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Chapter Text

Spyro was frustrated.

More specifically, Spyro was both frustrated and tired. The purple dragon huffed to himself, blowing a thin puff of smoke from his nostrils as the flame in his belly continued to burn into the dead of night. All four of his limbs were splayed out flat as he rested on his stomach upon a pile of glimmering gems. The jewels cast an ethereal glow throughout the spacious cave as they caught the occasion beam of moonlight that peered between the clouds. Spyro buried his head in his arms, trying to block out the reflections of light that danced at the corners of his vision. The smooth stone walls echoed with the sounds of gentle and… not-so-gentle snoring from the other dragons sharing the cave, each curled atop their own mounds of precious stones and gold. Argus let out a particularly loud snort while rubbing the leathery hide on his belly, a half-eaten watermelon clutched in one hand. Alvar gave him a swift kick to the rear.

Spyro was a notoriously heavy sleeper, and the rumblings of his fellow dragons were not usually enough to keep him from sleep. That night, the gravelly snoring was really rubbing his scales the wrong way.

As stereotypical as it may be, Spyro truly adored the sensation of sleeping on gems. The polished facets of the diamonds reflected his body heat, born from the inferno that raged within the heart of every dragon. It was like sleeping on a bed of smouldering coals that not even the frigid icicles of Ice Cavern could hope to extinguish. Sure, he occasionally got jabbed in the back if he rolled over too quickly, but it was so much more satisfying knowing that the pile of gems belonged to him and no one else. Each jewel was a souvenir of his extensive travels across the realms that even the Balloonists could only dream of. Heck, half of his pile used to belong to the Sorceress before she took a bath in molten lava. Twice. Spyro’s collection couldn't hold a candle to some of the elders' hoards, but he wouldn't trade it for the world.

For some reason, his pile hadn't been as comfortable as he remembered. They kept finding the spots of tender skin between his purple scales and poking him in the side, and he swore the gems had somehow become sharper. Spyro quietly manoeuvred onto his back and wriggled deeper into the mountain of rocks, stretching his wings in the hopes of finally catching some Zs. The melodic plinking of gems bouncing off the exposed stone floor reverberated across the cave as they were shed from the pile. The purple dragon had been struggling to find peaceful sleep for a while, and even the subtle glow of the diamonds couldn't lull him into slumber. If he was smarter, Spyro would say that his uncharacteristic annoyance with his treasure stemmed from the frustration that had rooted itself within his brain, but Spyro was not smart enough for that.

Spyro crossed his arms and squeezed his eyes shut with a disgruntled scowl, determined to force himself to sleep by sheer willpower alone. If his brain refused to cooperate, then he would just bore himself to sleep. He began to count sheep, imagining the fluffy balls of wool leaping over a fence and off a cliff. What started as an exercise to rest his mind evolved into a fantasy of shooting down sheep in flying saucers. Spyro’s soul would always belong to the gentle rolling hills of the Artisan Homeworld, but it was all a little too… peaceful for his tastes. The Gnorc’s hadn’t dared show their ugly faces in the Homeworld since Gnasty Gnorc was sent on a oneway trip to the infirmary, and both Ripto and the Sorceress had been fried sunnyside up. Spyro was undoubtedly relieved to discover a sense of peace slowly returning to the Dragon Realms, but his heart yearned for adventure. His wings wanted to stretch themselves and bolt off into the unknown.

Now Spyro was frustrated, tired, and bored; a combination that never ended well for anyone involved.

The purple dragon just couldn't seem to shake the blues that were following him around like storm clouds hovering above his head. His favourite pastimes of chasing sheep off cliffs and smashing Hunter's skateboarding records just weren't hitting the spot like they used to. It was like he had an itch right behind his horns where he just couldn't reach, and it was eating Spyro up inside. Sparx had noticed that his best friend hadn't been his usual perky, cocky self, but kept his mouth shut. The golden dragonfly had spent enough time glued to Spyro's side to tell when something was bothering him, but he trusted that he would open up when the time was right.

A passing comment made by an inhabitant of one of the many realms had wormed its way into Spyro's brain and refused to budge. Neither face nor name came to mind: just another member of a species he had liberated in his quest against the Sorceress. Spyro had kept his promise to Bianca, that he would try to convince the dragons to return to the Forgotten Realms before its waning magic dried up for good. It hadn't taken as much effort as he thought it would. Dragons were famously reclusive, preferring to keep to themselves for fear that their magic and gems might find their way into the wrong hands. They had Gnasty Gnorc to blame for that mindset. Spyro had already started rehearsing his apology to Bianca for when his attempts to reunite the realms inevitably failed, but it wasn't needed. The Forgotten Realms - a name that became more ironic with every passing day - was the dragons ancestral home. A permanent portal was already active between the Dragon Realms and Avalar; they had all but jumped at the opportunity to return to their original birthplace.

