Archives of Veramese
Chapter 10
Author's Note: I've returned. After a year's slumber, I have been resuscitated and with me, my story. Honestly guys, apologies are in order. I'm sorry for how long it's been. OVER A YEAR! WHAT HAPPENED?! Uhm… nothing really. I never gave up on this story. It's my child. One of my greatest triumphs. I put everything I have into making this story the best it can be. The problem with that—and being a writer in general—is that there is no "Best Version." There is no end to the amount you can improve, or change, or edit, or add on to. There will always be something to learn. And that's what i've been doing: Learning. Learning from my friends, my mistakes, and other authors. I'm not ashamed of how long it took for me to get where I am, but I am ashamed of leaving you guys in the dark. You deserved, at least, a status update.
Nevertheless, you're here; I'm here, and we can all finally take the time to savor this moment—my return debut. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. It's been a monumental undertaking but one that I can proudly say has made me better as a writer. I have to thank my Beta reader and Editor Dardarax; for his infinite patience, and his priceless advice. I must also thank 4Dragons; for being a guiding light and constant companion through the long dark tunnels that nip and bite.
And of course, I must thank YOU. All of you who have read my story this far, who have left reviews and messages. Without you, I would never have the courage to keep doing this. You all make me brave, and give me hope that I'm doing something right. I cannot tell you how many times I have returned just so I could look at your messages of support. They are more priceless than you know. And I am truly thankful.
Without further delay. Enjoy.
My friends, you would be hard pressed to find anyone who knows the real name behind the Shiverum Bibliogathon—The Archives of Veramese. You would be even harder pressed to find anyone who knows that the Archives were in fact a gift from Ezrom, lord of Shiverum himself, to the half brother of Ezrom's beloved.
Veramese was a frail dragon, crippled beyond repair, but a kindred spirit to lord Ezrom; for both were scholars, who would sooner seek the company of a good book over the company of others;the two drakes grew incredibly close, bonding over that which they shared a mutual affection.
During the time it was built, The Archives stood in commemoration of the blessed family unification and the affable brother-in-law Ezrom gained. Many a-day and night were spent within those vast majestic halls—invading imaginative worlds of yore, investigating the elder days; when the ancestors walked the globe; explored the universes through writ and page.
There's even a telescope that was once said to have caught a glimpse of Saolan in his journey to expand the cosmos. Today, there are rumors that spirits haunt the archive, and although nothing has been proven, past librarians frequently complained about entire volumes or series' turning up missing on their own accord, only to magically turn up later in sections not belonging to them. Perhaps even spirits need a little bit of light reading.
—Someone who knows too much
The past few days for Eliesia had been a blur, a series of tragedies that lead into one another like the keys on a pianoforte. The sonata of life—her life. So it came as no surprise to the dragoness when a new… inconvenience reared its head like the hideous snake it was—the Archive doors were shut, sealed during the attack to stave off unwanted guests.
Aquaria's passing words of advice to Spyro—to visit the library for answers—had been a blessing. A small part of her had hoped the purple drake would accompany her on the adventure. An even smaller part of her wished Cynder could have as well, despite the black dragons obvious distrust for her. Mayhaps saving her was an effort that would come to bite her in the future. Spyro wouldn't agree. She had saved her for him anyway; she could see the way he looked at her, and she at him.
How long had it been since she had felt anything like that? Looked at anyone the same way he did. A tug at the back of her mind told her.
A lifetime ago.
Nevertheless, Eliesia found herself wishing for some companionship, maybe even that upstart governess. Poetry, wasn't it? Eliesia was better with faces than names.
On the walk to the library, a team of armored soldiers bearing the Shiverum seal passed by, hauling with them a canvassed wagon. She could pick out the smell of dried venison, oats, and preserved fish—provisions.
Eliesia never cared for fish, it's flaky meat and salty fat. But now, just the smell of it was enough to make her stomach growl, forcing her to cover her midriff so that the paladins didn't hear.
The endless panic and combat must be making me hungry.
It was one of the reasons why she walked instead of flying—to conserve energy. Nevertheless, food could wait just a little longer. The hunger for answers surpassed the hunger for sustenance.
Eliesia waited in the street, just outside the monolithic door to the Archives. Strange symbols were carved into it, leading her to believe the door was not shut by any normal means. Some deep part of her mind told her she knew this and tried to dredge up a memory. In the end, all it left her with was a headache.
Even now the symbols hummed with energy against her back, a series of gentle waves that pulsed and vibrated against her scales. Eventually, the sensation became uncomfortable, forcing her to stand on the opposite side of the street. This allowed a better view of the structure, revealing more symbols, and she suspected they wrapped all the way around the base of the archives.
Indeed, they do. Something told her in the back of her imagination.
The snow had begun to fall more gently, drifting down in thick clumps that collected in already large snowdrifts on the edge of the street. Meanwhile, the houses, the ones that weren't collapsed, groaned against the steadily piling weight. A few chimneys released puffs of smoke, vaporous clouds that disappeared into the grey sky. They carried a smell that reminded her of Shiverum's plates of Jyavistmash—a dish featuring five different varieties of cooked potato: mashed, diced, fried, souped and lastly, dragon baked.
Stomach growling, Eliesia closed her eyes and sent up a small prayer to the heavens, to any ancient that might listen. Another headache threatened to surface, and she cursed the barrier that had built itself around her memory.
Spyro had reassured her that reviving after years of 'sleep', would have put a drag on any past she might have been able to call upon. The most prevalent recollection she had was upon her awakening, the responsibility she felt burning within her breast, a sense of something bigger than herself. Fate, Spyro had called it.
An arrogant part of her wanted to just take this new life she had been given and runoff, but the protector knew she could never live with herself if she did.
In truth, she wanted her old life back; the echoes taunted her with visions of friends and allies. Fate was cruel. It had thrust her into a new world where she didn't belong, the life of it riding on her shoulders. It's figurative weight sat horribly on her psyche. Too much too soon.
When the fire dragoness opened her eyes, the sight that greeted her was that of a gaping hole no more than three stories up from the street she sat on—a hole large enough for a dragon to fly through—resting between a triad of stained glass windows that featured a different dragon. Each one looked at another, forming a picturesque circle.
Her stomach growled again, and that notion along with the eagerness to get into the Archives was enough to send her off the street and through the grinning mouth in the wall.
Entering proved to be more difficult than she envisioned, like swimming through molasses. She closed her eyes, shook her head, trying to clear it of the sticky fluid that had squirmed its way into her skull. The feeling refused to fade.
Something was off.
Forcing her eyes open was an endeavor in itself. When she finally managed, it was to be greeted by grey ambient light filtered in through a grand filigreed skylight that hung over the entrance rotunda. Looking behind her revealed a solid stone wall. Neither the hole or the stain windows could be seen.
She appeared to be in a vestibule—a reception room of some sort—which didn't exactly correlate with external geography.
She hadn't walked in through the entrance, and there had not been a skylight visible from the outside. So how had she gotten here? Was this magic?
Yes, her mind warned, her inner voice a tangle of worry and panic. She wasn't sure why.
The room was simple: wooden paneling layered under more of the same brick she saw outside—it shimmered like moonlight on a field of deep grey snow—and that same thrum that emanated off the door now resonated in the room, ringing in her head like church bells.
Pivoting on her heels revealed no doors.
I'm hallucinating.
Slowly and creepily, the air began to fill with the sound of angry bees. Or was it just her head?
To the right of her stood an altar, old and weathered by a million claws and hands. What must have been at one time a vesperal linen cloth, now lay in tatters, draped across the rough stone surface. Black and red wax candles were welded to the surrounding area at the base of it, lighting up the engraved images of eight dragons, lorded over by a ninth—her wings spread out behind them.
