Firestorm over Avalar Chapter 13, a spyro the dragon fanfic

Chapter 13: Snare

"Cease your whining! They're a bunch of unwashed, unlitterate peasants, wielding weapons they can't even understand! They are nothing compared to true wielders of the arcane!"

-Last words of Nepotian Lucaenus, Pelagian Archmage, struck down by an unknow Aquilian conscript.

Wheels creaked against gravel, followed by the rhythmic pounding of hoofed feet. Mzia pulled the cloak tighter around herself, a gesture mimicked soon enough by others in her platoon. The pack beasts seemed to be the only ones unbothered by the piercing cold as they trudged on, dragging the moving carts through squelching mud.

The canine hissed, ears flicking, as the caravan continued its silent march down the winding path. Pines loomed above, branches swaying softly as raindrops trickled down along cracks in their bark.

She suppressed a growl. Mzia hated being there, and she couldn't even understand why she was there to begin with. Her war was in the north, against the fauns, fighting to keep those savages at bay and maintain order in the Westward March.

The Crimson Blades had made it clear that there was always the chance of being reassigned when she signed up. Mzia understood the logic behind that, yet she still hated it.

She shot a glance at one of the wagons. Heavy-looking crates had been piled in the back, then secured through thick leather straps. What was inside, Mzia couldn't tell. Nobody had seen fit to fill her in, and her task was only to make sure they reached the rendezvous point.

The canine rubbed her paws together, trying to keep the blood flowing. The knowledge that they were approaching the next supply station helped to keep her mood up. Besides, she didn't have to worry about fauns emerging from the trees and cutting her throat now. Dragons occasionally patrolled the sky, but they were loud enough to give you some warning.

Movement caught her eye. Mzia snapped her head to the side, frowning. Had one of the crates just moved?

She quickened her pace until she was right beside the moving wagon. None of the troopers marching alongside seemed to have noticed anything, and eventually she shook her head.

Now I'm imagining things. Gods, I really need some shuteye.

Hurrying footsteps echoed her way. Mzia was confident she hadn't imagined those. She tensed up the moment a figure came into view at the bend just ahead, then promptly relaxed. They were from Begeh's squad she had sent scouting.

The asshole took his time.

Before she had the chance to call out, the coyote raised a paw and made the one signal Mzia dreaded the most.

Position compromised.

As if on cue, Mzia shot up a clenched paw. All around, the convoy obeyed the command and grounded to a halt. She gestured silently at either side, and the platoon moved into position, forming a defensive circle around the waiting carts. Steel rasped against leather sheaths; darts were pushed into crossbow's flight groves. Mzia removed the pistol from her belt, pulling the hammer back and being rewarded by a satisfying click.

"First Squad, with me," she whispered before hurrying ahead. Five troopers trailed behind her, two hefting bulking Fire Lances with them.

The scout wasted no time, leading them out of view of the convoy, away from the path and into the wilderness. Mzia couldn't help but shot a nervous glance around.

Her instincts were going wild. Every shadow was a lurking threat, and she half-expected a Singing Arrow to come whistling her way. Yet nothing happened. The only sounds were those belonging to their hurrying feet, their clanking equipment, and their laboring breaths.

The smell of blood hit Mzia before anything else. Then they reached the supply station.

Dug into the ground itself and concealed under piles of foliage, branches and earth, the place was part of hidden network spreading throughout the Dragon Coast, offering a resting place and supply depo for raiding parties on the ground and the air. Or at least, it used to be.

Bodies laid sprawled on crimson-caked grass. Mzia counted ten of them just outside. The hideout's door had been ripped from the hinges and from there Begeh emerged. A single glance at his haunted face told Mzia all she needed to know. There wouldn't be any survivors.

"Bloody hell," Gadah muttered by her side. The boar lifted his Fire Lance, scanning his surroundings, scowling as he looked for threats.

Mzia said nothing. She had thought her service on the northern front had hardened her to the brutality of war, yet something was wrong. She glanced at the bodies, struggling to suppress a shiver. A canine had been effectively disemboweled. Another laid some distance away, her neck bent at an unnatural angle.

There was something in their frozen features. She only belatedly realized what that truly was.

Terror. They were scared. What the hell happened here?

Had the dragons found the place? If so, where were the signs of Elemental magic? The scalies usually left a big mess whenever they went.

"Ma'am." Begeh had shuffled closer, nodding his salute. He held out a piece of blood-stained paper for her to take.

"What's that?"

"We found it on the quartermaster. We, uh-" he hesitated, swallowing. "What's left of him is inside. You . . . you should really take a look at it."

Mzia raised a quizzical eyebrow before taking it from him. A cold chill run through her spine the moment she laid eyes on the paper. Crimson droplets stained her fur, just as they dripped on the ground.

The Terror of the Skies sends her regards.

Slowly, she crumpled it into a tight ball.

"Ma'am?"

"Gather whatever you can," she hissed. The even tone came to a surprise to her as well. "No more rests from now on. Spread the word; I want the wagons moving as quickly as possible. Combat readiness must be maintained at all times."

Begeh nodded, wandering off to collect his squad. Mzia didn't watch him leave, her attention was directed somewhere else entirely. Shadows shifted amongst the surrounding trees. Branches rustled.

Mzia hoped it was just her mind playing tricks once again.

The staging camp was easy enough to find. Cynder ducked her wings, cutting herself a path through the chilly morning air as she began her descent.

As the ground drew closer, more details came into focus. She soared over trenches and earthworks, the silhouettes swarming over them appearing not dissimilar to tireless working ants. Elemental cannons waited into special dugouts; their barrels raised skyward, waiting patiently for any Dreadwing to wander into range. Just behind those defenses, the camp proper stretched out as concentric rings of tents, barracks, and other smaller facilities.

As much as she didn't like Adelie personally, Cynder had to admit the major knew how to set up a proper camp. Her descent ended just outside the command tent, talons sinking into earth churned by countless marching feet. From somewhere behind came the cacophony of barking NCOs as they whipped into shape new batches of recruits, chatting troopers around spent fireplaces, and then the countless camp followers hard at work to keep them fed and clothed.

The sentinels outside stood to attention as she passed, and the dragoness acknowledged them with a single nod. She stumbled into a familiar face as he came out of the tent.