The legends of the dragons were long confined to the dusty pages of forgotten storybooks, so their sudden reappearance left a lot of the locals baffled. A whole bunch of fire-breathing lizards just wandered out of a portal one day and made themselves right at home, but they brought their bounty of magic with them. Long-abandoned portals sparked back to life, parched riverbeds were filled with flowing water for the first time in centuries, and even the polluted skies had begun to clear up. The reappearance of the dragons was initially a shock to the system for those who thought them extinct, but they breathed new life into what was once a world on the verge of death.

Of course, Spyro found himself at the forefront of everything. With the exception of only the oldest and crustiest dragons, Spyro was the first contact with dragon-kind that any living individual ever had. Some of the more incredulous races were reluctant to allow the dragons to encroach on what they viewed as their territory, but having the literal saviour of all worlds present made things a tad easier. Spyro was the sole reason why they weren't all slaving away in the mines of Crystal Islands under the tyrannous fist of the Sorceress. Oddly enough, that fact made the denizens a lot more accomodating. Plus, the dragons were stinking rich. It may have taken enough bribery to make Moneybags jealous, but it wasn't long before harmony returned to the Forgotten Worlds and the dragons along with it.

A gloomy expression settled on Spyro's face, the tip of his pointed tail twitching in irritation. An inhabitant of one of the many indistinct magical realms had been particularly unhelpful, remaining steadfast in their refusal to allow a bunch of enormous, horned lizards into their fray. The dragons left defeated after it became apparent that this particular world was not open to the possibility of friendship or even vague acquaintanceship. That was fair enough - they weren't obliged to welcome a whole tribe of strangers with open arms - but it had hurt Spyro's pride a little. Word of his charitable deeds had spread across the Forgotten Realms like wildfire, but it didn't necessarily guarantee the cooperation of those who crossed his path. It wasn't an overwhelming problem – there were already more than enough realms welcoming the dragons with open arms and bated breath. They would just move on to the next world.

No, that wasn't what was bothering Spyro. It was what he heard on the way out, a snarky remark muttered under someone's breath as the dragons left the realm to its own devices. A statement that was spoken recklessly yet played over and over inside Spyro's head like a broken tape recorder.

"Bit brutish for a so-called 'Artisan', ain't he?"

Spyro let out a small, exasperated groan and ran his claws down his face, finally giving up on his futile attempts at sleep. He was so dumb. He shouldn't be so troubled by such a flippant remark, but here he was, losing sleep over some random guy in some random world that had probably never thought about the purple dragon once since he shuffled away with his tail between his legs. Why was it that his dumb, idiot brain couldn't focus on the stuff that actually mattered?

It wasn't bothering him because it was a hurtful, thoughtless statement tossed out by a person with all the tact of a cucumber sandwich. It bothered him because it was a question that Spyro had been asking himself since before Gnasty Gnorc attempted his ill-fated coup.

Spyro knew that he was hatched and raised within the tranquil fortifications of Stone Hill, but the other Artisans were almost like a different species altogether. The majority spent their time in quiet seclusion, slaving over their chosen trades and producing staggeringly beautiful works of art and that pushed the limits of craftsmanship. All kinds of collectors and aficionados travelled from across the realms for a chance to observe an Artisan in their prime. The only exception was Darius, whose impromptu bouts of deeply 'passionate' poetry recitals could be heard from the next Homeworld over. At least he was enthusiastic.

But Spyro... Spyro had never found his craft. He didn't have the patience to dedicate his waking hours to crafting a single art piece, only for it to sit in a dusty museum until the paint chipped away. He didn't care enough to experiment with unusual flavours and scents, creating combinations that could tantalise the senses yet would be devoured in a single gulp. He wasn't interested in the emotions captured in a soliloquy, how it could bring an audience to tears yet would slip through the cracks in their memory until the meaning was forgotten. There were days that Spyro wondered if there had been a mistake. If he was destined to be raised as a Peace Keeper or a Beast Maker, but his egg has slipped into the wrong basket.

Spyro was worried that he would never find his place as an Artisan because he was never supposed to be an Artisan at all.

The purple dragon grumbled to himself and ungracefully slid down the side of his hoard, arching his back and stretching his legs as his feet hit the frosty stone floor. Sparx's signature golden glow was merely a dim flickering lightbulb as the dragonfly was jolted awake by the commotion. He sluggishly buzzed around Spyro's head as the dragon cracked his neck with a satisfying POP, dazed from being woken so suddenly and at such a late hour. Spyro had hoped to sneak out on his own and let his best friend sleep; he should've known better. He and Sparx had a special connection after all their adventures together, and the dragonfly always knew when he was about to cavort off on another quest. Despite the rapidly swelling ocean of insecurities in the pit of his stomach, Spyro couldn't help but feel a little better knowing that there would always be someone by his side. It made things just a little less scary.

