if they were dead when they fell as he made a manoeuvre to fly over it. Cyril realised he was alone in this battle; it was after him and he was unsure why.
It didn't say a word as it approached, sickle sword hanging against its side, grinding against the stone. There was no fury or passion in the way it ambled towards him, and the screaming and crying around him made the peacefulness excruciating to watch. He wondered if it could even speak. He stood corrected after mere seconds when the darkness didn't encroach.
"Guardian of Ice," it began, its tone shockingly baritone for its small, meek shape. The figure resembled a cheetah in stature without the constant leaping about, but there were no ears or tail to speak of. Shadowy discharge from the creature's robe merged with the floor as it drifted towards Cyril, staining the cobblestone black. "Your spy will die. Our leader shall know how he deceived us when I make my way back. I will be rewarded."
Cyril swallowed. He'd always had a feeling this S.K. would finally meet their end through him somehow. This seemed to be it. "What do you mean spy?"
"You know exactly what I mean. Don't try to deny it, Guardian of Ice." The creature twirled the blade in its paws. It seemed a natural with it. The toothed edge oozed with the scarlet of the dead. "I'm here to look into matters and then leave. Don't try to stop me. You'll only end up like the rest of your incompetent guards."
"Oh, c'mon, who blew up the food cart?" a small voice interrupted Cyril before he could loose a retort. He whipped his head around, sure the area had been clear earlier, only to find an ignorant Fialka. Alaina was following closely behind her, but stopped immediately when she realised the situation. "Did you fire dragons- mmph!"
Alaina shoved a paw straight into the smaller dragon's mouth. Cyril gestured towards them, mouthing, 'Leave.' She tried to do so swiftly, to get Fialka out of harm. Even Fialka was shocked to see the place in shambles, as oblivious as she seemed to the world.
The figure cackled lowly. "I've changed my mind." It raised a black limb; it flashed a milky white. Tendrils rose in the corner of Cyril's eye, noiseless. They covered every pathway and formed a dome over their heads. Miraculously, light shined through the darkness around them. "Our leader would surely appreciate a gift like this. All grown up. So...strong. The perfect vessel."
"What do you speak of, you arrogant basket case?" Cyril glared through it with a gaze as keen as daggers. It didn't care. "I have not a clue of what you are talking about."
"He made us out to be primitive, said this kind of science was impossible. He's the stupid one. It's impossible...unless we have a vessel. And this purple dragoness is now perfect. Our leader only needs to know that you have no aetherial cannon and then we will storm this place. We must thank you for raising her well."
The Guardian wanted to move, to defend her, but he dared not. He awaited the opportunity to strike. "Why didn't you kill her on the train?" he asked instead.
The befuddlement on Fialka's face was evident, even with a paw over her mouth, when he glanced at her. He hadn't told her yet. It had never mattered.
"We can't raise a child, Guardian of Ice. We have no choice but to destroy any weakling in our path. Infants feed off of our darkness and... I will assure you the sight isn't a pretty one. I'm not here to talk about myself, though. Let me have her and I'll leave this place alone."
He shook his head. "You must think me an imbecile. You have burned enough as is." He stopped to check if the guards were putting out the fires. He found their bodies strewn about the square, barely recognisable. He knew Sliverclaw was burning around him; he cursed at himself for being unable to stop it. It only fueled his ambition. "Giving her away is suicide."
"Then I have no choice."
A black streak jolted towards him and Cyril barely had a moment to raise his paw in defence. Scales cleaved off, he grunted. The speed at which the creature moved was seemingly impossible, the fury behind the blade unstoppable. The Ancestors gave birth to something as powerful as this?
Another powerful cleave; he had time to summon his element and halted the strike with a shield of ice.
Had the Ancestors gone insane?
"There's no point, Guardian of Ice," the figure said, swinging overhead. "You've grown old."
He barged forward, knocking his adversary off balance. It was swift to recover. He didn't let himself succumb to the taunting. The world vanished and his attention was focused on the target. He was prepared for anything.
Yet the figure shocked him by pegging the blade forward. It spun like a turbine and would've mounted itself in his skull had he not realised the figure's intentions. It struck his horn as he crouched and continued to soar. He regained focus, lashing out upon his target. His efforts were stopped once more.