"Kobus."

"Ma'am," the weasel nodded, scratching at his ear. Dust caked his uniform. The blue coat had gained streaks of green and dirty brown.

"Just delivered my report. The major is waiting for you inside."

"Very well. Do you mind check on the others? While you are at it, inform them I'm pleased with their performance so far."

The weasel grinned. "I'll make sure to pass it down to them. Ma'am," he said, excusing himself with another nod. Cynder didn't watch him leave.

Feels good, doesn't it? Being back in the saddle.

Laughter greeted her the moment she pushed the tent's flap to the side.

"I'm not kidding, that's where he got shot!" Adelie was busy recounting. "You should have seen him afterward, acting like nothing happened. Poor bastard couldn't sit down for a whole month!"

Her guest, another feline, tried to suppress a fit of giggles, failing miserably at that.

"I'm sure my readers would love to hear the whole story." The teacups laid on the table, forgotten. Said guest noticed her first; ash-furred ears perked up as he glanced her way, drawing the major's attention as well.

"Look who is back," Adelie said, grinning. "We were just talking about you."

"Were you now?"

She shrugged. "More or less. Anything interesting to report?"

Silently, Cynder made her way to the table and the map sprawled over it. A collection of colored flags laid scattered across, indicating settlements, fortresses, and outposts, stretching from the eastern coast to the mountain chains in the west.

Cynder gave it a nonchalant glance, then reached up with a claw and picked up a couple of crimson-coloured flags. The distaste on her face was momentary as she tossed them away.

"We hit an outpost and a depo. Still, it's not enough," the dragoness said as she dropped on a cushion with a tired sigh. "For each one we burn to the ground, another one pops up. The front remains fluid."

The grin on Adelie's face grew broader. Cynder didn't like it; she felt there was something savage just lurking behind.

"You're doing a great job, ma chère. Nearly two weeks, and Darkies' incursions have dropped since you've been here. They are on the backfoot for once. I say we start pushing the advantage and make them feel the pressure."

"Not until we deal with their Dreadwings," Cynder pointed out. "We cannot engage them on our terms as long as they hold the advantage in mobility, and when we can, we cannot pursuit. You promised me fliers."

"I'm working on it, but still nothing from the gryphons. As for the other option, Lord Cremar is in command of the Warfang Home Guard, and the bastard is a pain in my rear most days."

"The one on the Council?"

"You know him?"

Cynder shook her head, grimacing. "The last time we met, he was asking for my head on a platter. I can't see him helping us anytime soon."

Adelie let out a pensive hum. Her eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowing as the cat glared at the map with burning intensity. Eventually, her elbows came to rest on the table, chin pressed on her paws.

Cynder's gaze finally moved to the stranger.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," he began with a court nod and a polite smile.

For a single moment, Adelie glanced up, frowning. "Uh? Oh, sorry. Cynder, he's Stephan. He writes about stuff. Stephan, she's Cynder, the one scalies won't shut up about."

Stephan chuckled, shaking his head. "They're not the only ones. You and your purple friend sure raised one hell of a pandemonium upon arrival. The articles almost wrote themselves."

Cynder shrugged; she didn't know how else to respond.

His clothes were tidy, even if worn; the entire attire spoke of practicality above else. The red armband stood out on his long-sleeved shirt's shoulder, just like the black feather dangling from his belt. If they meant something, she couldn't tell. Was that a guitar leaning against his chair?

"A writer then?" she noted.

"Reporter is a more apt description," he said. "I'll be the first to admit that The Common Voice is not particularly large, but we are a proudly independent newspaper. But enough about me. I've heard you have recently dealt the enemy quite the blow in Tassar. Something about two whole enemy companies wiped out in an afternoon. Can you confirm it?"

Cynder blinked. It took her some time to recollect what he was talking about.

It had taken place one week prior. A raiding party had been spotted heading for the settlement, and Adelie had given her a company to strengthen the local militia. Wetting her claws, that's how she had called it. The fight had lasted until dusk, and ended with her leading Fifth Company in a flanking maneuver that separated the enemy forces in two, before annihilating each in detail.

You wet your claws alright.

"The locals did most of the work. We just helped. The village was unsalvageable anyway," Cynder eventually said.

Stephan tilted his head to the side, while Adelie let out a snort.

"What did I tell you? You'll never hear a dragon selling themselves short. She won't even mention that Fifth Company refuses to go out on combat patrols without her."

Stephan cleared his throat. Cynder couldn't tell where he had gotten a pencil and notebook from.

"Very good. Uhm, there was something else I wanted to discuss actually. You see, I've spoken with Lieutenant Kobus before, and he was implying that you have adopted a strict no-prisoners policy during the fighting."

Cynder shrugged. "Grublins don't understand what surrender is. They're just rabid beasts waiting to be put down."

Stephan blinked. "Right. I wasn't talking about them though. In fact, I would say Grublins are but a fraction of the enemy forces on this particular front. What about the rest that surrenders?"

Cynder stared at him in complete silence. Her tail coiled around her body.

"What about them?" she finally said.

"It's a custom of war to accept an enemy's surrender."

Another moment of silence.

Cynder shook her head. "No. They choose the Dark Master, willingly. They've come here to spread terror, burn crops, and inflict starvation wherever possible."

Her eyes narrowed. "There are no customs nor rules. War is about what you can do to your enemy, and what you can prevent the enemy from doing to you. They chose this, so I reply to them in the only language they understand."

Stephan said nothing, idly scribbling down something on his paper.

"I see. Though I must point out that if the Purple Dragon had followed that line of thinking, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Cynder paused. It took all her self-control to keep her teeth from grinding against each other.

"I guess not." The answer came out as a hiss.

"Another thing-"

"No. We're done here." Cynder rose from her seat. She turned to Adelie. "Will you be needing me for anything else?"

She shook her head. "I think we got everything covered for now. Take a couple days off, ma chère. Gods know you probably need them. I'll send word if anything comes up."

Adelie waited until Cynder had exited the tent, counted up to five, and only then nudged Stephan in the side.

The cat leapt back with a painful hiss. "Hey! What was that for?"

Her whiskers twitched angrily. "Cut her some slack. She's done nothing but rotating through combat patrols for days, and without complaining once. She doesn't need you breathing on her neck."