"Come on, Sparx," he muttered, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear his hazy vision. "I wanna speak to someone about something. Let's go before the others wake up."

With that, the pair tiptoed out of the cave as quietly as they could. The chilly night breeze sent shivers down Spyro's spine, but it shook off the residual grogginess and filled his heart with renewed vigour. He wasn't very good at putting his thoughts into words - at least, words that had more than two syllables - but it was becoming evident that he couldn't do this on his own. His worries would keep echoing around inside his head until any other thoughts were drowned out, buried under a bottomless lake of unfounded anxiety. He needed a second opinion, and there was only one dragon that came to mind.

That was if Spyro could find him in the first place. Nestor had become notoriously difficult to track down.

For all Nestor had not been surprised when Spyro approached him, he was not expecting it to happen so soon.

The olive green was already the leader of the Artisans well before Spyro's egg was presented to him during the last Year of the Dragon. Had it really been that long already? Nestor wasn't even that old - not in dragon terms, anyway - but it seemed like only yesterday that Spyro was a little hatchling who could barely walk on four legs, nevermind two. He was a podgy little thing, with a round belly and stocky legs and a mouth that suited a dragon ten times his size. Spyro was just as unrepentantly brash and unapologetically confident as the colour of his scales, a dazzling amethyst that rivalled any of the gems in the treasury. Well, that was until he rolled around in mud or got himself covered in pine needles. Dragon hatchlings had fountains of energy at their claw tips, but Spyro seemed to have an actual deathwish.

Oh, bother, he was wandering off-topic again. Perhaps Nestor was getting a little older than he admitted.

The Magic Crafters had always been the ones to care for the unhatched eggs after they were delivered by the fairies. The deep saturation of magic permeating every inch of the Homeworld proved vital to the development of the unborn dragons, and the local fauna was mostly harmless. Barring the giant metal spiders in the caves. And the insane druids that warped the very soil beneath their feet. And the gargantuan beasts in Alpine Ridge…

Magic Crafters was just as dangerous as any other Homeworld.

Nestor was not on the most... amicable of terms with Cosmos, the leader of the Magic Crafters, and this had not changed even after he was sworn in as leader of the Artisans. The turquoise dragon was haughty and uptight, obsessed with order and tidiness in a world where everything had its place and there were no exceptions to the rules. Nestor knew better than to invite Cosmos over for tea and biscuits after the last time he almost had a heart attack at the state of his workshop. Nestor agreed that everything had its place, but for him, that place was usually on the floor. He could never lose his tools if they were always in plain sight instead of tucked away in a drawer to be forgotten! Cosmos had threatened to kick his rear all the way to Tree Tops and back. That was honestly pretty polite, as far as Cosmos was concerned.

Regardless of the countless times the two had butted horns, Nestor would never trust any other dragon with such a crucial role. Cosmos claimed to have no time for children of any sort, declaring their endless pools of energy to be nothing sort of perturbing and disruptive to his studies. Cosmos was not a good liar. He had a strict and almost fatherly disposition, one that demanded perfection in every aspect of his work, and that extended to the fostering of the dragon hatchlings. They would be raised in an environment in which their talents could flourish, and he would not accept anything short of success. Cosmos didn't make the lives of the baby Magic Crafters easy, but there was method to his madness. He insisted on being involved in every aspect of the hatchling's lives and had produced what some claimed to be the most powerful generation of magicians known to dragon-kind. Nestor was more of a... 'kick back and let the kids figure it out for themselves' kind of leader.

Nestor still remembered the day that Cosmos bequeathed him the egg. The Magic Crafters sorted the eggs shortly before their hatching date to determine which Homeworld should raise them, based on their inherent magic signature. Nestor didn't understand how they did it regardless of how many times the increasingly exasperated Cosmos had explained it to him; the Magic Crafters had some way of deducing where an unborn dragon's talent would lie. No dragon was ever raised by their biological parents, with the job of nurturing the pups falling on the shoulders of every dragon in the Homeworld. Nestor himself would never find out which two dragons had spawned his egg, nor would any dragon, and he had no desire to discover this fact. That fragment of information was known only to the fairies that guarded the eggs before they were ready to be sifted by the Magic Crafters. Nestor held a strong belief that the circumstances of a dragon's conception were meaningless, that they would blossom and prosper into the dragon they were always meant to be regardless of who laid the egg. It was the only thing that Cosmos had ever agreed with him on.

It was so rare for the leader of the Magic Crafters to approach anyone of his own volition, so Nestor was struck with alarm when Cosmos pulled him aside. All the clutches of eggs had already been dispersed to their respective Homeworlds, ready to be reared by those who shared their gifts. The sudden increase in prospective Peace Keepers was cause for concern on its own, prophecising a great conflict that required such a large clutch of eggs to be raised as soldiers. Perhaps someone should start keeping an eye on Gnasty Gnorc… but that wasn't why Cosmos had addressed him.