"You don't have the skill anymore. You are not a warrior."
Cyril grunted again but in anger. He raised his fist, only to find one in his mouth. Its speed outmatched his by miles. Staggering, he lifted his shield to block yet another punch. It shattered underneath the blow.
"You never should have become a Guardian."
He wanted to yell out, but the agony stopped him from doing so. He was losing himself. Instead, he tried to raise the ice within him and project it into a torrent, but a sharp pain jolted through his spine. He screamed like he never had before.
The creature had snapped their fingers, and the sword had come flying back. Cyril's body oozed red. It had been so long since he had bled. He remembered the time an ape's blade had been driven into his spine. He thought he heard Fialka shout, but it was unclear beneath his sudden loss of hearing.
A paw met his jaw and brought him toppling down. It was like his first time fighting again. Orange flashed in his eyes. Its source was unmistakable. He heard his opponent shout this time, and he heard the agony in the creature's voice as clear as water.
Cyril struggled to shift his gaze upward even slightly, pain lancing across his body. He got a glance – there stood a being of luminescent white, melting like they were made of the vapour the guards were covered in. He thought he perceived a startled gasp from one of the dragonesses, but it could've been his own ragged panting. The white made a swift retreat and, with another one of its motions, drew the sword back out of Cyril's spine. The dragon once again doubled over.
In spite of the pain, he made it to his feet once more, able to see his surroundings in greater clarity again. Wicked sharp, he knew the blade was, but clearly magical; he knew enough to know it paralysed the target as soon as it found its mark. These Varlends were as powerful as they'd made themselves out to be. Where had they learnt spells of this calibre?
Another cry cut his thoughts short and he knew he needn't dawdle. The thick wall of shadows dissipated, the now white Varlend clutching its body as one more fireball burst beside it. He rushed forth and, with a lowered head, slammed his horns and body weight into it. It blasted off, its fall broken quickly by the cobblestone and heaped timber. Its blade clattered to the ground, unmoving, in defeat. The creature didn't move again. Through his watery eyes, he couldn't tell if it was still respiring.
Alaina seemed shocked when he peered at her, but she cast him a weak smile and itched at her forehead scales. He returned it before moving toward the unconscious figure. Something had burned up in her element, he was certain. Perhaps fire was a weakness? It seemed strange that they would utilise fire if it turned them into the pale thing before him.
He inspected the body; minor cuts and burns, but otherwise fine. They didn't seem to pose a threat unconscious like this.
"Are you okay, Cyril?" Alaina asked. He nodded and waved her off. His back flared, but he could absorb his stock of spirit gems later.
"Would you take Fialka back home? I need to deal with the situation here."
Fialka's curiosity knew no bounds, however. "What the hell even is that thing? It was all shadowy and stuff, but then it... And what was this about me and the-"
"I'll inform you later. Let Alaina walk you home, Fialka."
People wandered back into the area, scared out of their minds, staring at Cyril. Somebody sounded like they were screaming about the fires and the dead guards, but it was lost to the Guardian's eardrums. Alaina walked off with the purple dragon in tow and left him, more or less, to his own devices. Fialka looked as though she was limping, but a minor injury wasn't anything to worry over. She'd dealt with worse in training and come out okay.
If this figure couldn't use their black magic anymore, considering the aura had been vaporised, then maybe imprisonment was in order. He needed information...
He licked his maw as he formulated a plan. It was about time he figured out if the one called S.K. was telling the truth. For now, however, he decided he best sort out the destruction.
It'd taken a great deal of persuasion to get the bare cellar built beneath his house. Nobody wanted to use the materials when there were hardly any supplies left, and nobody would head into the forest for fear of being stalked and killed. His final few coins, and empty promises and lies were what it took for the local builder and his wife to construct it as quickly as they had – within a week. If they'd known what he was really going to do with it, they wouldn't have agreed to the risky proposition at all.
The wood was a velvety red, odd compared to the earthier texture upstairs, and a small iron cell stood in the corner, imposing despite its stature. The prisoner was seated inside of it, legs crossed, lifeless in the way it didn't breathe. Cyril could tell it was still alive, though. Those milky eyes glared knives into his scales. There was no prison in Sliverclaw, so he'd had to take matters into his own claws.