"That is my job, but alright." Stephan rolled his eyes. "Didn't know you liked her already. Should I feel jealous?"

"You really like getting punched in the side, don't you?"

"Never mind then." He chuckled. It wasn't long until his face turned sober, arms crossed over his chest.

"How about you?"

Adelie exhaled, then leaned against the table. "The usual, I suppose. Wasting away behind a desk while others do the job. Sometimes I think I should have remained a captain back home; I would at least be seeing some real action now."

Stephan nodded. "Probably. But in that case, we wouldn't have met each other."

"I did say sometimes." Her chuckle was a brief one, and Stephan noticed it.

"Something's bothering you."

She wasn't surprised. He had learned a long time ago how to read her like an open book.

"Cynder brought to my attention a letter she found on an enemy rider. The Crimson Blades are taking another shot at me specifically."

"Ah. So that's why you keep postponing my dinner invitation."

Adelie narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm serious, Stephan. I know how they operate; their bloody prince trained them well to fight dirty, that much is certain. I should have shot the bastard when I had the chance."

Stephan shook his head. "Out here you are painting a bullseye on your back though. At least in Warfang-"

"No, too risky. I'm not dragging you, nor anybody else, in my mess." She waved a paw around. "This is personal for Ludovicus, and probably for whoever asshole he put in charge here. Out here, they'll have to come out at me directly, and that's my advantage."

"That's not an advantage; it's making yourself bait," Stephan hissed. "Were you planning on telling me this anytime soon?"

"This is my job. I'm ready to take the risks if it means crippling enemy operations in the Dragon Coast. Besides, we have her on our side. We can do some actual damage."

Stephan frowned, clearly unconvinced. He stroked his chin. "You've heard what dragons say about her. Is it wise to trust her?"

"Dragons are idiots," Adelie spat. "If it wasn't for her and the purple guy, we would have Bautarii streaming through Avalar and into the Coast like a locomotive through a rotting wooden shack. You've heard her; she's on a war path. Whatever's going on between her and the Darkies, it's viciously personal."

And I've seen that fire in her eyes. I've felt it once. I remember how warm it was as everything burned.

Adelie kept that for herself.

It took Spyro some time to realize he had been zoning out again. He blinked a few times, glanced around, and quickly concluded he had no idea what was going on.

The delegation's speaker was still talking, his words progressively merging into a single droning sound in Spyro's ears. He had lost track of the argument.

Spyro suppressed the yawn taking shape as he shifted uncomfortably in his cushion. He tried to get the blood flowing again in his hind legs after the hours spent there.

The Guardians had insisted on him coming there, so to at least witness how most administration-related businesses were handled by the four. Spyro had agreed; he had even been excited for a moment, until he realized how utterly boring it was.

Come to think of it, that's how he had spent most of his time in Warfang so far; always moving around, meeting temple-keepers, merchant guilds, military commanders, administrators, bureaucrats, representatives, and so many others Spyro had troubles remembering. They all became a blur in his mind.

"Young dragon," Ignitus whispered by his side.

Spyro blinked. The chamber had gone silent, the delegation looking expectantly at him. He suppressed a surge of unease, pushing through the discomfort of his dry throat.

Come on, you rehearsed this. Just keep your cool.

"I, uh . . . we thank you for your visit and the propositions you have brought today." He paused, wrestling with his own tongue. "And we- I mean, y-you can rest assured that it will be given proper . . . consideration, yes. T-That will be all, yeah."

He struggled at keeping his face straight as the canine bowed their head in respect to each dragon present, before leading the delegation out of the chamber. Spyro could have sworn they shot one last puzzled glance behind as the doors snapped shut. Only then he allowed himself a relieved sigh.

Cyril spoke first, clearing his throat. "I thought we had made it clear. It's important for you to pay attention to these matters, young dragon."

"I know, I know. I got distracted. Won't happen again." Spyro sighed. "Can't they just deal with this stuff on their own?"

"As unpleasant as it might be, funding allocation is amongst the Guardians' prerogatives. It's not a matter that can be simply be delegated to somebody else," Cyril replied evenly.

Ignitus, meanwhile, chuckled. "Don't be so harsh, Cyril. Leufroy's loquacity does rival our dear Volteer sometimes."

The Electric dragon sniffed loudly. "I reject the comparison. The only thing he effectively did was adulating us in fifteen different ways. I'm confident Cyril appreciated it, but I've found the whole exchange an unproductive waste of time."

The Ice guardian shot him a glare, yet kept his mouth firmly shut.

"I just-" Spyro shook his head. "How does any of this help us stop Malefor or his plans? You said that spear stopped him once. Shouldn't we be out there, looking for it? Or at least doing something."

Ignitus sighed. "Even if Volteer was right-"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Fine. Even if I fully believe Volteer to be right about the weapon being in Riràny," Ignitus corrected himself, "what then, young dragon? The old academy lies entirely within enemy territory, and we know little of its defenses. I fear it's out of our reach for now."

Spyro shook his head. "I've dealt with Malefor's minions before. I can do it. I'll fly there-"

"That's out of the question," Terrador cut in. "The moment you are spotted, the enemy won't take long to realize what's your destination. It would be like sending a letter to the Dark Master to explain precisely where the weapon is."

Cyril nodded, the Ice dragon's tail twitching behind. "And it goes without saying that if you were captured, the consequences would be equally catastrophic. For us, the city, and the whole Alliance."

"Indeed. You are too important to be risked openly. We nearly lost you once already; it cannot be allowed to happen a second time."

Despite Ignitus's earnest tone, Spyro couldn't help but gritting his teeth in irritation.

"I didn't come to Warfang to hide. This war is also my responsibility. I don't want others risking their life in my place."

Cyril frowned. "This is a war, young dragon," he pointed out. "Such things are unavoidable by nature. There are other ways you can help."

Spyro raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You mean like standing here and listening to a mole talking about corn supplies for an hour?"

"Not everything has to be flashy," he replied. "Many important matters are not loud."

"What about Cynder?" he asked. "She's out there, risking her life like anyone else. Why is it okay for her to do so, but not for me?"

Terrador visibly frowned. By his side, Volteer shifted uncomfortably on his seat. "Young Cynder is free to employ her free time as she wishes, but as I've made clear, she is not you."

