A subtle blue light illuminated the stone corridor he found himself in, accentuating the blue hue of the surrounding walls. There was enough room between them that a fully grown dragon could stretch his wings unimpeded, with a rounded ceiling that curved towards the walls in an arched design. Intricate etchings decorated the floor, walls, and ceiling, surrounding large writing in a language he struggled to remember. How could he know these symbols, but not understand them?
He jumped, startled, as shades of white and gray exploded from the walls. A dense fog stretched from one end of the hall to the other, obscuring the space and dimming the light until he couldn't see anything in front of him. He watched in awe as a patch of fog ahead cleared, replaced by colorful splotches of red and purple that took the forms of dragons, and a dot of gold. The red dragon was much larger than the purple one, with an odd familiarity about it.
The purple dragon's words echoed throughout the hall, carrying emotions that burned within him like they were his own. There was something in her eyes, Ignitus.
Ignitus. He knew that name; knew that dragon, but struggled to remember how. He pressed his brain for answers, but could only feel their significance, and importance to him.
There should be. Ignitus' voice echoed next. It's time I tell you the truth… all of it.
This, he did remember. The truth of who Cynder really was, underneath the Dark Master's corruption. That realization confused him even more. Cynder? The Dark Master? No. Malefor was his name. How did he know that? Who were these dragons? What were these memories?
The colors disappeared, consumed by the fog as new ones emerged next to him. He had to back up to see them clearly. The purple dragon returned, him, he assumed, as did the gold dot. Instead of Ignitus, there was a black dragon this time, the same size as him.
I can't leave her behind. Purple said; he said, in regards to Cynder, he realized. He was talking about Cynder. Both colors vanished, then swiftly reappeared, before darting into the fog and disappearing with one last echo, his. Now we can go.
He followed the corridor until the next memory, which came with a wave of guilt and dread. Him and Cynder again, and the spot of gold that always followed him.
You're with friends. Cynder's voice assured him, strong and determined, when he was anything but. We're not leaving without you.
A sense of despair and hopelessness overpowered him long before he remembered why, flecked by disappointment for something he did. Something terrible, that he instantly regretted. Still, among the feelings of defeat and everything else, was kinship. A friend. A brother. A… dragonfly. Sparx, the gold he'd seen in each of the previous memories.
He remembered the uncharacteristic urgency in Sparx's words as they lingered in the air. Usually, I would say ignore her, but she's making sense this time.
Sparx's voice calmed his nerves, but not nearly as much as Cynder's did. His feelings for them were different, shrouded in confusion sometimes, but he cared for them both the same.
Get close to me! Now! He yelled, the emotion in his tone palpable even as a memory. The words that guided him, and saved the three of them, escaped him now. He did know they weren't his own, but those of another dragon, one he harbored a minor anger towards.
A blinding, golden light erupted throughout the memory, then imploded, leaving only the fog. Not too far away, three more appeared at the same time, and he rushed to hear them. The first had but one color, bright blue, and echoed the Chronicler's… the Chronicler. The dragon who upset him somehow. It repeated many of the Chronicler's teachings, in particular order, and his warning to 'ride out this storm'.
The next struck him with tragedy. A bottomless pit of sadness formed within him, followed closely by so much anger that it consumed him. Red, black, and purple dragons—Ignitus, Cynder, and him—stood side by side. So many other colors spread throughout the clouded hall as more of his past presented itself to him, but none of them could distract him from those three.
There's got to be another way! He cried out.
He already knew this memory, and how it ended, but the pain still struck him harder than he could ever have prepared for.
I've never done right by either of you. Ignitus' voice was more melancholic than he remembered it being, masked by his own emotions, but the words were no less impactful. Every thorned syllable reverberated all around him. Allow me to do this. Draw strength from each other and follow your heart.
In an instant, the fog was ablaze, and a dramatic spark of fire burned away the remaining colors but for two. Him and Cynder, alone, in the eye of a hurricane of grief.
You're not alone. She told him, and he believed her.
The memories flew by after that.
He believed her even as Malefor used her against him. Why won't you fight back?
A second purple dragon appeared, darker and much larger than him, Malefor.
Just… hang… on! He fought. They fought. Together.
And then Malefor was gone. They did it, but far too late.
He could see the world as it broke apart, shattered around them, with him and Cynder at its core. He could see Ignitus, guiding him even in the end. I know what I need to do. He said, sure he could save the world, regardless of that meant for him.