The most interesting object, however, was the book that rested upon the pedestal atop it, a cover made of black scales and an alphabet of runes. It sang to her something sweet and old. Full of memory. And anger—so much anger it made her mouth taste like blood.
The grimoires, guard the grimoires.
Another headache had Eliesia gritting her teeth.
The room—tightening around her skull until If felt like it was going to crack—whistled, the bells a high pitched ringing.
The altar evaporated into pitch smoke, snaking around the room like a nest of vipers. They ate away the walls with hungry, corrosive bites. Until they were gone, and the stone floor crumbled beneath her paws. She watched the room fall away around her, beneath her until she was left alone with the book in a vast expanse of a red-tinted sky.
This isn't real, she bargained with herself.
She looked down to gaze upon a metropolitan city of dragons, with ribs for castles, and claws for cathedrals—a city of bone.
And ash. So much ash.
Suddenly, the book melted into blood, a viscous and foul-smelling fluid that streamed through the clouds; it dripped onto the towers of bone and filled the streets with a sanguine tide.
Coagulating, the blood solidified into towering statuary monoliths, their gazes judicious as they looked down upon her and the city of bone. There were five of them—and they all bore down on her with irreverent eyes, red tears seeping like stains from their lids.
Friends, the voice in her head tried to whisper, but Eliesia couldn't hear it, too cemented in her fear of their peeling gazes.
A heavy weight groaned in Eliesia's head, pushing at her skull like an ocean trapped inside a bottle—too tight to hold its rising tides. How it cracked beneath those accusatory stares.
Except for one. A simple dragoness—short horns and unnoted scales—Imperial with a single paw lifted off the ground in the immortal pose of an effigy.
A blinding light flashed and when Eliesia opened her eyes, she lay prone in a field; white tulips, orchids, and calla lilies stippled the expanse in fractured constellations.
She was on an island, a floating one if she were to hazard a guess; for a Cheshire crescent moon dangled in the sky. A waterfall cascaded over its edges and evaporated into the air—a fine, misty vapor that sent Eliesia's scales abuzz and left her skin moon kissed.
Beneath the moon rose an ivory palace, an array of structured towers built to look like pillars with curlicues that spiraled up their exteriors. Cupulas and pavilions and terraces strung together by arch bridges, glistened like gilt marble.
Eliesia looked on in astonishment of it all, as the field of flowers began to sing—heaven, they seemed to say and she got the distinct feeling that they may not be entirely wrong.
This place was a feast of wonders and magic for her eyes, and she couldn't help but gobble it up.
Beyond the rim of the island—dropping off into a void of otherworldly fog—were branches of a tree larger than any you could imagine. They stretched up from the oceanic folds of white fog then disappearing into a canopy of the cosmos.
All around her, suspended by the limbs of this world tree, were the amorphous clouds of spectral dust: quasars in vibrant shades of gold, emerald, ruby, and sapphire; they were the leaves of the universe. And even more still—like fruit for the gods—winked the stars of the night sky, twirling and spinning as if they were all partners in a dance. Eleisia imagined them performing the slow Mujra of bows of time whispered in the celestial breeze, a breathless gossiping sound.
It was all so transcendent.
"Eternity suspended between life and death, spent in a place like this, is not so bad," spoke an angelic voice from above, in the direction of the palace. It was the dragoness—the only kind one from the statues.
To say she was magnificent was less than an understatement. Holy. Maybe even divine, with a hint of something playful. She practically shimmered in the reflective light that sparkled off of her diaphanous scales.
Despite the modest, undecorated look to her, there was true beauty in its immaculacy; silver scales, short white horns, unmarked tail. Eliesia did not feel cowed by the female so much as she felt stepping into the presence of an old friend.
The divine dragon spoke again. "You truly don't remember…" Her voice was gentle, each word wrapped in silk. "Sestuklia mà, yibaana."
'Freedom to me, shackles.'
Eliesia felt the words flow through her, penetrating the walls of her mind, ripping at the chains to her memories. There was a fracturing, in both body and mind, as brick and nail tumbled and shattered to unleash an avalanche of thoughts, memories, dreams, nightmares, names, and dates; it all started to fall into place. Her mind, like a valley—a once dry pasture of thickets and brambles, now sown and bearing the fruits of her past.
A tail lifted her chin up, its touch soft and reassuring. And when she opened her eyes, the world was louder, clearer than before. As if that entire time she had been beneath a surface of water, muffled and dark. Tears threatened to stream down the sides of her face at the sight that greeted her; for when she looked up, she saw none other than her truest friend, sister by bond.
Imperia.
But she was stronger than that. The tears did not fall. She could be strong. For her friend and herself.
Imperia spoke with a heart-lifting giggle, the sound reminding her of butterflies playing. "You've been asleep for some time Eliesia, sister-love. How does it feel to be awake again?"
Eliesia could only let out a sputtering laugh, closer to a cough than anything signifying joy. Until the pair of dragons lay prone in the field of singing flowers, like hatchlings in a noontime daydream. Except here… the springtimes were countless and unending, and the clouds were spectacles to be savored for infinities.
"What is this place?" Eliesia finally stammered—almost ordered—but never breaking eye contact with the dragoness in front of her. Afraid that if she looked away, she might simply vanish.
Another honeydew giggle. "You always were the least imaginative of us all. Even Ezrom could think of more ways to start a conversation than you. Do you really not recognize it?"
She didn't. How could she? This was all too beautiful to be something plucked from her memory. Eliesia wanted to laugh and cry and hug her. Instead, she stared.
"It's my home, of course, slightly embellished I'll admit—but it's how I remember it. Sometimes it changes based on memory. Can't you tell?" Imperia asked.
"But how am I here? How are we here? I was just—"
"Entering my brother Veramese's archives, I know. You're lying comatose on the floor of the third story balcony actually. You'll have a terrible headache, but I just had to bring you here because your lack of memory and the rate at which you were proceeding was just so agonizingly slow that I had to step in. Besides… I missed you and does one ever truly need a better reason to see a friend?"
"I—" it was all so much to process—her memories, Imperia, the idea that she was both here and not at the same time—she could already feel that headache that had been mentioned. "Imperia," she finally managed, using her name like it was a life raft. She had so many things to say to her. So she chose, quite possibly, the worst she could have said. "Your mate, Ezrom…"
"Is dead. But you don't have to worry about him. He'll be visiting soon enough." She said the words softly, relief in her eyes.
Eliesia tried to smile, one of the saddest attempts to appear comforted. "Just tell me where I am and what this place is."
The smile Imperia returned wasn't entirely genuine, didn't reach her eyes—But was a small thing, like something you might see at a funeral; nothing more than a polite gesture. The sight of it made Eliesia's heart crack because it was a reflection of her own poor attempt.
Imperia murmured, "We don't have much time. I can't keep you here."
Eliesia nearly grew frantic, throwing her gaze around as if in search of this imminent threat that would take her away from her friend.
When Imperia's answer came, it wasn't chaste. "It's called a throne realm, and those who can make one were named Immortalis'. It's a place where the spirit can live on in a world of its own creation, where it can rest—rebuild itself and eventually… return to the living. I carved this tiny piece out for myself when I died. I knew I could do it; I had studied it with my brother." Something like regret passed through her eyes. "It was all supposed to be for him, so that he could come back to us, whole and unbroken. But then the rules changed." The dragoness paused and Eliesia didn't think she imagined it when the air suddenly seemed to nip and bite.