Spyro opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by the sound of Ignitus clearing his throat.

"It may be so," he finally spoke. "Yet you all forget that young Spyro hasn't yet gained your patience for dealing with such minute affairs."

Something passed over the Fire dragon's expression as he visibly grimaced, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Yet as he turned to Spyro, the smile returned. "If it is alright, you may take the rest of the day off, young dragon. I think it's enough for today."

"The next one on the list is Lord Cremar," Terrador informed them, glancing at the unrolled parchment stretched before him. "Knowing him, the matter is trivial, but he still wishes to drag it out as long as possible. I agree with Ignitus."

On the opposite side, Cyril frowned in evident annoyance yet remained silent.

Spyro climbed back to his feet slowly, unable to shake off the nagging sensation that something wasn't right. Were the Guardians sidelining him? It should have been impossible. They were the Elemental Guardians; the closest thing he had to a family away from home. He trusted them; always had.

Spyro found himself outside the chamber. He paused there for a moment, shook the stiffness out of his muscles, and then set off down the wide corridors.

The dragons he came across were few at that time of day. Each time Spyro waved their way, they would always bow their head in respect, and then hurry in their steps. Spyro was growing more annoyed with it each time. How was he supposed to get to know dragon-kind if they thought he was too important to talk with them?

Never had that problem with Cynder.

He glanced out of the large windows lining the corridor and overlooking the city, seemingly realizing for the first time that it was almost midday. White, billowing sails shone on the water below. Flocks of seagulls swirled in the distance, hovering over the waterfront. Smoke hung in the chilly air, just above countless smokestacks. With each day, the cold grew a bit sharper.

And our window of action grows smaller, he thought gloomily.

"You sure this is the right way?" the dragonfly whispered.

The kobold grinned, emitting a throaty sound resembling a cross between a snort and a chuckle. His teeth glinted amidst the darkness.

"Tunnels are secret. Through them, temple is open. Too small for dragons; moles too ignorant to know." He shot him a glance. "The Glowing One must follow or be lost until end of times."

"That's a cheerful thought. Lead the way then."

The kobold did so. The dragonfly was for once glad for his natural luminescence amidst the pitch-black tunnels. They were not empty; occasionally, other kobolds would move past them in ones or twos, always in silence. Spacious enough for them and Sparx, but he couldn't imagine Spyro being comfortable down there.

Still, they were useful. They formed an ancient network of secret passageways dating back to the city's foundation, built right under the moles' noses, as his companion had pointed out multiple times.

There's some bad blood there.

The kobold came to a sudden halt by a wall-mounted iron grate, faint light trickling from outside. He turned, gesturing at Sparx to come closer. As he did, the dragonfly heard arguing voices echoing his way.

". . . the matter is serious. The protection of the Purple Dragon cannot remain a prerogative of the Guardians. The Home Guard must be actively involved so that we may keep him safe."

Sparx blinked. He recognized the voice from the Council meeting.

"Young Spyro is safe with us, Lord Cremar," Terrador replied. "I don't see the need of such request."

"With all due respect," he said, his tone devoid of any trace of it, "the Guardians have already failed, and twice at that. And given that a servant of the Dark Master resides in this very temple, my fears are completely justified."

"It is no secret," he continued, "agents of the enemy roam Warfang freely. They hide in plain sight, plotting our downfall for their Dark Master. We cannot allow them to come closer to the Purple Dragon, nor to corrupt his young mind. The cancer must be cut before it can spread, and our vigilance-"

"If they truly are here," Cyril snapped, "then the Home Guard has been doing a poor job so far. Do not think us blind. We see how they spend most of their time."

There was another snort. "We keep Warfang secure. I don't need to explain to you the harsh reality of wartime measures."

"I fail to see how constant harassment of refugees and the working population keeps the city safe," Ignitus replied.

"Dangerous and subversive ideas are spreading amongst them like a plague, taking advantage of their misery. I cannot be faulted for wishing to protect the traditions of our kind from foreign influences and meddling."

"And here he begins again," Volteer sighed.

The discussion went on, yet Sparx had heard everything he needed. He gave the kobold a nod and the two began the uneventful trek back and out of the tunnel. The silence and darkness around them gave Sparx some time to think. He quickly found himself frowning.

They bicker over Spyro like children over toys.

It wasn't the first time he had listened on them. Dragons in general seemed to outright forget dragonflies were an actual thing; Sparx could have probably hovered above their heads without them realizing it.

He glanced up. His own glow highlighted the kobold's silhouette right in front of him.

"Alright, look. I appreciate the help, really, but I want to know something. Why did you show me this? What's in it for you?"

The kobold glanced for a moment over his shoulder, flashing him a grin. "Dragons don't see us. We know secrets. Kin lived here for generations. We have eyes and ears but they don't see us. Glowing One now sees us. He can hear secrets through the old stone."

Puzzled, Sparx raised an eyebrow. "You want me to keep listening on them? On the big council?" The kobold nodded. "Why?"

"Khinta," he hissed. "You and Purple One."

"What's that?"

He shook his head. "Hard to explain. Link made in fate and blood. Unbreakable. You and Purple One. Khinta."

"You mean like brothers? Yeah, we're brothers. What of it?"

The kobold's shoulders shook in an approximation of a shrug. "This one cannot explain. Illan knows. Ask Illan."

"You're saying a lot without actually saying anything," Sparx mused.

The kobold laughed in response; the sound echoed down the dark tunnels on either side, growing fainter with distance.

And here I thought dragons were weird.

The place was an old and disheveled guard tower. The upper bastion had collapsed long since, and the invading weeds had overrun the rest, sneaking in through cracks in between the wind-chipped stones. In Tyriane's opinion, they were not too dissimilar to the Crimson Blades' modus operandi.

Not weeds. Poisonous plants are perhaps the better analogy, they pondered.

Turning the place into their personal quarters had taken time, but the harpy was satisfied with the result. They could now enjoy a commanding view of the base camp. The sky was clear that day, the air shimmering above; the after-effects of countless enchantments and wards put in place to hide them from Alliance scouts.

The harpy crossed long arms over their feathered chest, beak clicking in a soothing rhythm. The ruckus from outside came somewhat muffled through the old stones, yet they could make up the growling and hissing from the Dreadwing pens. Many of them would remain there; they had been quickly burning through riders in the last weeks.