Spyro, no. That was his name, Cynder confirmed. This was his life. These were his memories, and those that remained came flooding back all at once. His adoptive dragonfly family. The Guardians. The Well of Souls. Everything and everyone he ever knew. You don't have to do anything. Cynder stayed with him, despite him telling her to go; to save herself.
He never got to say it, but he was thankful she did stay. I think I can stop it. What little strength he had left, Cynder amplified. Without it, he didn't know what might've happened instead. I think I'm meant to.
Then I'm with you. Her suddenly distant voice said, fading away with the colors.
Spyro closed his eyes and buried his head in his talons as those words bounced around inside his mind. At least they were hers, he thought. He feared he'd break down to tears right there as the weight of it all crashed down on top of him, but none came. This was it, wasn't it? This was his fate. To sacrifice, and save everything. Then Malefor was wrong.
"Welcome to the Hall of Memories."
He bolted upright to find a dragon with a presence and attire not too unlike the Chronicler's staring at him with piercing golden eyes. Their scales and the mantle they wore, too, were entirely gold. Noticing further similarities, Spyro saw a vial shaped glass pendant filled with a gilded liquid in place of the blue crystal the Chronicler had around his neck. Physically, they differed in many ways from snout to tail, but both had an ancient, wizened appearance that encouraged him to sit and listen.
"I am what you may call a Threadkeeper—the Hall's custodian," the gold dragon said, apparently noticing Spyro's curiosity.
A Threadkeeper. Another dragon with a title, like the Chronicler. Then their similarities weren't a coincidence after all.
"The Hall?" Spyro echoed in question.
Distracted by his emotions, the unending corridor had faded away without him realizing, replaced by a chamber almost identical to that of the Chronicler's. It even had the same blue stones. The Threadkeeper's hourglass was gold instead of blue, with a more intricate design that stood out in comparison, its contents curiously frozen in time mid fall. In place of the shelves upon shelves of books that lined the walls of the Chronicler's chamber, was an exquisitely detailed mural that seemed to stretch on forever. It covered every bit of open space on the round walls from the floor to the ceiling. No matter how he looked at it, he couldn't find its ending.
"The Hall of Memories takes that which is written into the Books of Time, and emblazons it upon this mural, to be forever remembered," the Threadkeeper said. "It sits within the Celestial Caves, in a chamber adjacent to the Library—the entrance lost to the ages."
"I never knew," Spryo said, in awe at the very concept.
He had seen the Books of Time before, his own, anyway, and Cynder's. To dedicate a mural to their contents—it would be infinite. If he didn't see it with his own eyes, it'd be impossible to even imagine something of such a grand scale, and yet here it was.
"No one in my time as Threadkeeper has," the Threadkeeper revealed. "The recent Chroniclers may not even know of the Hall anymore, or the true purpose of the Library."
"In practice, the Hall of Memories was supposed to show those who walked its path the entirety of their lives, from beginning to end," he continued, then added after a pause, "Though, in actuality, it never had the chance—until now."
"I died," Spyro said abruptly, quiet enough that he doubted the Threadkeeper heard him at first. He'd already known, of course, but to say it aloud for the first time? It made it feel that much more real.
"Yes and no," the Threadkeeper said, rubbing his temples with visible stress. "It is complicated. Your body, yes, but your spirit persists, strewn into time itself and upending the Threads."
"What do you mean?" Spyro asked.
"In undoing the destruction of the world, you perished," the Threadkeeper explained, continuing, "Your spirit, unbound from your body and the Threads of Time, was attacked by the Well of Souls. In that moment, your spirit existed across multiple timelines, and so too was it beset by multiple Wells. They tore it into pieces and scattered them among the offending Threads."
Spyro struggled to comprehend what exactly that meant, but the Well of Souls? That, he did understand, despite the holes in his memory. The Well nearly took him, Cynder, and Sparx with it when it collapsed, and in a way, it did—for three years. Three years that passed like seconds for them, in the blink of an eye.
"Alright," Spyro said slowly, feigning comprehension to the best of his ability. "I thought the Well was destroyed in the mountain collapse?"
"It was. It sat dormant until the exact moment the ancestors sealed Malefor within the core, then came alive again," the Threadkeeper elaborated. "Awakened somehow, it used what power it had left in a desperate attempt to claim your spirit, and finally burned itself out in the process."