Eliesia spoke, "Rules, what do you mean rules?" But realization dawned on her. "Riona…"
Imperia nodded, the anger dissipating from her eyes—a hurricane dying down to a small thunderstorm. It would pass. It always did. "During the Cathedral War, you proposed a motion that was unanimously agreed upon by the Entente: that all Kardamun practices were to be forbidden. So we gave up our studies to preserve peace." The storm in her eyes picked up.
Eliesia struggled. "Imperia, I…" How could she apologize for that? The proposal was a war agreement that helped prevent the Kardamites from establishing a foothold in the dragon heartlands. It nearly ended the war. Nearly. But it had helped at the cost of her friend's only sibling.
Any apology she could have offered would only ever amount to a half-truth; over a decision, she knew, she would have kept the same.
How cruel fate must be; to allow Imperia Immortality and Eliesia a second chance at life, but Veramese nothing at all.
"It's okay," Imperia finished for her. "How could you have known? Riona and the Kardamites were a danger—and one that threatened our very way of life, and risked angering the gods." Imperia gave that same simpering smile again and Eliesia felt as if her heart might break. "But listen to me," Imperia started, the storm in her eyes sharpened into something lethal. "The war isn't over. And the winds tell me that the gods themselves are preparing for something bigger than everything you are facing out there. You are merely a pawn in a vast, inscrutable game of chess. Guard your queen and for Fate's sake, protect your king. Those are your two important pieces. If you don't know who they are already, you will." The wind began to pick up, roaring until it drowned out the wonderful song of flowers, petals whipping past like razor blades. "Our time is up, but our story isn't."
Eliesia felt angry, hot tears rise up again, in part from the stinging wind and part from the thought of leaving her friend behind—both hurt in separate amounts. Oh, what she would give to bring her back with her, just to have someone familiar and friendly standing by her side. Selfish, foolish thoughts but ones she entertained greedily, shepherding them through the maelstrom that was the rest of her mind.
Eliesia yelled, "The Kardamites! How do I stop them?!"
Imperia stepped backwards as a cyclone of wind and white petals began to encircle Eliesia's paws. "Find the book—and face your enemies." The pale dragon smiled at her. "Goodbye." She finished.
"Imperia!" The roaring wind was a beast, one that stole Eliesia's words from her mouth and used them for foundation in its tornado that surrounded her. But Imperia must have heard her because the image of the stone altar and tome from earlier flashed in her mind, burning itself into her eyelids like a sunspot before disappearing into a blinding light. The message was clear.
It seemed like only seconds later when Eliesia found herself waking up to the smell of musty books and mite dander, two sets of beady eyes—one pair small and brilliant green with flakes of blue tossed in, the other brown and tight, furrowed in obvious astonishment—looking down at her on the floor.
"You see! I told you my tonic would work—she's waking up. Good as new," squawked a young, excitable hatchling; owner of the blue and green eyes she supposed.
"Fridòg mes godosaa. By the ancients, she's alive!" The second voice cried out, owner of the canine eyes. He sounded noticeably older—and foreign.
Eliesia reared up, making to stand but failing to get her forelegs to properly respond as they lay limp—throbbing like a heartbeat—on the floor. She spoke through gritted teeth. "I can't feel my legs."
"That would be me! I woke you up. You're welcome," chirped the younger voice, a small poison dragon. He waved his stinger-tail around like it was a mighty blade, the perfect image of smug adolescence.
Eliesia leashed her frustration long enough to regard her surroundings.
Beneath her, glass crunched, biting into her scales. Grey light spilled across the hardwood flooring in gentle, white speckled rays. Looking behind her, just as a crisp humid breeze drifted in, revealed the gaping remnants of stained glass and humming stone; she was on the third floor.
Excellent. Now she just needed to stand up. Another botched attempt had her thudding to the ground; she huffed, a tight growl working its way up her throat.
Someone coughed to get her attention.
So Eliesia turned her ire to the other stranger in the room: an elaborately robed fox, greying with age. He wore a robe—night sky blue except for the silver cuffs and starry embroidery on the sleeves, hem, and collar that almost appeared like it was painted into his fur. Contradictively, the clothes seemed to both swallow him up and fit him perfectly.
She sniffed at him, saying, "So you see an unconscious dragon and decide to go stinger happy? I feel like I was trampled by a herd of Oliphants and thrown into a nest of vipers." If she had the strength to swat at them with her tail, she would have.
The fox merely removed his circular reading glasses, closing his book with a loud snap. "I was under the impression you were dead. You had no pulse and nothing has ever survived the protective wards of the archives. As far as I was aware, I was going to have to deal with a dragon corpse in my library—I didn't see the harm of letting him try his… tail at saving you if the alternative was you staying dead. It was either going to work or not. So yes," he answered decidedly. "You're welcome."
Eliesia blanched. Looking around she found herself on a stone balcony, with the shattered window behind her and semicircular bookcases stretching up high over her head. Eliesia knew they would have done the same even standing on her hind legs; possibly even her tail. Not that that was even possible for her right now. Regardless, Eliesia found herself in the perfect place to begin her search for anything resembling what Imperia had shown her—dangerous or otherwise.
She glanced between the fox and youngling, asking, "What are your names?"
The fox answered, "My name is Miköbol but my friends call me Miko. I'm the librarian—and this is my assistant, Frog." The dragon beamed down at her.
"Lovely to meet you," she replied automatedly. "Now if you wouldn't mind helping me up, I need to find a book."
Miköbol gave her a beatific smile, happy to be of use. Meanwhile, Frog bounced on the balls of his paws. "I believe I could be of some use to you in that endeavor."
Cynder woke grievously, head pounding with the lingering effects of a less than congenial arctic dive. She dreamt of drowning, of a dark, cold abyss pulling her down to inevitable death; the shock of bitter ocean water as it filled her throat and lungs. She dreamt of being trapped out at sea with something chasing her, its presence skirting the edges of her vision underwater, drifting in and out of the murky veil like a ghost; every once in a while she would spot it, with its black, soulless eyes looking at her—the sunken glare of a corpse hunting its prey.
It left her with a sort of lingering exhaustion, the kind that only begins to take root in the long moments after you wake.
Poetry watched the dark scaled dragoness from only a few feet away. "Nice to see you up."
Cynder only gave a silent glance in reply. How long had she slept? Cynder didn't remember drifting off; her sleep felt fleeting. A quick survey around didn't reveal any changes in the environment; it still looked as late—or early—as it had the last time she looked.
Poetry lowered her head so that it rested on her paws, catching Cynder's gaze. "Still snowing. So don't bother trying to leave."
Cynder stared at her, noticing the female's own haunting drowsiness. She had been watching me sleep. Cynder wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that—and she was glad her black scales could hide the blush that crept up her cheeks.
"You look terrible," she blurted, wishing someone would do her the favor of removing her chances of saying something stupid. Sewn lips would do the job.
Poetry grumbled out a rasp of a laugh."You can sleep for the both of us," was her muttered response.
To the left, a brazier still burned, it's radiating light casting long shadows across the floor—a type of smooth, pale wood. While the heat dispersed itself around her, a little unevenly in spots it was nonetheless soothing.
Past Poetry was the entry hall arch, doors finally closed—which explained why everything felt warmer—and the previous blizzard having lost its bite, now culled to howling wind.
I hope Spyro's doing okay, she couldn't help but worry.
To be honest, she was rather disheartened to have woken up without him at her side. That familiar warmth she had come to appreciate, thawing her from the inside out, was sorely missed in moments like these—and there were a lot of those moments more recently. For now, Cynder had to settle for the bonfire, it's natural heat failing in comparison.
An icy pebble to the snout knocked Cynder from her contemplative stupor, lips lifting into a surprised hiss.