There was one egg remaining: a single, indistinct egg with purple spots that had no discerning features to set it apart from the dozens of eggs already adopted into their new communities. Nestor couldn't understand why one lone egg had caused such a ruckus, but there was a brewing uncertainty in Cosmos' eyes that forced him to take a second look.

It didn't take long before Nestor grasped the significance of the egg clasped in Cosmos' claws.

Not even the fairies who delivered the unhatched dragon knew the identity of its parents. Nestor would never pry into something so sacred, but there wasn't anything to discover. It was like the egg had materialised out of thin air. The fairies couldn't even recall the date that it arrived in the nest, ready to have its future predicted by the Magic Crafters. It had just... appeared. If there was any race more obsessed with organisation than the Magic Crafters, it was the fairies. There was no chance that they would allow a dragon egg to slip through the radar. It wasn't an error that this egg had no recorded lineage.

But there was something more worrisome than its lack of parentage. This egg was the only one not to be sorted into one of the Homeworlds because the Magic Crafters couldn’t sort it. It had no magic signature.

It wasn't that it was weak, or that it was muddied, or that Cosmos needed another cup of coffee. The egg had no inherent magic. Cosmos described it as if he was looking at a puzzle where all the pieces had been painted white. Like trying to see without eyes, or taste without a tongue. The egg was not without magic, but the magic it held was so formless that it was impossible to describe with words. Cosmos had been sorting dragon eggs for more than a millennium, but for the very first time, he was stumped.

The egg had no magic signature. It didn't belong to any Homeworld.

Nestor could feel the baby dragon wriggling around inside the shell as he held it in his claws, so the egg wasn't empty. He had no idea what he was getting into by agreeing to rear a dragon that may not be an Artisan like him, but he refused to leave the unhatched pup to the hands of fate. The vigorous movement from within the egg was proof that the dragon inside had a strong will to live, and that was enough for him. He took it under his wing - so to speak - and he would deal with the consequences when they arose. Nestor was not blind to the myriad of risks that trailed his decision: a dragon raised by a community that was not their own kin could find themself without the ability to control their innate magic, which could and had led to disastrous results. The last dragon to fall to such a fate was Red, banished to the Volcanic Isle after developing an unhealthy obsession with Dark Magic. Nestor had never forgiven himself for allowing another dragon to suffer because they didn’t know how to handle him.

When Cosmos reluctantly admitted that he had approached Nestor because the other leaders had turned the egg away, it melted his heart. The olive green dragon didn’t blame the others – Titan had only just been inaugurated as leader of the Peace Keepers, so had enough on his plate already. Bruno was overly superstitious and saw the egg as an omen of great peril. Lateef was so consumed by the godforsaken Legend that he couldn’t see reason. Cosmos couldn’t take the risk of exposing a young dragon to such untampered magic for fear that it would spiral out of control. The Artisan Homeworld had the perfect blend of amicability and affability. Hell, the most dangerous creature was a sheep on stilts that like to dress up as a scarecrow, though Toasty was an outlier and should not be counted. Whatever lay inside that egg, the dragon that existed outside all realms of logic, would be safe with the Artisans. In that same manner, the rest of the Dragon Realms would be safe from it.

Nestor contemplated challenging Cosmos to a classic Yeti Boxing match for insinuating that a baby dragon off all things could ever be a threat… but he was right. There was no consequence in the world that was worth leaving a hatchling without a family. He would be nought but the lowest of scum, lower than any Gnorc, if he had left the egg to its fate.

Nestor cracked a wistful smile and slipped his hammer into his tool belt. He had found himself aimlessly wandering Avalar and the Forgotten Realms after the portal had been opened, sick of looking at the same old hills and meadows of the Artisan Homeworld. His carpentry had grown stale, and his hands demanded a new project that would revitalise his inspiration. Nestor had found likeminded individuals in Enchanted Towers who shared his passion for construction, but they always insisted on blowing everything up. Their definition of 'art' was a little different than what he was used to. The fauns of Fracture Hills were always in need of a tool kit and a sturdy pair of hands, but Nestor really hated bagpipe music…

Presently he was deep in the impenetrable jungles of Idol Springs, insistently striving to educate the foremen on the proper technique for carving idols. The green dragon had no idea how they kept managing to bring the idols to life, particularly as they weren't using magic, but there had to be some way of teaching them how to create golems that weren't hellbent on a hostile takeover. So far, he had achieved... limited success. At least the idols knew how to cook. They made some topnotch hot dogs.

"How long have you felt like this?" Nestor asked, inspecting his current work-in-progress and dusting wood shavings from its chiselled face.

Spyro was vehemently avoiding eye contact, watching the elder dragon work out of the corner of his eye. Sparx cast a beautiful golden glow over the surface of the intricately painted idols that were stacked nearby, but Nestor could tell that he was listening. The dragonfly never got as much credit as he was owed, but the olive-green dragon knew that he was just as sharp-minded as his dragon.