"Enjoying the view, aren't we?"

Tyriane suppressed a sigh, compelled their face into a neutral expression, and only then turned around. Sitting on their desk, the crystal ball glowed, casting its cold pale light throughout the room. A face stared back from the crystal.

"My apologies, Commander Traius," the harpy intoned. "There have been complications as of late."

"So I keep hearing," he snapped, clearly annoyed. "You have your own flock there; you have Dreadwings, Grublins, and some of my best assault teams. That part of the front is an easy post. With your acumen, you should have been capable of running rings around the Alliance."

His eyes narrowed, a growl building up in the back of his throat. "So why am I not hearing that?"

"The Aquilian attaché is here."

The wolf scoffed. "That's your excuse? The republican scum should cause you no problems. I find insulting you haven't brought me the bitch's head on a pike already."

Yet they caused you lots of those, haven't they?

"Sire, the Terror of the Sky has been spotted as well. We're losing Dreadwings at a considerable rate, and several combat patrols were aborted."

Ludovicus's ears perked up. "Has she now? Well, that's more interesting." He scratched at his jaw. "I was hoping we would get the chance to cross blades again, but it seems it won't be the case. Deal with her. Operation Midnight is too important, and Malefor wants some results."

He sighed. "I envy you. Coral has been mostly a slog; then again, most sieges are. Just make sure to bring me the dragoness's head at least. I've got a free spot above my fireplace."

"And what about the reinforcements I asked?"

"Denied, I'm afraid. They are required elsewhere." The wolf grinned. "You're crafty though. I'm sure you'll improvise."

Tyriane bowed their head just in time to hide a murderous glare. "As you wish, sire."

The light from the ball dimmed until the harpy found themselves staring to dull, opaque crystal. With a sigh, Tyriane reached up with a clawed hand, straightening ruffled feathers on their head. Gaze shifting to a nearby guard, the harpy nodded.

"They may enter."

He nodded back and left the room, returning after a few moments. Trailing behind him were Clerinore, Mynyris, and Volane, feathers rustling as they entered; taloned feet clicked against stone. Their combat gear could not fully hide their multi-colored plumage, each patiently modified over time in different patterns so that no pair would be identical. Of course, they would take care in keeping it a bit less ornated compared to Tyriane's own.

As it should be.

The three harpies bowed as one before their Flock Leader.

Had Tyriane's own egg hatched a few minutes early, the three would have earned an ambitious spot back in the Queendom. As matters stood, they now were Tyriane's top lieutenants.

The rest of the officers and mages entered after them, each sporting the Crimson Blades' crest. The Bautarii Swordsinger was the last one, their footsteps utterly silent. One could have felt the tension in the air as the blank mask regarded those present.

Tyriane's eye twitched slightly. It was no secret harpy-kind harbored no sympathy for the Bautarii. The Queendom had fought its share of bloody wars with their northern neighbors. Still, they had been following order so far and knew how to fight. They would stay for now.

"Lord Traius has given us his blessing," Tyriane announced to those gathered, her voice clear.

"In order to safeguard the success of Operation Midnight, the Terror of the Skies must die, and the Fourth Demi-Brigade rendered combat ineffective through any means necessary. As such, each battalion will now cease further raids on enemy targets, consolidate their ranks, and prepare for offensive operations."

There were affirmative grunts and nods all around. That was the easy part; since the Terror had been spotted for the first time, Tyriane had prepared them for the shift in tactics. The harpy gestured to the neat pile of scrolls on her desk.

"As the documents provided you can attest, the Terror of the Skies is a formidable opponent to face. Her combat skills are enhanced by a natural affinity to Wind, to say nothing about Shadow, Poison, and Fear. Our magic-wielding detachments will be more than willing to explain you just how dangerous such elements can be."

Tyriane waited a moment to let that sink in. "However, Lord Traius has been clear. She is not invincible and can be worn down like any opponent. I require a volunteer for the assignment."

Silence fell within the room. Nervous glances were exchanged around. The three harpies stepped forward as one. Tyriane's beak twitched into a grin.

"Alright. Knock it off, you three." There were a few chuckles.

Tyriane's gaze settled to one of them. "How's your aim, Clerinore?"

"Impeccable," they replied simply. The dart-gun hung loosely from the harpy's shoulders.

"Then we shall put it to the test. Volane? To you I grant the honor of striking down the demi-brigade's commander. She's a veteran of the revolution, so bring with you all the firepower you deem necessary."

The harpy bowed their head in silence. Finally, Tyriane turned to the last one. Her beak twitched into a small grin.

"As for you, Mynyris, you are on overwatch duty. It might not be glamorous, but it remains a fundamental task."

The harpy nodded briskly, yet their visible disappointment did not escape Tyriane's attention; they were the youngest of the three and, by definition, the one with the most to prove.

"If all is accounted for," Tyriane turned to the others, her voice clear and commanding. "I leave the last preparations in your capable paws. In the meantime, cut our leash on the Grublins. They shall provide for excellent bait."

As the officers began exiting the room to carry out their orders, Tyriane allowed herself a small sigh of satisfaction. It was just like how she liked it; a simple yet elegantly-crafted plan, and a battlefield she had tweaked to her advantage.

The trap for the Terror had been coiled back, ready to spring. If all went according to plan, they would be the ones putting an unceremonious end to the old commander's tale. Parading her corpse throughout the Queendom would help cement Tyrianne's authority once the time to claim the throne was nigh.

Tyrianne, the Terror-slayer, the harpy mused, clicking their beak. I like the sound of that.

In describing Cynder's room, the first adjective that came to Spyro's mind was bare. Compared to his own, the guest room was smaller; empty white walls on all sides, interrupted by the occasional, half-empty bookshelf, and two large windows overlooking the garden below.

Cynder had not made a single attempt at adorning it. Aside from the ink-stained papers scattered over the desk, the consumed candles, and the untidy bed, it gave the impression it wasn't occupied at all.

As he finished talking, the black dragoness shifted in her seat and took a long sip from her teacup. She lowered it after a few moments, her gaze boring deep into him.

"No."

He had expected that answer. "I know how it might sound, but-"

"No," Cynder repeated. "You don't. Otherwise, you wouldn't have asked me to willingly put you in danger."