"Stop it, you're making my shadow nervous," Poetry said, nodding at the floor.
Cynder paused, looking down to find the shadow she had stolen from the dragoness, coiled around itself in a tiny, whirling circle—a small brewing storm. Cynder released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and the puddle of ink slunk back to its owner, once again becoming a proper shadow.
"Sorry."
Poetry huffed out a laugh. "That's a cool trick."
There was a long pause where only the crackling fire kept the ringing silence from setting in. Cynder knew her capabilities, knew she could do more with her abilities than just shadow puppets. But using them always felt… repugnant, a reminder of her past—and how she had gotten her powers. It festered in her like a bad memory that taints everything it touches.
Cynder said, "Yeah… I suppose it is."
Poetry shifted, droopy eyes idly surveying the strange dragon that lay before her. It was… interesting to meet the legendary "Terror of The Skies." Although, she doubted Cynder would appreciate the name.
Poetry simply laid down, absently fiddling with a piece of loose stone from the floor. It was flat and rounded, worn smooth by traffic. Poetry's mind latched onto the object, studying its detail until she realized her time might be better dedicated to conversing rather than drifting off. Maybe afterward she could take a nap?
"You were gone for a long time," Poetry suddenly offered by way of conversation, surprising even herself. Maybe spend more time pondering your words and less time speaking them, her mother's voice rang in her head. "A lot happened while you were away. Although, I'm sure you've already been told that."
"You act as if you knew me then—as if you know me now," was Cynder's snappish reply. "For a lordess, your diplomacy is primitive."
Poetry shrugged. And Cynder ridiculed the dry gesture. "My decorum; maybe. My diplomacy, never. I suppose it might rely on the season—I do tend to feel impish around fall."
"Hardly the resume for a sovereign."
"I would argue the opposite. But that's my prerogative," Poetry said crisply.
Cynder didn't turn from the fire as she said, "Your focus should be social politesse. Lead by image—tact, and propriety."
"Duty and rectitude hardly agree with one another, just as Political virtue and correctness are at constant war."
The conversation was taking a far too cordial turn for Cynder, who preferred to keep things like this to herself; she didn't know why she was sharing them with this dragoness. Besides, what did Cynder know about leading? Nothing.
Poetry Meanwhile, looked completely at ease. And Cynder had to give it to the dragoness; she had a charm… and a point. Perhaps if more time was dedicated to solving issues versus fighting with propaganda and giving speeches, things might actually get done—a straightforward approach, no hassling. However, thinking about it at that moment seemed so silly given the state of things.
"Now"—Poetry sighed, as if to say, since that's over—"You leaving Warfang—was that for duty or virtue?"
Cynder didn't answer, didn't even look. She was exhausted, not just physically—that was understandable—but emotionally, as if she had just made it through the crucible of her worst moments; it made her look older than she was, wiser but also broken.
Cynder finally said, "I needed time."
Poetry looked at her strangely for a moment, the kind of look you might give someone after they admitted they enjoy the taste of their own snot.
Poetry spoke again. "Dragons aren't exactly in short supply of that. You're avoiding the question."
Cynder looked at Poetry but found her inquisitive gaze to be too untoward. Poetry appeared to be so down to earth, so full of vivacity, and a sort of ameliorating aura that made it difficult not to gravitate towards. It made Cynder want to reveal her deepest darkest secrets and that scared her most of all.
Maybe she had gotten her second wind; Cynder wished for a first.
Meanwhile, Poetry found herself thinking of Spyro and how he might have felt about her digging into Cynder's past.
Spyro usually took everything outside of personal matters pretty well but that left him with a lot of holes, sore spots that tended to make him lock up and emotionally shut down. Cynder just so happened to be one of those sore spots, if not most of them to take a guess.
There had been a time when Poetry had tried to woo her way into the drake's heart, to net herself the decorated purple war hero. Perhaps she hadn't fully signed away the dream—but as of now, Poetry felt Spyro was better kept as a friend than a wasted endeavor trying to secure a mate.
A girl can dream, can't she? Besides, the drake had priorities Poetry knew she couldn't trump.
"I needed… Space," Cynder offered pathetically. She was very uninterested in carrying this exchange—interrogation seemed a more qualified descriptor—any further.
"Seems like another sorry excuse. I'm starting to think you don't want to tell me," Poetry said with an idle smirk. Poetry's wit and banter was like a siren's song, lulling Cynder into a false sense of security.
She tried to tell herself that she didn't have to say anything. She didn't owe this dragoness any answers. But at the same time, how long had it been since she had confessed to anyone? The list of individuals was diminutive and quite frankly pathetic.
Poetry wanted to know, wanted answers from this enigmatic puzzle of a dragon in front of her. Spyro expressly instructed her to take care of the ebony-scaled dragoness. Poetry could do that but now she wanted to really take some time to dig into the mystery, even if it only meant half-truth answers and disregarding huffs. Part of Cynder's mystery was how she was calm in the storm, but anxious in the quiet. "He spoke of you while you were gone. He missed you."
Some emotion fluttered across the Cynder's expression, eyes reflecting the bouncing flames of the brazier in their glossy pools. Reassurance? No… regret.
Cynder understood who the Turquoise dragoness was talking about, and she desperately wished she could strangle this entire conversation in the back of an alley somewhere. She needed a change in subject.
Like a professional ballerina, Cynder danced around the real question and asked the first thing that came to mind, "Where did you get that necklace?"
Poetry gave her a momentary look of surprise then cradled the bauble in her paw. She smiled.
Having noticed it a while ago, Cynder was intrigued to know what value the jewelry was held in. The chain—tightly woven, and made from either silver or platinum—met in the middle to secure a large carved jewel or crystal. Of what, Cynder could only guess at.
Around any other dragon's neck, the ornament would have seemed simple, but Poetry somehow made it look like an immaculate display.
As if she had sensed Cynder's subterfuge, Poetry gave her a knowing smile
She held the necklace aloft, saying, "It was my father's; a piece of him so I could always remember. He had owned it when he was my age, given to him by my grandmother before he had passed it to me on my great hatching day. I've had it ever since." Something like pride echoed in her voice.
Cynder wasn't ready to go back to the previous topic. "What happened to him?"
As quickly as it had appeared, the light drained from Poetry's eyes—and it flickered like a waning candle. "I don't know. He went missing on a deployment; none of the brigade came back. We gave him a ceremony but we didn't have a body. Some people say he abandoned the city."
"Did he?"
Poetry's reply was stiff, like she was trying to convince herself of the words more than anybody else. "He loved his city—he would never abandon it." She adjusted her paws, still toying with the small smooth pebble from the ground.
Cynder grimaced at her own forwardness. It was stupid to assume, even more stupid to ask.
Like any other time when she thought of him, Poetry still felt the sting of her father's disappearance, the familiar flutter of emotions that threatened to dredge up every memory she had of him like some sort of trauma fed incubus.
She hadn't just lost her father, she'd lost the respect of the city. The scandal of Poetry being the daughter of a Paladin deserter—one of great renown—had been too delicious, and the public had shunned her for it.
While her mother had chosen to pursue guardianship, Poetry had thrown herself into distractive pleasures, some more destructive than others. She'd been stupid and arrogant, and too eager to prove everyone how right they were to distrust her with the title of Lordess. Until she had nearly drowned herself in the deteriorating cesspool of grief, self-doubt, and sorriness.
That was behind her though. Partially thanks to Spyro. But she had learned two things from it all—that a life spent policing international drama was far more entertaining than anything she could find at a brothel, and that anyone crazy enough to forfeit a life with Spyro was missing a hell of an opportunity.
Cynder was under close scrutiny and was obviously suffering a lack of self-image.