It seemed mad to be contained within a cramped space like this. Fialka was astonished when he'd allowed the creature to move into her bedroom, but she ended up finding the flannelette cushions in the corner of his office as comfortable as her bed. Thankfully, the thing hadn't torn anything down in fury. He'd boarded up the window too.
But its time within her room was over; she certainly was joyful to get it back, and he was more so, the risks now nullified. He was even shocked by how calmly the chained creature walked to the cell with him.
"Have you asked for its name yet?"
He turned to find Fialka behind him. She'd accepted him quickly, although was almost upset she was never able to chat with the thing. He told her it was dangerous, but she didn't seem to mind the risks.
"Why would I do that? It's an animal, Fialka."
"M.R.. And I'm no it or animal. I'm male." He – apparently – was angered by the fact Cyril was so condescending.
Cyril stepped forward, scratching his chin area. "Initials... Why do you use them, M.R.? Do you have a proper name?"
"That is my proper name," he said. He put a white paw against his forehead. "We're assigned initials at birth. Two or three letters, occasionally numbers, because there's too many of us to give what you would call proper names."
"M.R..." Fialka itched her jaw. "I'm gonna call you Mister! Because, you know, M and R together make-"
"I'm well aware," he cut her off. "Would the both of you leave me alone, or at least finish me off so I'm not left to rot by the likes of you? I'm not going to tell you anything important."
Cyril stared his pale form over, ignoring his simple request. "You were enveloped in shadows earlier. You seemed more formidable with that magic. But fire set something of yours ablaze, rendering your magic null. What happened?"
Mister had the look of somebody who knew nobody would listen to him. Not even Fialka, who usually followed instructions from most, made an effort to move, instead thoughtlessly gazing into the new floorboards beneath her. Cyril was still astonished the builder of this new cellar hadn't noticed the creature hiding away in his old bedroom. Maybe he did but didn't bother to say anything. Everyone thought him peculiar anyhow.
"You're not going to leave me alone. Stupid to believe you had any kindness, Guardian of Ice." Mister sighed. "It's a natural cloak – a shade cloak, we call it. It's powerful; but very flammable, as you've clearly taken note of. It'll end up growing back in a few years' time. And before you ask, no, you do not have the firepower to take down our armies."
"Heh, he said firepower." Fialka grinned suddenly. "That's funny."
"Extremely," Mister retorted, glaring back with his white eyes. His features were difficult to make out because of his abnormal colour. "Any more questions? I have one. Can I have that bed back?"
Cyril, again, disregarded his words. "Are you sure you haven't told me anything important? I mean, the growing back part of your explanation seemed crucial."
"No, it's not," he said. "This island's doomed within a year or two and there's nothing anybody can do to stop it. I've served my time and now it's finally at an end... You might as well kill me. I'm not useful to you in any way."
"We'll see about that." This information wasn't new to the Guardian. He'd been expecting the raids to approach them. He'd come to the conclusion many times now that there wasn't a way to achieve victory. Sometimes he'd thought more positively, yet in reality he had no clue what to do about any of this.
Had Fialka just been a false sense of hope? Of determination?
"Why would the Ancestors send you here...?"
"To destroy this world," Mister started. Cyril looked over at him, eyes narrowed in confusion. Even Fialka was intrigued, and she'd been idly scratching away at her jaw, minding her own business. "Create a new one. Set out to accomplish what the Dark Master failed. The Ancestors don't want to provide for you anymore. Your devotion simply isn't enough anymore, and with less and less people appreciating them, they are getting mad. This world, Guardian of Ice, is... Well, for lack of a better term, it's fucked."
Cyril didn't believe him for a second. Why would the Ancestors, who had loved all life for all eternity, suddenly change their mind and plunge a dagger into the heart of the world?
"I can tell you don't believe me. But know that it is true. We are not some new ancient evil, as a lot of you think. In fact, to me, we're not evil at all, nor are we good. We are just here to turn this world to ruin, by the request of higher beings. We don't regret anything we've ever done."
He shook his head. This wasn't true.
"The bloody murder? The arson? Entertainment, as you may know. Not for us, however. The Ancestors. Your spy has been wrong on so many things. In fact, he may just be a double agent now that I think about it. You have nobody to help you."
This wasn't true at all.