"Thank you!" Sparx said. "I was getting tired being the only voice of reason around here."

Spyro shot him a glance. "Since when do you agree with Cynder?"

"Since she started being the one talking sense around these parts!"

The dragoness raised an eyebrow at him yet didn't reply. Instead, she went on, "I appreciate you offering to help, but I don't think you realize the risks you're running into. I've been moving around in an active warzone. The only thing you'll gain by joining me is becoming a target for the enemy."

Spyro bit his lip in frustration. "Now you're sounding just like the Guardians, treating me like I'm a porcelain vase or something. Never mind that we fought our way here!" he snarled.

"Have they forgotten already about Dante's Freezer? Or the Munition Forge? Or that time I helped them defend the temple from a second attack?"

"Or Concurrent Skies," Sparx added.

"Yeah, exactly! I fought my way through the Dark Armies to reach Ignitus and-" He stopped, eyes glancing Cynder's way, gauging her reaction. "Right, sorry."

She gave him a casual shrug. "It's fine. Never liked that place anyway." She set the teacup down. "I never said you can't fight, Spyro. Our - let's say history together is proof enough."

"He did kick your rear that one time, yeah," Sparx cheerfully reminded her. One of Cynder's wings shifted, and a sudden gust of Wind blew the dragonfly away.

"Rude!" he snapped.

"Nevertheless," she continued without skipping a beat, "that doesn't change my answer. Adelie would probably be ecstatic about the proposition, but I'm not."

"Two dragons are better than one, last time I checked. I can help you."

"You don't need to. You don't have to prove anything, not to me nor anyone else."

"It's not about proving anything!" Spyro hissed. He paused for a moment, caught by surprise by his own outburst. Where had that frustration come from? His jaws moved, yet no sound came out.

For a moment, Spyro wanted to speak up; to tell her about what Volteer had found, the ancient weapon that had managed to defeat the Dark Master once. Yet he didn't; he had promised Ignitus he wouldn't.

"This fight is also mine," he said instead. "Everyone here keeps telling me how important the Purple Dragon is, how this whole war is around it. And yet since I came here, the only thing I've done is attending meetings. What good are these powers if I'm hiding behind Warfang's walls?"

He shook his head. "Heck, you are the one doing most of the hard work. You're always out there fighting, making a real difference."

"I-" She paused, raising an eyebrow. ". . . Thank you. Still, the fighting in the hinterlands is no place for you. It's an unending series of raids and counter-raids over stretches of wilderness and the occasional village. It's not flashy, but it is important, even if the Council doesn't care enough to send help."

Spyro opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped for a moment. "Wait, what do you mean that they don't care?"

She shrugged, though there was some evident weariness in her shoulders. "Too far away from the urban centers? Maybe just the fact they haven't struck a dragon nest yet. Whatever the case, we have our paws full as of now."

She raised a claw, forestalling him. "And no, don't you start again. I've told you already that I'm not dragging you to a battlefield."

Spyro nodded, frowning but only for a moment.

"Alright. I get it," he said. "You don't want to put me into danger. I get that."

"Thank you."

"But what if I was able to help you in other ways?"

She sighed. "Spyro-"

"J-Just think about it. You said they don't care. Well, what better way to make them care if I were to suddenly show up there for a day or two? Once back in Warfang, I present my case, and strong-arm them into sending you help. Let's see them denying it once the Purple Dragon himself supports it."

"I mean, possibly. It's just . . ." She pursued her lips, clearly pondering the idea.

"Stupid?" Sparx cut in, hovering nearby. "Because it is stupid, right? Tell him that's stupid."

"You know you don't have to do this, right?" Cynder said.

Spyro shrugged in response. "If they are obsessed with considering me a legendary hero, we might as well get something useful out of that. And winning this war is on top of that list."

Cynder said nothing, the dragoness chewing her lip thoughtfully. Spyro couldn't remember the last time she had stared at him with such single-minded intensity.

"Oh dear ancestors, she's considering it." The dragonfly hissed, face in his palms. "You're actually considering it, aren't you?"

Major Adelie woke up the moment the first morning lights peeked through the opening in her tent, landing squarely on her face. The feline blinked several times, pushing herself up as she wiped the sleepiness off her eyes.

She liked being up by the time the sun had fully cleared the horizon and had arranged her cot accordingly. It was a habit she had gained while battling Royalists back home; the scumbags loved launching their attacks at dawn.

Soon enough Adelie was back in her familiar uniform, sitting by her desk with a cup of strong tea in her paws as she sorted through the paperwork. Without exception, there was always a pile waiting each morning.

The feline's whiskers twitched as she read through another disciplinary notice, this one involving three artillerists, a box of peaches, and firecrackers. She shook her head; bored soldiers would do stupid things and that couldn't be helped. She would delegate the choice of punishment to their unit leader.

Another report came from Oakheart. The local militia there had sighted Dreadwings making overflights for a few days now. She would have usually ignored it, but the town sat squarely on the few supply routes heading north. Adelie decided to later put together a team and check out the situation there.

Her gaze shifted to the side. The letter Cynder had brought was there; the other papers she had scavenged from a slain rider were delivered directly to her officers. It had confirmed what she had always suspected, that the Darkies had set up a covert network in the Dragon Coast itself. Furthermore, they were clearly getting ready for something. She didn't know what it could be, and there were few things she disliked more than not knowing what the enemy was up to.

Adelie's mind went back to the black dragoness as she sipped from the cup. The strong taste helped her mind focus.

The moment Vik had brought Cynder to her attention, Amelie knew she had to move quickly. Dragons were too stupid to recognize military talent when they saw it, and that was another reason why their war had been going poorly so far. She shook her head.

This isn't just their war, not anymore. How did the saying go? Étincelles et bois sec. And the fires have been growing for a while now.

Adelie knew those fires well enough. They had left Aquilia with her as she travelled south and for the Dragon Coast. There she was, battling the same opponents just a few years later. She wondered if that's how the dragoness felt. One could find warmth in those flames, if they didn't care what was being consumed by the searing heat.

Her ears twitched. There was commotion coming from outside. Adelie got up, paws picking up her personal carbine. She run checks on the weapon almost as an afterthought, moving through practiced motions as she pushed the flap to the side.