After a few moments, Poetry was back to her usual disregarding self.
Having only put off the inevitable, Cynder could feel Poetry's stare.
Poetry asked again, "Why did you leave?"
The dark dragoness sighed, a relenting breath that had the shadows curling around the firelight. Why should she answer? Cynder didn't know Poetry, didn't owe her any answers—but she owed answers to Spyro, answers she knew she may never be brave enough to give him herself.
She realized she needed to confide in somebody, someone who knew the purple dragon like she did, if not more… just in case.
Relenting, Cynder said, "I wanted to stay. I did. For the first time in a long time, we could put all the past behind us. And it all felt too good to be true." She paused, expecting an interruption. None came, only quiet patience. "But every time I looked at him, instead of seeing Spyro, instead of seeing him as the dragon I had come to—" Cynder's breath hitched. "All I saw was him." Cynder shook with the force of her words as if saying them had actually taken something out of her, something deep and festering.
Even to Poetry the implication was vile, it's meaning rotten to a core so deep, every fiber of her recoiled in disgust. She wished she was wiser, wished she could offer Cynder some inane proverb that could make it all better—like her father. But she couldn't. This wasn't something that could be fixed with something as easy as her saying, 'it'll all get better,' because it wasn't as simple as that.
"Sometimes," Cynder said, "I wish I was a stranger. And I could look at him and not feel myself shatter into pieces" She felt like she was rambling but she needed the words to be said, spewn into existence. Just as long as they were out of her body. "Why?" It was less a question than a plea, to whatever higher beings watched over it all. "Why me and him?"
Why couldn't we have been born into different lives or different bodies, she thought.
Poetry didn't have an answer and Cynder knew perhaps there was none.
"You're brave Cynder, brave for coming out of all that fear and torment still capable of loving. I can't tell you that it's all going to get better someday—that there will come a time when the world doesn't need either of you. And now, just when you were trying to put your life together, the world feels content with tearing it apart again. That's just the life some people live—and not everyone has the benefit of a choice."
It wasn't pointless comfort words, cushioned to make her feel safe and coddled, but Cynder could take solace in the wisdom.
The shadows eased in ferocity, their rueful dance coming to a close as they returned to their docile state.
Poetry watched Cynder struggle with the tormenting struggling beneath, reminded of one of her father's old proverbs—some cry with tears, others with thoughts—and how Cynder had not shed a single tear.
For the first time in a long while, Cynder felt beholden to someone, to Poetry and the friendship she so readily offered. Cynder looked at the dragoness expecting to see empathy in her eyes, like she was some broken thing in need of fixing but all she saw was reverence. For that, Cynder was grateful.
"Thank you," she said.
Poetry smirked. "How's that for social diplomacy?"
Both dragons laughed.
Eliesia soon came to regret taking on the duty of Imperia's advice—as Miköbol and Frog lead her through row after row, column upon column, stack after stack of literary documentation within the archives.
Above and below—despite the fact she had entered only a few stories off the ground—yawned a chasm of crisscrossing arch bridges, strung between balconies in seemingly infinite webs. It was just as impressive as she remembered it: every level holding countless records, ledgers, chronicles, novellas, dossiers, biographies, studies, annals. A repository of scholarship apropos to heretical infatuation; all arranged chronologically, albeit histrionically.
Eliesia took a moment to savor her memories. To have it all unlocked, free for her to call upon. Nothing felt more incredible. To be in a place from her past and understand why it was important. It was a trait that most took for granted, she realized.
She wouldn't. Never again.
There were many new additions to the archive to enjoy now as well, broadening the experience until she felt like an anxious student entering this vast echoing chamber for the first time.
Most fascinating of all were the racks of gems, crystals, and geodes, arranged like fine wine. Memoiris Chrystalsis—or Memory Crystals, Miköbol called them. And From what Eliesia had gathered of the fox's lecturing, they worked like some form of memory preservation, solidifying thoughts into actual tangible information to be processed and documented.
It was a lot of fantastical mysticism she listened to halfheartedly, her mind far too roaming to give him the full attention he deserved. It was not to say she didn't find it interesting.
At one point Miköbol led her through a wooden door into a long hallway that branched off into even more doors with long hallways, eventually bringing the three of them to yet another balcony like all the others aside from the fact that this one had a staircase that spiraled straight down into the moaning abyss.
"The older sections of the library that you were talking about are down here. Do not stray, and try to ignore any voices you might hear during the walk," Miköbol said, already descending into the void.
Eliesia had given up trying to orient herself, mentally map where exactly she was in the library. The geography made no sense—entire hallways ending where they shouldn't, staircases leading up when they should be going down. Even the walls seemed to shift around her, a sort of fluidity in the air that made it feel like she was walking through a shifting sandcastle.
The archive arguably shared more similarities with an enchanted labyrinth than it did with any library.
Continuing the tour, the paths between bookcases were growing increasingly congested, sometimes so narrow that Eliesia had to place one paw directing in front of the other in order to get through—and other times so wide that she could have flown around with room to spare.
She considered the idea; soaring above the stacks to get an aerial view. It might have made the task of finding her goal easier. But then she remembered Miköbol's warning about straying from the path and mentally grumbled, incinerating the idea.
The stacks were never-ending in their intimidation—stretching up into the endless ceiling.
She'd occasionally catch a glimpse of a book fluttering from shelf to shelf like some winged animal, and she didn't think it was her imagination when the pages opened up and looked at her like peeping eyes; she even heard a few of those voices Miköbol had mentioned.
As if on queue, the fox said, "Oh shut up you leathery devil's. You're being rude."
The voices stopped for several moments before once again picking up in their conniving whispers.
Frog looked even more pallid and green than what might have been usual for him.
Ladders, like the ones used for shelving, leaned against the bookcases precariously, groaning as if they were some monumental tree in a gust of wind.
Miköbol suddenly spoke up, hushing the whispering novels with his voice. "If you look at the columns on either side, you'll find symbols marking each section off. From what historians before me have discovered, each symbol separates sections by dynasty, generation, sometimes even eons. However, their general term we refer to them as is Rodisi Marks. From what you've described to me, the book you're looking for dates back millennia, originating from around the same time as the Archives—possibly even centuries before."
What Eliesia was looking for did indeed predate the Archives, being one of the sole purposes for its construction. And while the Rodisi Marks were, at least in part, a useful system for categorizing sections, they were also wards. Ancient, powerful, hidden spells meant to protect the deepest and darkest trove buried in the Archives.
But Eliesia didn't feel like correcting the fox, not entirely trusting him with the information, and instead chose to let him ramble.
The fox continued, "I'll lead you to the oldest section we have available to the public—but be advised that what you're looking for may not be here. Books disappear rather often. Nothing to arouse suspicion—it just simply happens from time to time in here."
At this, Frog seemed to shiver, and not from the cold. "It's the book wraiths," he said, almost a whisper.
Miköbol cast a dismissive scowl at the young dragon, but never bothered to deny the comment, bringing Eliesia's paranoia to an all time high.
Suddenly wary of the fox in front of her, Eliesia wondered what else he might be withholding from her—unable to shake the feeling that there was more to Miköbol than just a reclusive librarian.
The trio passed a Rodisi Mark that looked like a double-ended spiral, curlicues in the shapes of pigtails on either end. Eliesia tried to ignore the way her scales vibrated at her nearness to the symbol.
Eventually, the three of them stopped in a roundabout readers section of the Archives, littered with old, messy chairs piled on top of tables and cushions and mothbeds. If the dust and cobwebs were any indication, no one had visited here for quite some time.
The air of loneliness dominated Eliesia's senses, making it difficult to shake the feeling of abandonment. Even with company, she still felt alone.