"Just a couple of days," Spyro admitted, scratching at the canary yellow spines on his nape. "I know you always say not to pay attention to what other people have to say about dragons unless they can prove they know what they're talking about, but…"

Nestor sighed deeply before turning to face the purple dragon. Spyro flinched at the uncharacteristically solemn expression on the elder’s face. Nestor took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Whether they were in the Artisan Homeworld or not, Nestor was still the leader, and Spyro didn't deserve to see his superior crack in the face of uncertainty. He had been preparing for the moment this topic would inevitably arise since the day that Spyro hatched, revealing his iridescent purple scales to a world that had been taught to fear them. Now that the moment was upon him, Nestor couldn't remember the words.

"Spyro, what you're feeling is normal," the emerald dragon reassured. "Just because you're an Artisan does not mean that you can't possibly be good at anything else."

Nestor was relieved at how confident his voice sounded. Spyro sat up a little straighter, his gaze intensely focused on the older dragon as his words began to sink in.

"How many Dream Weavers use scrying glasses made by the Artisans?" Nestor continued, finding his footing among the many pitfalls of scepticism. "How many Beast Makers use spells created by the Magic Crafters to harness the power of electricity? How many Peace Keepers rely on the prophecies of the Dream Weavers to plan their attacks? The worlds aren't as black and white as you're making them seem, Spyro."

"I know that," Spyro responded indignantly, squatting on his hind legs and crossing his arms. "But I've tried all the different 'artisan' forms I can think of, and I'm terrible at everything!"

Nestor caught a chuckle in his throat before it could escape and offend the young dragon, his tail waving in amusement. He couldn't argue with that. He was fairly certain that Tomas was still traumatised by Spyro's rendition of Green Sleeves on an electric guitar. Whatever Beast Maker had thought that prank would go over well had a lot to answer for. Nestor leaned against the half-formed wooden idol, resting one arm on its head as his tool belt clinked against his emerald scales.

"Alright then," he retorted. "If you feel so passionately about this whole thing, why don't I see if I can organise an internship with the other elders? I don't know if that'll necessarily resolve what you're feeling, but who knows? Maybe if you try something that isn’t related to us Artisans, you might find your calling."

Spyro immediately perked up, his eyes lighting up as if fireworks had been fired inside his heart. He leapt to his feet, hopping from foot to foot as if he was struggling to keep himself still.

"You'd do that?" he probed, barely restraining his enthusiasm. Sparx shot by with a whole pack of hula girls on his tail, some of which were living wooden idols. Neither dragon paid them any attention.

"Sure," Nestor replied, breaking into a grin as Spyro's infection optimism invaded his spirit. "I don't see any harm in that."

Nestor could already imagine the stern words he would receive from the other elders for even proposing such an idea, but he couldn't resist the pining of the purple dragon. The humour of the other leaders had not improved with age, nor had their looks. The elder dragon recalled how it felt to be Spyro's age, struggling to find his place in the world and feeling isolated from those who had already discovered their path. Granted, Spyro's case was a little more unique, but Nestor's heart bled for him. Spyro practically launched into the air with joy, his wings almost a blur.

"Sparx!" he yelled, immediately drawing the dramatic chase scene going on behind him to a jarring close. "Pack our bags, we're going on a vacation! And no detours this time!"

Nestor turned away and inspected his newest idol as the duo charged away to prepare, still able to hear Spyro's voice even as the dragon disappeared from sight. It was not his finest work, having been interrupted partway through, but the carving still held a captivatingly rustic charm. Plus, it didn't come to life and attack him, which was an all too common occurrence in Idol Springs. The green dragon shrugged off his toolbelt and carelessly draped it over the head of the idol, grasping its ears with both hands and dragging it towards cover. The sound of the hula girls beginning their rain dance for the umpteenth time had caught his ears, and he was loathed to leave a creation of his out in the rain.

Nestor wondered if he should take a trip back to the Artisan home; he was the leader after all, and he hadn't visited the Homeworld that he was supposed to have authority over for far too long. His spirit was bursting with creative energy, but his heart longed for the comfort of his shabby workroom. The dragon elder had greatly enjoyed his sojourn across the realms, but perhaps it was time to attend to his duties. Besides, he would probably have some explaining to do when Spyro started turning up at the other leaders' doorstep.

Shaking his head in dismay, Nestor packed up his things and made his way indoors and out of the pattering rain. He tossed a friendly nod at Foreman Bud who grunted in return, desperately trying to break into the toolbox that seemed to lock itself every time he turned his back. Little did he know, Foreman Bob had slipped Nestor a gem to keep his mouth shut about how he and Foreman Max were the ones locking it. The dragon sat himself down at his makeshift workbench, propped up between two slabs of sophisticatedly sculpted concrete. The temple was not designed for a person of his size, and he could feel the tips of his horns scraping against the stone ceiling. Nestor heavily sat down at his workstation and grabbed a raven feather from a battered jar, dipping it in a small pot of glossy ink. He should probably warn the others for what was about to hit them - they would need all the luck they could get.