She blinked a few times, adjusting her eyes to the morning light. Troopers were emerging from tents in a hurry, running towards a gathering in the open training ground nearby. Constant murmurs and whispers run wild, fusing into a single droning in the background. Adelie couldn't have understood it even if she tried.

Her gaze shifted instead to someone else.

"Good morning, major," Hollie beamed. The hare had appeared by her side as if from thin air.

Adelie didn't reply. She blinked, her mind trying to scrounge up why she was even there. She had sent for her, hadn't she? Probably. Hollie was far more amicable than her superior would ever be.

"Captain," she nodded back. "My apologies, I wasn't expecting to see you this early."

Hollie chuckled. "Oh, it's alright. I wasn't expecting you to bring the Purple Dragon here either."

Adelie's mind grinded to a halt with the elegance of a pigeon smacking head-first into a brick wall.

"What?"

Things had gone how Cynder had expected, more or less.

It all started with the dragoness throwing a grousing Spyro out of bed before the sun was up. She had to admit there was something amusing in seeing the Purple Dragon tangled in his own bedsheets as he hit the ground with a loud groan, though she wouldn't show it.

To his credit, the shock was temporary; in a few minutes, Spyro had swallowed a substantial breakfast and the two dragons stood ready to depart.

"Are you sure the Guardians won't mind?" Cynder called out as they soared over and past Warfang's massive curtain walls, swinging north-west.

He shook his head. "I've left them a letter. Besides, we're going to be away for just a day, right? No big deal."

"No big deal? Speak for yourself," Sparx's muffled voice came out of Spyro's satchel. "What kind of crazy dragon wakes up before dawn?!"

Cynder rolled her eyes. Her gaze alternated between the flight path before them and Spyro.

The Purple Dragon was not an elegant flier; his wings cut apart the air with each powerful beat. Where Cynder flowed through the currents thanks to her Wind, Spyro would rely on raw power alone. He had a lot of that.

Purple scales rippled and shimmered with each wing-stroke, muscles going taunt with effort. Cynder took some time to realize she was staring. She shook her head and turned her attention elsewhere. Eventually, the base camp creeped into view just ahead, amidst green and brown patches of woods.

Cynder had hoped to keep their arrival discrete, at least until she had the chance to explain the situation to the major. It didn't work and she blamed herself for it; she had done too much of a good job in whipping them into shape. Sentinels spotted them immediately, and a growing crowd had gathered even before they touched ground.

Claws sunk into the earth and wings folded on their backs. Spyro eventually let out a nervous chuckle as he glanced around. "You know, I wasn't expecting this kind of welcome."

Cynder didn't reply. Eyes narrowing, she scanned the crowd until she found Adelie, the she-cat energetically pushing her way through the mass of bodies. As she stood before them with a twitching tail, Cynder couldn't tell whether hers was anger, annoyance, or just her usual expression. More worrying was the shouldered firearm.

"I can explain," Cynder began.

Adelie nodded. "You'd better." She swung around and barked, "Captain Gerard, get them back to their posts!"

A bulky-looking badger sprang into action and began dispersing the crowd through a series of shouted commands and constant swearing.

"The same goes for you, Stephan. Get lost," Adelie hissed.

The cat in question shot her a weathering look; he scribbled down a few last lines on his notebook before sulking away. Once the crowd of troopers had thinned considerably, Adelie took Cynder aside.

"Let's start with the obvious. What the hell is he doing here?! I know we needed more fliers, but-" She shook her head in disbelief. "You've just dropped a boiling potato right into my lap, ma chère. What made you think conscripting him of all dragons was a good idea?"

Cynder sighed. Explaining the situation, as well as the idea Spyro had come up with, took some time. In the end, the cat's tail would stop twitching.

"Alright then." Adelie took a deep breath. "Alright. When you put it like that, it is less stupid than I thought. Still stupid, mind you, but now I'm no longer convinced somebody cracked your skull with a walking stick. That's the only way I could explain the stunt you just pulled on me."

Cynder raised an eyebrow. "You said you wanted help finishing this campaign. I'm getting you help."

"I was hoping to keep a healthy distance between me and the Council. If something happens to him on my watch-"

"It won't," Cynder countered. "He just takes a look around, gets back to the city, and presents the case to the Council. This is just a propaganda stunt to force their paw. Go get that reporter of yours while you're at it; he might help us spread the news quicker."

Adelie arched an eyebrow, her lips pressed into a very thin smile. She crossed her arms.

"Spoken like a true political animal. You never stop surprising me, ma chère."

"I don't care about politics."

Adelie chuckled. "Without politics we wouldn't have wars, now would we?" After a headshake, she continued, "you'd better be ready to keep an eye on him then. I don't have troops to put on babysitting-duty."

Cynder's eyes narrowed. "It's fine. I've got this."

The cat nodded, slowly. The grin grew by a few inches. "Uh-uh. And where's the Purple Dragon now, exactly?"

Cynder's head snapped behind, then around. Her eyes went wide as she realized Spyro was nowhere to be found. She spat out a curse and launched herself into the air, leaving behind a very amused Adelie.

For long, interminable minutes she crisscrossed the entire camp from one end to the other, wings pushing her to near break-neck speed. Her heart pounded in her ears as Cynder scanned below for the smallest sign of purple amidst rows of tents, hastily-built warehouses, and – there!

Her wings retracted as she launched into a tight landing spiral, landing in a small open space surrounded by tents. Cynder suppressed a hiss as she recognized the place. There was another crowd gathered here, smaller perhaps, but one she had become very familiar with.

"So you two are brothers then?" Lieutenant Kobus said, puffs of smoke coming out from his pipe as he chewed on the stem. "How does that work?"

"Well, it – it doesn't? We're brothers, we grew up in the same family. That's it," Spyro replied. The dragon was busy chewing with gusto on a peach.

"You got a problem with that?" Sparx cut in, frowning.

The weasel shook his head. "Not at all. Just trying to get a grasp on this stuff."

"Confused on what a family is, sir?" Sergeant Rafael snorted, the ibex grinning widely. There were a few chuckles. The entirety of Fifth Company, all eighty of them, had gathered around.

"Keep laughing, sergeant. You're lucky I can't can you while we got guests."