"What I find curious, is that this part of you would end up here, instead of joining the other half in Convexity," he continued, tapping his chin with a claw in consideration.
"Convexity?" Spyro echoed, then quickly added, "Part of me?"
"As I said before, the pull from the Wells tore your spirit across several timelines. Five, to be exact," the Threadkeeper clarified. "Most of you is here, talking to me, but the remaining two have come together in Convexity."
"Why?" Spyro couldn't stop himself from asking.
"You will see for yourself, as they have," the Threadkeeper said. "I can say, however, that it will have a profound effect on the Threads. That too, you will see."
Spyro blinked at the Threadkeeper's vague warning, reminding him far too much of the Chronicler's cryptic messages and general flare for dramatics. Still, those warnings always ended up being true, and this did not feel like an exception. Whatever was so important that it prompted the dragon who oversaw all of time to suggest heeding it, should concern him.
"How do I… leave?" he asked, glancing behind him at the corridor, and its distinct lack of an entrance.
"You simply do," the Threadkeeper helpfully provided.
When Spyro turned back to question that too, the Threadkeeper and the Hall of Memories were gone, replaced by dark, hexagonal rocks laid out in a path underneath his talons. An endless aether void surrounded him in every direction he looked, with several distant worlds hiding in the still nebula. Convexity, he immediately recognized.
The sudden transition jarred him more than it should have. After everything the Threadkeeper said, this seemed like nothing in comparison. Behind him, as with the corridor, nothing. No sign of how he got here, and no exit. In front of him, the path led to an island entirely similar to every other one that inhabited Convexity; empty.
The island itself was as barren as the ominous space it occupied, but standing at its edge and peering into the abyss below, Spyro could see another one. Something on it shined with an all too familiar golden glow, illuminating its tiles and easily drawing his attention. It compelled him to come to it for reasons he couldn't yet understand, and he didn't hesitate to oblige. He leapt into the stagnant air and once again let his wings carry him through the nothingness of Convexity.
Anywhere else, it would've been a relaxing glide, but here, it was anything but. At least now he could trust his wings to reliably carry him, but three years ago? If he slipped, or missed a platform, would he fall forever? That thought worried him more than what would happen when he caught up to Cynder.
He tried not to think about it, but his stress had other plans. His thoughts went elsewhere, but unsettled him all the same. Did Convexity never have wind to begin with, or could he no longer feel it, lacking physical scales as he did? Did he even need to glide like this, or could he effortlessly appear wherever he wanted, as he had with the Hall of Memories and now Convexity? That beat flying, but flying usually felt nice, didn't it? Now, without the wind, it barely felt any different from walking.
Spyro groaned under his breath and forced his eyes shut. He wanted to stop thinking; to compel his brain to stop making noise in his skull. The ground rapidly approached by the time he managed to clear his overactive head, his glide having turned to a sudden nosedive without him realizing. His instincts took over in an instant, and he threw out his wings to catch whatever wind he could to slow his descent. He scarcely managed to recover in time, and landed rough on his talons, hitting the ground harder than he ever had before, but disturbing it the least.
He didn't get much time to dwell on the lack of pain or environmental displacement—he had reached the glowing island. As expected, that glow he saw came from a crystal, not at all unlike the one he'd formed within the Well of Souls. Standing next to it, was him, or the rest of him, as the Threadkeeper explained. This was the remaining two-fifths of his spirit, lacking as many physical traits as he did, and staring into the crystal with an unmoving expression. Spyro followed suit, focusing to see through the cloudy, translucent rock, until he could make out the two dragons inside.
Frozen in time, for a second time, was Spyro and Cynder. Not three years younger, as they should be, but older, and Sparx was nowhere to be seen. Cynder looked much like her corrupted form, but somehow different. She seemed livelier, and healthier, her indigo scales shining in the crystal's light. This Spyro looked comparable to a much younger Ignitus, with more crests than he ever imagined himself having, all flecked with fiery red membranes. How old were they?
Without thinking, Spyro raised his talon and placed it on the crystal surface, unaware of the world around him as he observed the two of them. He leaned in closer, examining his older facial features. His snout, horns, and brow seemed so different, more mature and majestic. His expression, strained, as if from extreme exertion.
He tried to make out anything else, but as he pressed himself as close as he could get, the crystal suddenly cracked, and Cynder's last words, her confession, ushered in darkness, as everything went black.
I love you.