Just as Nestor was about to put ink to paper, he hesitated. Something had possessed his arm and refused to allow his words to take form. Apprehension. The last time that the emerald dragon had felt such dread was when Spyro had scurried down a rabbit hole to the other side of the world. It was not a feeling that Nestor wanted to get used to, yet it seemed to rear its head every time the purple dragon was at the centre of yet another adventure.

Nestor was not stupid. He knew of the Legend of the Purple Dragon.

Whether he believed the myths or not, he knew what it meant for the other elders, for the rest of dragon-kind. The only one for whom he couldn't anticipate the ramifications for was Spyro himself. Nestor had known it would come to this from the very moment that Spyro hatched to reveal his luminous amethyst scales. The Dream Weavers had disregarded the Legend as just that: a legend. There were many dragons with purple scales, and none had strayed from the caste system that dragon society was built on.

For the first time in his life, Nestor prayed that they were right.

Before he could stall any further, Nestor steeled his heart and forced his hand to write. What was done was done. All he had to do now was make sure that the others were prepared for what was coming. He was the leader of the Artisans, and it was about time that he acted like it.

Dear Cosmos,

I've done something that you won’t like. Please don't kill me.

Chapter Text

Cosmos would swear on his own life that he did not dislike Spyro.

Anyone fortunate enough to know the turquoise dragon personally, and it was a great honour indeed, would describe him as overly dramatic, maybe a little arrogant, and definitely humourless. His many years of leading the Magic Crafters had fostered a strict demeanour that demanded perfection and excellence in his own work and that of his peers. The smallest error was nothing short of pure heresy, and he was only slightly dramatic in saying that. Even a tiny mistake in a carefully Crafted spell could have… explosive results. Cosmos didn't have enough fingers or toes to count how many times the Supercharge in Wizard Peak had to be repaired because a fledgeling dragon had blown it to smithereens. He prided himself in refraining from the absurd whimsy of the Dream Weavers, the unmethodical eccentricity of the Artisans, or the barbaric voodoo of the Beast Makers. Cosmos' work was always useful, always safe, and always correct. Heaven help any dragon under his tutelage who attempted to cut corners or find shortcuts to success.

No, Cosmos didn't dislike Spyro. It would be entirely unreasonable to do so when the young dragon was the sole reason for his current liberation from a lifetime as a glorified lawn ornament. Rather, the reserved elder merely tolerated his presence. Spyro's unpredictable and carefree nature was as foreign to Cosmos as the back of his wing. He had an unfortunate tendency to get himself into trouble out of sheer boredom, and frequently got himself out of trouble by cruising into danger horns-first. Spyro was like a solar flare trapped in the body of a puppy, and Cosmos didn't know how to handle that. He could wrap his mind around equations and correlations, wrestle with stubborn spells and eclectic enchantments, but Spyro… he was something else.

Cosmos was meditating in Cloud Temples when Spyro emerged out of the blue in his usual fashion. After the portals to Avalar and the Forgotten Realms were established, the turquoise elder exploited the opportunity to visit the various magic-centred worlds and absorb as much knowledge as his brain could hold. Which was a lot, he was proud to say. He poured over books and scrolls with centuries worth of incantations and practices, determined to progress his understanding of magic by any means necessary. He had also been chased out of a couple portals while attempting to 'borrow' the rarer scriptures for his personal library. Cosmos was intending on returning them when he was done… eventually.

The Forgotten Realms had been parched of magic for so long that the act of Magic Crafting was barely in its infancy, but Avalar... Avalar was everything that Cosmos had dreamed of. From the flame golems of Skelos Badlands, to the fountains of Mystic Marsh, to the glistening gems of Glimmer. Every inch was saturated with magic, and Cosmos hungered to sink his teeth in and rip it apart so he could see how it worked. The locals found enlightenment through quiet, studious meditation, and Cosmos was eager to learn their methods. Of course, no one could claim mastery over magic in the way that a dragon could, and the denizens of Avalar should be clamouring to learn from him instead, but he digressed. The wizards of Cloud Temples had a truly fascinating spell that could turn organic matter into stone, and they were more than happy to welcome a most esteemed dragon into their midst.

Cosmos was sitting on an embroidered meditation mat, legs crossed while perched upon his coiled tail when Spyro barged into the temple like a raging moose. The young dragon waved a crumpled sheet of parchment in his face while his dragonfly desperately tried to avoid being squashed, proclaiming that he was going to become the most powerful wizard this side of Dragon Shores. Spyro was practically exploding with uncontrollable energy, hopping around the room and almost knocking over several piles of books in his path. Cosmos groaned in exasperation and ran his claws down his face. It seemed that his pursuit of enlightenment would have to wait for another day.