"And no, this isn't important to me. You might as well know. It's not going to matter in the end-"
"Quiet!" Cyril yelled. Fialka looked at him apprehensively. "Enough. Keep your falsehoods to yourself, worm. Nothing you say is true."
Mister didn't speak again, but his unnerving gaze never left Cyril's. The Guardian exhaled. He could still stop this. He knew it. And nothing the Varlend said was true...
He. Could. Stop. This...
No, he couldn't. His mind shifted between perspectives, unending.
His devotion couldn't have been for nothing. They wouldn't change like that...
Maybe their beliefs had changed. If even his religion was against him...
What could he do?
"I really need to confess, Cyril..."
The Guardian looked at Sera, who casually sipped at her tea. It was every week she came over. Fialka was always happy to see Alaina, but the pair of almost-sisters spoke everyday, so it wasn't like today was special for her, unlike him. He always looked forward to these days; it was a chance to speak to somebody other than the kid and to somebody who actually understood him. Every other dragon in Sliverclaw either found him too ancient or too strange.
He, like her, sipped at a tiny cup of tea. Everybody used to go on about how drinking tea was odd for a dragon, but he had never really minded those who gossiped about him. It was of no use looking into such petty matters. They didn't now. Nobody had time for such things. It wasn't worth wasting time on idiotic things like that. "What is it?
"You know when I helped you sort out your collection of books?"
"You did do that, yes. I remember." He cocked his head rightward. "What about it?"
Sera looked to her side, towards the arched window on the opposite side of the room. Fialka was outside, chatting away with Alaina upon a flimsy wooden bench. "Well, uh... I saw those letters you have. You know, the ones from that shadow person? I...couldn't help snooping about. I'm sorry. But...why haven't you told anyone about those?"
"Well, I did leave them out in the open," he admitted. He didn't really mind, if he was being honest. He'd half expected her to find them, leaving them on his desk like he did. "And I felt I would have sparked more controversy had I told anyone. Sliverclaw is still on edge regarding those matters. Nobody would be happy to find out we have a supposed spy working in their midst if we cannot trust them fully, after the destruction during the festival especially. Everyone I have seen since that day is scared out of their minds. They know it's coming, and fast. I think they are beginning to go insane. It's like the war all over again, Sera."
"Everyone's complaining over that meeting earlier this week. The rations are justified... You had that cellar built for that shadow person down there, right? To gather information?"
"My, my, you really have been sneaking about my home." He smirked weakly. "I trust you to not tell anybody. Nobody can know."
"Yeah, I realise that now. That's not really what I want to talk about, though. Your letters kept going on about an 'aether cannon'. An aetherial cannon, you and that S.K. probably meant. That science isn't impossible."
He raised a brow in surprise. "The prisoner has been pretty quiet but it did talk about that science when it came here. What do you know about it?"
"Let me start from the beginning." She cleared her throat quietly. "I was a part of the war effort and was placed under the seventh engineer division. Now, you might think only moles went in there, but I was an exception. I was fresh out of the Warfang academy and I was a top student. The teachers advised I join the war as an engineer, and after a bit of being made a laughing stock, they let me in. No one laughed at me again when I showed them the weapons I could craft."
"It was in our division's workshop that we came up with the plans for a cannon that could fire aether," she continued. "Unfortunately, to do anything of the sort, we would still need a purple dragon to power it, and thus the completed cannon was never used. It was destroyed by the Dark Master's armies in the end, though. It's ironic being destroyed by your own power source."
Cyril pondered over her words. "If you still needed the purple dragon to utilise such a weapon, then why would you construct one? The purple dragons don't need a vessel to fire from."
"This is different, Cyril. A concentrated beam that can last for hours compared to moments, and the amount of power it discharges can be tampered with manually. The original was built as of Ignitus' secret orders in case Spyro was unsuccessful and we could recover his body, but we never needed it and, as I just said, it was destroyed. You only have to put the dragon inside and it...consumes their energy."
"That sounds painful," Cyril said, frowning. Seraphine exhaled.
"That would kill the dragon inside if they weren't already dead. A living vessel is stronger than a dead one, though. But anyway... Well, you must know what I'm trying to say."
"I know what you're getting at." He looked outside again. Somehow, even he couldn't see such a young, cheerful dragoness reduced to living ammunition. "A last resort. You want to construct one again."