Reader nooks carved into the surrounding shelves showed the same level of disuse and neglect as well.
There were also bubble lanterns, cracked and dry, riddled with enchanted looking spiders—but upon her entering suddenly sprung to life. As if they sensed her presence.
The lights—corporeal shades of pearl, aquamarine, and chartreuse—reinvented the reading space, and when she looked back at Frog and Miköbol, the dragon had a glazed sort of wonder to his eyes, as if he had just stepped into one of his favorite storybooks.
Mikobol, on the other hand, was watching her, more closely perhaps, than she might have felt comfortable with. His gaze had shifted somehow, transforming him from a strangely dressed fox into something much more cunning and dangerous—and Eliesia got the impression that she had severely underestimated this librarian.
"They've never done that before," Frog said, brushing his paw against a green flickering lantern.
"Do you come down here often?" Eliesia asked, the lights seeming to glow brighter with the sound of her voice.
"No," he said, "But still."
A quick glance at Miköbol showed the fox no longer staring at her, but rather writing something in his journal; she suspected it was about her.
Eliesia curled her paws, flexing the muscles and tendons; working the tonic venom out of her system. Her wings had begun to ache, straining from their disuse, and she spread them out to help abate their pleas while she began her prowl around the area.
The books looked in slightly better condition, if only marginally. There were many that sagged at the spine, stitching limp from the damp and humidity that accumulated during the hotter months of the year.
As hot as a city of ice dragons can get, that is.
Others, the ones with softer paper, had fallen victim to the moths and mites that had come to make this place their buffet.
As Eliesia made her rounds, she noted several of the titles and collections assigned to the area: The Tyranny of Dragons Over Moles, Winkroot and Its Medicinal Purposes, Evolutions of Canines, Poetry Of A Sailor, The Likeness Of Dragons And Serpents.
Nothing like she was in search of.
Granted there was much more section to explore but Eliesia had the feeling she wasn't going to find what she was looking for in here.
"You said this was the oldest section you had," she said, more question than a statement.
"To the public." Miköbol corrected, taking a brief moment to look up from his book. Frog meanwhile, chased down a fluttering moth. "There is… more but those sections are barred from the public by enchantments, supposedly. It hasn't been opened in years."
"In years—Who opened them?"
"A past librarian; a mole named Imogûl, I believe."
The dragoness stashed the name away in her memory for later, unable to shake the feeling that it was somehow crucial.
Frog dodged between Eleisia's legs, taking every ounce of her willpower not to flinch as his tail grazed her leg.
"I heard that he went insane, disappeared. People think he killed himself," Frog added, still chasing his mouth.
"That's only a rumor," Miköbol amended. "Although, he wasn't acting like himself when he left. The section has been closed since."
Eleisia suppressed a cold laugh. The fool of a mole must have tried digging his nose into things he shouldn't have. It was only a small comfort to know that Ezrom's defenses were still functional.
"Take me there," she said with a huff, talons tapping on the floor impatiently.
The fox and young dragon hesitated, and Eliesia could see the internal battle of interest against judgment raging in their eyes. Intrigue won the battle and Eliesia found herself being led, once again, through a maze of shelves.
It was strange being here, to feel a sense of connection and familiarity with everything but fragmented, as if she were walking through a dream that didn't quite align properly.
Deeper and deeper they went, the world around them growing dim, and heavy—a strange fog rolling over the floor, filling their noses with the scent of nightshade and book dander as they stirred it with their feet.
A presence lingered here, turning the air into something they had to wade through; several times Eliesia had to pop her ears and shake an oncoming headache away.
Eventually, they came to a dark metal gate, watched over by a vigil of dragons—five of them, worn down and practically featureless.
On the floor, surrounding the gate: a mural, engraved into the stone and still just as detailed as the day it was carved. It depicted a battle locked in eternal conflict. On one side, Dragon Paladins, Griffins, Treants and more, all valiant and inlaid with gold. On the other, a host of Goliaths, dark mages, dragons and nightmares, each more hideous than the last, made from the deepest of onyx.
Suspended above it all, splitting the carving in half, and showering the battlefield with beams of infallible light, was what looked to be a Ribisi mark—a star embedded on a tail spear—but Eliesia knew otherwise.
She could hear it, the conflict, the struggle. Rank upon rank of clashing bodies and cold corpses. And for a moment she was back there, in the midst of it all, shouting, screaming, no longer fighting for victory but for survival.
A press of her bladed talons to a throat and then nothing more than a wet, gurgling scream.
She had won. So why couldn't she rest?
Because the war would never end, just like the mural. The war would always be there, only buried until it was unearthed once again.
She didn't know how long she had just stood there but it must have been for a while because when she finally returned to the present, it was to see Frog looking at her with concerned, slightly eager eyes as he prepared his tail to inject her with his tonic.
"That won't be necessary," Eliesia said, halting the youngling in his tracks, much to his disappointment.
Miköbol was back to regarding her like she was a veiled threat.
To Miköbol and Frog, the image on the gate was just a display, an unknown depiction of history. To Eliesia, it was a testament, preserved in the smallest but acerbic of slights, to say, this is what it is to succeed and still suffer. To be fulfilled but still grieve. Your greatest victory will always be your strongest guilt.
Ignoring their stares, Eliesia strode forward, trembling with the effort to make herself approach that mark in the floor—the impaled star that shone above the oncoming slaughter below.
And with a brittle sigh, she lowered her tail into that perfectly engraved symbol, for a perfectly fitted key that she would carry with her for the rest of her life.
Frog gasped behind her, but Eliesia ignored that too.
Slowly, and oh so gently, she released her control on her power, that flickering flame inside her chest. The mural began to glow, spreading out through the cascading rays in gentle, brilliant shades of amber and gold.
Until they alighted on the hidden word embedded into the stone portrait, invisible otherwise.
Sancta Divini Ignis.
Saint of Divine Fire.
A lie.
She could never be a saint. With what she's done, the hurt she has caused the world.
The gate suddenly screamed in protest, like a frail beast about to be put down, before evaporating into a cloud of ash that disappeared in an unnatural draft. The whole archive seemed to sigh, an overburdened exhale from countless years of forgotten secrets.
A question nagged at Eliesia, How had anybody managed to get in? And Imperia's words rang in her head again. Find the book. Find the Kardamites.
Frog took tentative steps forwards. "So you're the one I've heard about. The one that came back, the one that chaos follows." There was almost something accusatory in his voice.
Eliesia's lips twisted. "I didn't cause any of this." The lie felt hollow on her lips.
Looking at Frog, Eliesia was surprised, surprised and somewhat hurt, to see that he looked at her with real fear in his eyes.
She quickly buried those emotions with the memories of her friends, in a cold, barren place.
Miköbol put himself between them as if to shield the youngling, and Eliesia suddenly felt smaller than she should have under the weight of their prejudice.
She walked through the ashen gateway without another word.
Inside, Eliesia shuddered at the touch of the air. It felt different, wrong—but old, and wise, like the words of the books in the section transcended their pages, ceasing to be writ and memory.
They were something much stronger than that now. They always had been.
Eliesia never knew she could feel sapped and rejuvenated at the same time.
The books were old but uniquely intact, in better condition than the ones from the previous section. Some were leather-bound, some had cheaply wrapped sheepskin covers held together by adhesive, others were draped in chains while numerous were stacks of paper with metal rings for binders. Older still, were the ones that weren't books at all, just stone tablets with ancient drangleic inscribed on them.
Powerful magic resided here. One could see it in the stalagmites and vines that ruptured through the ground around The Tablets of Retviak and Pages of Hemmlios, the glittering rays that radiated from the cursed Scrolls of Desire, and the acidic odor that emanated from The Toxic Apocrypha.