The seafoam green dragon was about to throw Spyro out of the temple before he knocked over an incense burner and set the place on fire, but his eyes were drawn to the words on the parchment. A script written by someone with an apparent artistic flair, one that Cosmos was very familiar with.

Dear Cosmos,

I've done something that you won't like. Please don't kill me.

As he absorbed the contents of the letter, his frown continued to deepen. Cosmos had not forgotten the conundrum surrounding Spyro's egg when it was first delivered by the fairies. Nor had he forgotten the conflicted expression on Nestor's face as he held the egg in his hands while the unborn dragon tossed and turned within the shell. The green elder was typically so laid back; it was distinctly perturbing to see him so flustered. Cosmos would've happily accepted the orphaned egg into the fold of the Magic Crafters, had it not been for... him. The situation with Elder Red spiralled out of control far too quickly, and their reaction to his obsession with power came far too late. He just couldn't rationalise the decision to expose a dragon without a distinct magic signature to the formidable energies of the Magic Crafter homeworld. They did not need another Red. They were not ready for another Red.

Well, it seemed that Cosmos' hesitation was all for nought. After all, Spyro had turned up on his doorstep anyway. The purple dragon had never shown a particular affinity for the mysteries of magic, nor any interest in walking the path of the mage. He was sensitive to the energies channelled by the Powerup Gates, but so was any dragon worth his wings. Just what was Nestor thinking?! Cosmos was a very busy dragon! Why just today he had gotten out of bed fifteen minutes early! A travesty!

Cosmos uncrossed his legs and pulled himself to his feet, unravelling his tail as he stood to his full height. He was so tall that the metallic spirals embedded in his horns could've touched the ceiling if he stretched. Spyro ceased his incessant racket and began impatiently tapping in place, full of vigour and raring to go. The turquoise dragon smoothed out the creases in Nestor's letter and folded it in half before resting the paper atop a stack of leather-bound books. He was intending on fitting in a quick read before lunch, but it seemed that he would not be afforded the pleasure.

"I hope you realise how unconventional this is," Cosmos mused, rubbing the scales on his chin with his thumb. "Nestor is correct in some regards, surprisingly enough, but it is highly uncommon for a dragon to specialise in more than one craft. You are an Artisan, are you not?"

Spyro's gleeful grin immediately wilted into a sullen pout. He had charged across Avalar as fast as his legs could carry him, ready to learn how to shoot lightning from his fingertips and turn Gnorcs into toads! Not to be lectured!

"But, Nestor said-"

"I know what Nestor said," Cosmos interrupted sharply, the golden armour plating on his shoulders catching the candlelight as he put his hands on his hips. Spyro blinked in surprise, his protests abruptly silenced. "Nestor says the same thing to every dragon that asks. I imagine he gave you the usual spiel about the universe not being 'black and white'."

Spyro nodded, his jaw still locked shut and eyes wide. Cosmos sighed and relaxed his posture. He reminded himself that Spyro was still a child, barely peeking his snout into the crux of adolescence. The purple dragon had been on so many adventures that it was easy to forget how innocent he was at heart. No, Cosmos’ gripes lay with Nestor, not with the young dragon who had approached him for help.

"While his articulation leaves something to be desired, Nestor is not entirely wrong," Cosmos contemplated. "There are many applications for all disciplines across the Dragon Realms. Why, my own staff was created by one of the most talented Artisans who ever lived, rest his soul. Crafted from the finest jewels that Crystal Flight has to offer, enriched with the potent magic of Lofty Castle, and hand-sculpted with pure gold! Such a staff has been passed down from generation to generation by my predecessor's predecessor's neighbour’s grandma! It also makes a fantastic back-scratcher!"

Cosmos gestured at the staff in question, which was casually leaning against a wall. It was being used to prop up a particularly rickety shelf that kept dropping its books onto Cosmos' head while he was meditating. The turquoise dragon looked back to Spyro, hoping that his enthusiastic speech had instilled a sense of wonder in the small dragon. His eyes were completely glazed over in boredom. Sparx yawned heavily.

"Ahem," Cosmos coughed, realising that his mind had wandered offtopic. "That is to say, what has brought this all on so suddenly?"

Spyro snapped back to attention, only to recoil within himself. He rubbed his forearm sheepishly, unable to make eye contact with his elder. The purple dragon was suddenly stricken with embarrassment; so many people knew him as a strong, undefeatable hero. It was difficult to admit that he needed help, especially from someone as imposing as the leader of the Magic Crafters.

"Well…" Spyro murmured, looking everywhere except for at Cosmos. "I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever fit in with the other Artisans. They're all so good at being artistic and stuff, and I'm not. We don't really… have a lot in common, I guess."