"No, I don't want to build one again," she answered, "but I would be willing to if you gave me the word. I highly doubt we could burn them all with the numbers we have, so this may be our only shot at stopping them. It's your call, Cyril. We wouldn't be able to tell anyone what it is in case Fialka finds out. She can't know."
"I already do enough hiding myself, so that's no issue." He almost wanted to chuckle. "But...you are correct."
Twelve more years of raiding and growing had passed for the Varlends. Their armies were too large to combat with an ordinary source. They already covered most of the Dragon Realms, from what he knew from the occasional courier. They were in the centre of the conflict, a small dot of white amongst a tide of black. He could only imagine the state the rest of the world was in.
"We cannot emerge victorious with the numbers we have now," he continued. "It's simply implausible... Our numbers are nothing compared to an island of Varlends. Last I checked, every guard was murdered in that single attack on the festival."
Seraphine gasped. "It was really that bad? I thought it was only minor property damage and a few casualties!"
"I'm afraid not." He set his cup down, sighing. "There weren't that many to begin with. The only fighters we have left are Fialka, Alaina, myself...and you, if you still can. Perhaps Jedrek if our situation hadn't driven him to insanity. Alaina says you can at least hold your own."
"I doubt it," she said. "Three people that can fight, two of them kids... What about the rest of the kids that were learning in the academy? That class was pretty full, wasn't it, or I was just not paying enough attention?"
"Many of the parents had their children drop out, not wanting them to become warriors and succumb within seconds to the Red Phoenix. Shameful, I will add." Downheartedly, he pushed his tea away from him. "Understandable? That too."
"Then is there really a choice in what we should do?" she asked him. He didn't know if he wanted to try anymore. Just talking about these things made him realise it was pointless. Even if they did build a cannon, it would only last a few hours. That wasn't enough to crush millions of these parasites.
"Should we even try?"
Sera was taken aback. She seemed about to respond, but thought about it for a moment. "Um, w-well... Look, I know it sounds pointless, but maybe we should go down fighting. Cripple them, at least, in case another country can deal with this. And maybe I can perfect the design as well, make it last longer..."
"How would you obtain the materials for such a weapon. We can't go anywhere. It's far too risky."
She gazed deep into her teacup for a moment before looking back up at him. He hadn't peered at her in a while; her smiley nature had faded completely. Never had he seen her solemn before.
"That old arena has everything we need. Old mechanical bits and bobs, metal, you name it. The framework and wiring take a long time to do and need very precise work and lots of testing, but it wouldn't be hard to get an adjustable skeleton up. It was always finding a purple dragon that was the issue, but she's here now. I just need your permission to dig up all the old arena traps and stuff."
Cyril closed his eyes and sighed again. He still felt no point in all this.
And using Fialka as a weapon? Killing her? Sure, she was training to become a weapon against the Varlends – a probably useless one at that – but a literal weapon? That went against every thought he had.
"I know you still think we shouldn't bother, and... and putting Fialka into such a thing is just wrong. But if I can perfect the design, maybe I can keep her from dying and keep it running, even send the plans elsewhere in case a purple dragon is born elsewhere, even if theirs little to no chance of that happening... I mean, they say when there's a will, there's a way, and I do have the will..."
"I...just don't know, Seraphine..."
"We have to try," she reaffirmed. "There's no point waiting here until the end. I don't think I'll survive this, or any of us for that matter, but we need to do something to stop this. We've been abandoned and we don't have a choice."
"I..."
"Please."
She was right. Something had to be done, even if they were killed in the process. Even if it meant sacrificing Fialka. She was just going to die. She was the purple dragon, but even purple dragons could die, just like Malefor and Spyro had. Putting her to use was far better than leaving her to be taken by the Red Phoenix, who apparently had their own aetherial cannon. He was sure it was nothing like what Sera could build, but even the faint spark of hope they had now would be stamped out if they stole her.
Fialka was going to die. Sera was going to die. Alaina, the town, himself. He needed to accept that now. But if something was done to cripple the Varlends he could hopefully go out feeling as though he'd done something.
This was just the right thing to do. Fialka couldn't object. It was not her choice to make.
"Do it. For the fate of us, Sliverclaw, and the world, do it."