She had stepped into a different world—her world both, old and familiar.
The titles were bizarre, with names such as Ūetes's Compendium of Poisons: Ensnaring Your Victims, Shadow Rites: Corrupting, Desirog and Gondibis and The Followers Of Ishgitu. Eliesia absentmindedly grabbed anything she felt looked important.
(Oh, the books, what wonders they held. The great and mischievous things you could do with knowledge such as this).
Eliesia's eyes eventually fell on a particular leather-bound book, its black binding faded to a flat, dull grey. Its title, an embossed oily set of symbols that dripped tendrils of inky smoke, slowly shifted into decipherable letters.
The Fall.
Removing the book from its resting place—the shelf groaning in protest from its missing occupant, Eliesia turned around only to nearly stumble over Miköbol who had been standing behind her.
She huffed. "Don't do that!" she growled. "I could have crushed you!"
"My apologies"—more scribbling in his journal—"I've been told I have the tendency to sneak up on people."Closing his book with a snap, he looked up at her, his features a mask of cool, speculative indifference. "May I have a look?" he asked, holding his hand out.
Eliesia obliged, if somewhat hesitantly.
Holding it in his hands, Miköbol flipped the title over to its cover, seeming to make little note of it before his eyes widened and Eliesia suspected he had witnessed the same event as her.
"For some reason, I doubt it has anything to do with the season," he commented.
Eliesia didn't bother to reply, only observed him with a newfound carefulness, and a guarded curiosity for how he had managed to sneak up on her.
A brief run-through of the pages had him stopping on an illustrated page, Eliesia watching as his face scrunched up with the sort of mild disbelief of someone who didn't want to make sense of something they had just discovered.
He then handed the book back, saying with it, "I'll arrange a checkout log for you." Although he made no move to scribble it into that ridiculous journal of his this time.
Finally relieved of his presence, Eliesia quickly flipped through the pages until she was met with the same one that Miköbol had seen; she was greeted by a hauntingly familiar sight—a city built atop the jagged, bony remains of a giant corpse—towers of rib bones and streets made of vertebrae.
She hadn't recognized it then. But now, the name of the city, like the first verse of a dark spell, whispered itself into existence. Right off the very pages in front of her.
Urbasia.
It gave her conniptions.
Eliesia gave a dry, stunted laugh, closing the book with a final deep exhalation of dread. "Lady fate, guide me."
In stories, Lady Fate was portrayed as a pearl and black scaled dragoness, always leading estranged adventurers to their destiny and making champions of everyday folk with soft helping paws—and gentle nudges here and there. Today had turned into nothing less than a kick in the head.
Closing the book, Eliesia set back on her way, onward to that inevitable destination.
She had to check. She had to be sure.
Maybe she was wrong and it would still be there.
Her heart repeatedly skipped beats, and with every moment that passed, the anticipation worsened like a growing mound of termites that ate away at her nerves.
A new reading foyer opened up, and Eliesia spotted Miköbol and Frog busying themselves with a rack of scrolls.
Miköbol noted something in his journal upon her appearance and Eliesia had to bite her tongue to keep her hackles from rising.
Setting The Fall down on a barren table beneath another lantern that flickered on in her presence—a soft shade of magenta—Eliesia took a narrow path on the opposite side of the reading foyer; Miköbol and Frog followed.
Banners—depicting the five united elements—hung down between shelves to create a faux archway. More lanterns, floating in the air and fogged with dust, cast ethereal shades of coral, ruby, and vinegar, much to the amazement of her two companions.
But it wasn't long before she felt Miköbol's discerning gaze slide back to her. He spoke, a probing edge in his voice. "All these years spent separated from the living world—"
"Are you talking about me?"
"And they've been here all along. Waiting for you."
"Miköbol," Eliesia began, patronizing. "I wouldn't have opened these sections to you even if I had been alive, nor today if I didn't have to."
Some things… are better left dead, she added silently.
A spirit had settled itself onto Eliesia, a memory of her past, from a time when she had walked and monitored these shelves with a fierce possessiveness. It was leading her even now, like a phantom of herself, traversing the maze with utter surety.
She followed it.
No longer did she feel like a visitor in her own body. A collectiveness settling inside her like wet sand in a jar. Whole and complete, her mind open and traversable, Eliesia finally began to trust herself just a little bit more.
At last, the rows of shelves terminated into a grand portcullis of tarnished metal that dissolved upon her approach. Behind her, Frog gasped, waving his paw and tail through the space where the gate had just previously been.
"Can you do that again?" he asked.
Eliesia did no such thing, stopping only once she was in the middle of the room, standing atop a wide pedestal, head rotating as she scanned her surroundings.
They were in a large hexagonal room, so tall that what might have been a skylight far above their heads was little more than a pinprick, yet somehow flooded the chamber with swirling grey light that had the dust motes shimmering in the air. The effect was anything but mystical, and instead painted the room in an otherworldly sheen that you might typically expect from a mausoleum.
The room felt heavy, a solid magical weight that had Eliesia's wings drooping to her sides, and it took all her effort just to keep them tucked in close enough to prevent them from dragging.
Books, large and small, covered the Rodisi carved walls, like cursed paintings. bound to them with locks and chains, nail and key. But most ominous where the stone coffins—eight in total that suffused the floor of the room like an empyrean sepulcher—hushed and undisturbed.
Except for one.
Shattered.
Open.
Shuddering, Eliesia approached on shallow paws, each step reverberating through the chamber like a bell's toll. A strange sort of inanimate groaning had begun to fill the room, getting louder and louder with every advance.
"For the love of Fate, tell me I'm wrong," Eliesia muttered, barely a whisper—it echoed like a taunt in the vast space of the room.
Finally close enough, Eliesia peered into the coffin, desperately trying to swallow the lump in her throat. Her wings were dragging now, no longer capable of the strength to hold them up while simultaneously managing to keep her heart from hurling up into her throat.
Empty—except for a note.
She had known this was coming, had been bracing for it the entire journey here—but some small, ignorant part of her had still hoped. Hoped it was still there, and that this journey could end before it ever truly began. That perhaps, she might be able to finally put her past mistakes behind her and never look back.
Ugly, foolish thoughts.
Frog suddenly spoke, "Miss?" the sound reverberating so loud that Eliesia could feel it in her bones.
"Why are we here—What was in there?" Miköbol finished for him.
They studied her; Miköbol's gaze keen and inquisitive, Frog's puzzled and frightened.
Eliesia lamented, "Something that should have stayed buried."
The note read,
Forgotten misdeeds long left unspoken.
You cannot repair what has since been broken.
Hide me, find me. I cannot be unwritten.
I am relentless. I come again.
Your nightmare, unbidden.
It should be day by now, Spyro noted, tilling the snow with his talons—feeling it melt in his paws. Why wasn't the sun rising?
Stars still speckled the sky, winking down at him like flinty eyes of the dead, and he couldn't help but feel like they were all watching him watch them, locked in some kind of cosmic staring contest. But he just couldn't bring himself to look away, afraid that doing so would be admitting defeat.
Just one small victory, that's all he wanted—to see the stars fade into daylight and break their gaze. To see the sun smile on him and wash all the grief away.
So many had died. How many more would come?
Already there was talk of a mass funeral.
Yet sitting in the Imperial of Songs—snow drifting down around him in slow, heavy bundles—all Spyro could think about was the view—and how beautiful it was. How many others were looking at it now? What did they see?