Rafael nodded. "Makes sense, sir. That would be impolite, wouldn't it."

"Damn straight it would," Kobus snorted. He was about to take another puff from his pipe when his eyes fell on Cynder.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said with a nod. Eighty pair of eyes turned her way in one single synchronized motion. Spyro shot her a grin and waved. Sticky juices stained his paws and his muzzle's tip. He started licking them the moment he realized it.

Cynder tried very hard to keep her voice as even and tranquil as possible. "What are you doing here exactly?"

"Nothing, ma'am. Just entertaining our guest."

"I wasn't talking to you," the dragoness hissed, her gaze settling on Spyro.

"Oh, you meant me and Sparx. Well, I had gotten a little bit hungry, and you were busy talking with that cat, but then I looked around and stumbled into a friend of yours. One thing leads to another, and we ended up meeting the rest of your colleagues. A nice bunch."

"Thank you, sir. Just doing our best," Kobus replied smartly before blowing smoke from his nostrils.

Cynder blinked for a moment, unsure on how to respond. "Who are you talking about?" she finally asked. "What friend?"

Spyro gestured at something right beside her. "You know, him."

Cynder turned. Perched on top of a wooden barrel as he chewed ravenously on a fruit, Vik glanced up, flashing her a toothy grin. He then passed his tongue along his muzzle and went back eating. The kobold was completely unaware of the murder-filled glare Cynder directed his way.

"You look troubled, my friend."

Ignitus glanced up from his desk. He knitted his eyebrows as he found Terrador standing in the doorway of his study. The Fire Guardian set down his quill before motioning him to come inside.

"What makes you believe that?" he asked him.

Terrador's response was to simply gesture at the crumpled papers scattered about the room.

Ignitus failed to suppress a grimace. The letter was meant for one of the city temples, similar to countless others he had written before. There was absolutely nothing special about it, yet he had spent the last hour trashing each attempt and starting over, much to his mounting frustration.

"Your mood has worsened since our meeting with Lord Cremar," Terrador noted. Ignitus raised an eyebrow, yet a smirk appeared on his mouth at the same time. The Earth Guardian always spoke bluntly, leaving little place for subtlety. In hindsight, it was a small miracle he and Cyril went along at all.

"It's not about him," Ignitus said with a sigh. "Not entirely at least."

The Earth Guardian nodded solemnly. "I see. It's about young Spyro then."

Straight to the point once again.

Ignitus did not even try to deny it. "My hope was that upon his arrival, he could have found some peace and tranquility. He should have had the time to grow up at his own pace, yet three years ago I thrusted adulthood upon him. I hoped to rectify that, and yet . . ."

He shook his head. "I just wished Spyro would act more like a dragon of his age; he should be out there, socializing with his peers. Instead, he searches for the occasion to jump back into the fray."

Terrador frowned. "I think we both know he is not like any dragon of his age. Your attempts to give him a somewhat normal childhood are commendable, yet his purple scales will set him apart, whether we like it or not."

"I know." Ignitus sighed. "I know. And I can't help but fear I've done my part in that."

When news reached them of the unfolding disaster in the west, panic had seized much of the Alliance. In that moment of crisis, when the Dark Armies had appeared an unstoppable tide sweeping through the Imperial heartlands, the Purple Dragon had been one of the few ideals that folks could rally around. And Ignitus had encouraged them to.

The crisis had passed, and the war settled into an uneasy stalemate, but the consequences of that decision remained. Spyro had returned; the symbol hundreds of thousands had turned their prayers to had taken a tangible physical form, flesh and blood. It should have been a monumental occasion, yet Ignitus found little to celebrate.

He had seen what had happened to the former kingdom of Bautar, where the Dark Master had bent old beliefs to His advantage; he knew what horrors that road could lead to.

Eventually, Ignitus shook his head. "I assume you didn't come here simply to hear me venting my frustrations, old friend."

Terrador nodded. "One of Hunter's falcons just arrived. He should return in the city in a couple days."

"I was wondering when he would be back. He has been staying in Avalar for quite some time," Ignitus mused. "Still, I can't blame him. None deserves more rest that the cheetah."

"He is travelling with some company now."

Ignitus raised an eyebrow. "Is he now? That's . . . surprising."

Terrador nodded, the Earth dragon sitting down on one of the cushions just across from Ignitus. He rolled his shoulders, ancient bones popping as he stretched his back; old war scars stood out across his hide.

"We are then in agreement to go ahead with this?"

The Fire dragon nodded. "So it appears. You have doubts?"

Terrador shrugged. "I'm no alien to risks, and getting our paws on Augustus's spear would be a considerable achievement. Still, I had some of the covens go over Volteer's proposition; they confirmed it could work in theory, but they wouldn't ask any of their members to do it."

"Not encouraging," Ignitus harrumphed. "I'll ask Hunter once he gets here. He'll be the one going through the greater risks; he should be the one to decide."

"Without young Spyro, I'm assuming."

Ignitus hesitated, grimacing. Finally, he nodded. "I know he wishes to help, but I won't expose him to needless danger. I'll speak to him, make him understand that -"

The sound of hurrying footsteps on tiles echoed their way. A kobold barged into the room before skidding to a halt near Ignitus's desk. He bowed, and quickly presented a folded piece of paper.

Puzzled, the Fire Dragon picked it up. His eyes grew wide as he absorbed the written message. His heart sunk.

"Ancestors almighty . . ."

Author's Note: So, I hope you remember when I mentioned that the Crimson Blades hunted dragons, cause y'all about to get a first hand demostration. With that out of the way, let's go check some reviews:

Austin: Malefor is smart enough to realize that something that costed him victory the first time should be either in his possession at all times, or melted down the moment he get his claws on it. About Sparx, well, I'm cooking something alright, but you aren't too far off.

Author-San 9001: Yes, Ignitus is his mentor. Just that. He's just his mentor. No, stop looking closer, I said he's just his mentor.

Thanks. I wasn't sure how the liberties I'm taking with the setting would be received, as what works for a game might not be compatiple with a written story. There isn't really a way to keep constant fighting encounters exciting for the readers. As for Malefor's voice, I honestly didn't put much thought in that, though I keep imagining him talking with Jeremy Irons's voice. I dunno why, must be because the Lion King has been ingrained into my mind since I was a kid.