Because for Spyro, the moon napped on a horizon of frigid ocean waves, turning the world eerie and dreamlike. It could have been his favorite time of day. Emphasis on could have. He wanted to savor the peace but found the task to be a considerable challenge when his mind kept drifting back to the corpse perched just before the cliff in front of him.
Little more than bones and a blank stare that always seemed to be fixated on something in the distance, Ezrom rested silently at Spyro's feet.
Behind him: an ivory gazebo draped in frozen vines and silver finery etched into the notes of some unheard song.
Perhaps it was a funeral dirge. Spyro huffed at the thought.
Then there was the crater, a blemish on this otherwise pristine landscape, little more than a black sizzling hole in the ground where Spyro had been forced to remove Ezrom's remains.
He couldn't bury him there. Not in that. Besides, Ice dragons didn't believe in an earth burial. Most of them anyway. Ice dragons longed for the ocean, to be returned back to that which created them.
Spyro couldn't help but imagine how cold it was to be buried that way. Then again, these were ice dragons. He was sure they were used to the cold.
Suddenly, Spyro could hear footsteps behind him, and he knew who they belonged to immediately—Cynder.
He made no move to face her as she said, "It's not so bad up here. Could get cold after a while but…" the thought faded on her lips.
"It's definitely something," Spyro rasped, clearing his throat, the feeling like cleaning ash out of a furnace.
"Poetry told me I might find you up here. Said that you were in a mood when you left."
Spyro smirked. "I always have a mood when it comes to Poetry." While a pathetic attempt at normalcy, Spyro was grateful that it had come somewhat naturally. He always did have a propensity to make stupid jokes when he was around Cynder.
He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, "Not sure I understand what you mean."
"You will," he chuckled.
He still refused to face her, even when she came to sit right beside him, the effort from it like tugging against an iron chain. Gods, he wanted to look at her but knew that doing so would be the emotional equivalent of locking his wings in chains and throwing himself into the ocean below.
Nothing was ever rutting easy when it came to his feelings for her.
"I thought you were going to die"—he pointed to the water—"when you went down there."
Cynder didn't know what to say other than. "So did I. If it hadn't been for Eliesia…"
Saying her name felt like admitting something inside her—that maybe her reservation about the fire dragoness had been unfounded.
Unable to hold back the instinct any longer, Spyro turned to face her. "I thought I was going to lose you."
Cynder gave him a look that might have been consternation, but knowing her, Spyro translated the expression as incredulous scrutiny. Suddenly, an image returned from the depths of his mind, flashed in front of his eyes like a powder keg: Cynder, dead on the ground, wings splayed, eyes locked in that familiar unshakable gaze, and an impression of betrayal permanently etched into the horror of her face.
Spyro cut his stare away like he was cracking a whip, focusing his attention on the bones no less than a foot away; neither of them spoke for a while.
"I heard about what you did during the attack."
"I killed one dragon," Spyro drawled, nonplussed.
"And it sent the rest of them scattering. If it hadn't been for you, the city probably wouldn't be here."
Spyro didn't have the heart to tell her that wasn't what had been bothering him. In fact, not being bothered by it was the problem. Killing him had been too easy. And the apathetic part of his mind knew he would do it all over again if he had to. The feeling wasn't as comforting as it should have felt.
Cynder drew closer, sitting close enough that their height difference made it so that Spyro was looking down his nose at her—and some embedded part of him rejoiced in the odd sense of dominance that came with it.
The two of them had always been a great team back in the day, fighting side by side—but the rift that spanned the space between them opened up like a fetid scar. The most agitating aspect about it was the fact that both of them kept pretending like it was there. Sooner or later it was going to swallow one of them.
Now—the two of them struggled to recover their old routine, jabbing one another with their jagged edges. He couldn't quite accustom himself to this intimacy—the two of them alone, all the unspoken bumps and bruises still very much sore after all these years. But the worst of it was the way she always looked at him, as if he was less a hero and more a young dragon in need of love.
She reached up, trying to rest a paw on his shoulder but he shrank away, widening the gap between them. That chasm stretched just a little wider.
Cynder retreated, but never looked away.
She wished she could run off with him, take one another far away and live recklessly. She could see the resolve written in Spyro's eyes—no, they said. But even as she saw them, heard them, she could also see exactly where she would have to push and pull, how hard, in order to have that resolve crumble to dust.
It would be too easy—but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Because Cynder knew that it would leave him broken, a shard of himself that would constantly stab him all his life until all that would remain of the dragon she loved was a fractured facsimile of what he once was.
He was Spyro, and he would fight until there was nothing left of him to fight with, nothing left to give. It made him so incredibly punchable sometimes.
So she would not ask that of him. If either of them were to part again it would need to be in a way that didn't leave the other broken—and she could see that he still wasn't quite ready for that.
"You aren't alone," she forced herself to say. "This war isn't just with you. And it's definitely going to take more than just you to win it."
'Win it' felt like a mild way of putting things, as if it were some game of cards that you could get lucky at and take home the reward. She made a note to kick herself in the ass for the poor use of words later.
His eyes were on the horizon as he said, "I don't know who else to trust to fight it." It was only a whisper, vaguely audible over the rushing wind around them.
Cynder couldn't help but feel that the words were a denial, as if she had lost his faith in her.
When Spyro faced her again, she would not meet his gaze; instead, she watched the waves and it made her feel like a coward, afraid to see what she already suspected.
He didn't want her. Didn't need her.
When he spoke again it was with dismissal in his voice. "Aquaria's holding an assembly in a few days to discuss the next course of action for Shiverum and Warfang. She's invited the council—"
"And us," Cynder blurted, unable to keep a hold on her mounting frustrations.
Spyro paused. "And us," he confirmed.
Honestly, at this point, Cynder almost would have preferred that he toss her into the bleak waters below over the mask of utter impassivity he regarded her with. It was cold, devoid of his usual fondness, and made Cynder feel so utterly alone.
Why wouldn't he take her? She shut her eyes, blocking out the world around her, everything suddenly to bright and beautiful for this shattering moment.
"I understand if you don't want me around," Cynder started, "but can you at least give me the chance to show you I'm ready to stay." Her voice grew louder as she spoke. "I've spent years resenting my decision, knowing it was the biggest mistake I made. I told myself this would happen, that I would regret it if I stayed away any longer. So I came back! I came back knowing you might hate me—but as long as I was there for you in case you needed me, it would be worth it. So tell me where I can be for you! Tell me what I can do!"
Refusing to let Spyro see her cry, Cynder bit down on her tongue like it was a lifeline; it kept the tears at bay. She wasn't a child, not like when she had left him."Just say what I need to do or where I—"
"You can't! I—" He growled, stopping her with a depleted stare. I'm not sure I'm good enough for you anymore, He wanted to say, but what came out instead was, "You can't." Softer this time. "Please—I need you to be safe, but not with me." Spyro knew it was the wrong answer, that it wasn't right to say. He hated bullshit platitudes. But it was the only answer he had, even if he didn't understand it himself.
As Cynder walked away, Spyro tried to make himself watch her leave but ultimately turned. He faced the horizon again because it was the easier view, a beauty he could understand—and encased Ezrom's remains in a burgh of ice, sending it tumbling down to the icy depths below.
And there you have it.
Let me wrap this up by saying that there is more. Much more to come. All this time spent away, off the face of the Earth, I have not been twiddling my thumbs. I've been writing. Practicing. Expanding my craft. Already, I have several chapters lined up, complete and just in need of review and editing. So please… Stay tuned—and leave reviews. Tell me everything. I want to know it all. Tell me what you like, what you don't like, what you're curious about, give me your predictions. Whatever makes you tick. You guys are my drug. Talk to me. Everything is appreciated. Chapter 11 will hit you soon.
Keep in touch.