Cosmos let out a deep, contemplative sigh. His heart was once crippled by the same thoughts of ineptitude, concerned that he would never find a place among his peers. It would be easy for Cosmos to pat the purple dragon on the head and tell him to put his nose to the grindstone. Cosmos was a Magic Crafter, raised by Magic Crafters. He would typically turn away any intrepid dragon looking to branch out of their homeworld and dip their toes into the pond of magic. Those dragons only sought to further their own crafts, rather than appreciate the beauty of magic itself. Such a selfish attitude was an insult to the art of Magic Crafting. Magic was not something to be exploited, leeched away and tossed aside when it was no longer useful. It was a force to be respected and feared.

But Spyro was... something else. His intentions came from a different place, one of ambiguity and uncertainty. The purple dragon did not fit the typical description of a Magic Crafter, but that was because he did not fit the typical description of any homeworld. He had no magic signature. Cosmos had to entertain the possibility that Spyro could have a repressed inclination towards magic that was never unlocked because he was raised as an Artisan. He hated to admit that Nestor had a point, but... Nestor had a point. Besides, if Spyro demonstrated any talent for Magic Crafting, then Cosmos could rub it in all the other elders' faces!

"Very well!" he proclaimed with renewed confidence. "I, Cosmos, the greatest Magic Crafter ever to walk the earth, shall impart my knowledge upon you, young dragon!"

Spyro's amethyst eyes immediately lit up like fireworks. He broke into a broad smile and was about to leap into the air with joy, but was halted by Cosmos holding out his hand to stop him.

"However," the turquoise elder commanded. "Understand that I take my studies very seriously. I don't want to see any of that mischief you're so well known for."

Such a statement would've been taken as an insult by anyone else, but Spyro's chest puffed out in pride of his reputation. He stood up on his hind legs and gave a brash salute, a sober expression on his face. Sparx replicated the gesture with all three of his right limbs.

"SIR, YES, SIR!"

"Now see, that's exactly the mischief that I don't want," Cosmos retorted with a deadpan expression. "Meet me in the courtyard outside; I need to get some things together."

The exaggeratedly earnest expression on Spyro's face remained steadfast as he marched backwards out of the temple, his hand still glued to his forehead in a salute. Cosmos wondered if the purple dragon actually knew how to be serious. Perhaps it was just the withering winds of old age, or perhaps he had spent too much time alone in his study, but the elder's patience for the youth grew shorter every day. He could never remember springing around his tutor's workspace or hurling himself into danger when he was a child. The dragons of today had very little sense of self-preservation. Perhaps the Peace Keepers had done such an excellent job of defending the Dragon Realms that the hatchlings had no need for wariness.

Cosmos closed the lid on his incense burner, stifling the smouldering ashes inside, and rolled up his meditation mat. He lifted the stack of books and swept an unusually hefty, rustic tome from the bottom with his tail. The turquoise dragon had not browsed the contents of that book in many years, the words within intended for a hatchling newly exposed to the ways of magic. It was far beneath his academic level, but it would be more than ideal for what Cosmos had in mind.

As he sat the pile of books back down, a sheaf of parchment slipped off the top and fluttered to the ground like a falling snowflake. It was Nestor’s letter. Cosmos huffed in irritation and picked it back up. He abhorred messiness, and a stray piece of paper would weigh heavily on his mind if he didn’t tidy it away at once. The elder dragon intended to file the folded letter away with the rest of his papers, but he couldn't help but read its contents once more.

Cosmos had resolved to disregard the Legend of the Purple Dragon, long before Spyro entered the picture. The seafoam-green dragon was not yet hatched when the Dream Weavers transcribed the prophecy, describing a dragon with amethyst scales and unlimited potential, but he personally knew many dragons that fit such a description. Halvor, Claude, Alban... many dragons had purple hides, yet none revealed themselves to be the dragon of lore. Cosmos had come to believe that the quest to find the Purple Dragon had caused more damage than if it simply never appeared at all. It was unfair to place such lofty expectations on the shoulders of young dragons yet to find their place in the world. This was a stance that he swore to continue with the hatchlings recovered from the Sorceress.

However, as much as Cosmos wanted to deny it, Nestor was right. If there was any dragon alive that fitted the description of the legends, then it was Spyro. That was not necessarily a good thing. The young dragon had already carried the people of Avalar and the Forgotten Realms on his back, and he wasn't even an adult. Was it right to ask him to shoulder the fate of the Dragon Realms too? The path forward would be so much clearer if Spyro had fully matured before Gnasty Gnorc turned the entire population of the Dragon Realms into crystal paperweights, but fate was a fickle mistress.

Either way, what's done is done. Cosmos couldn't change the future, but perhaps he had the power to make it a little sweeter for those who would live to see it. He just hoped that Spyro was prepared for what lay ahead.

The biting wind stung the tender skin around Spyro's eyes and between his toes. Not even the smouldering coals of magic in his belly were enough to block out the chill. Cloud Temples really lived up to its name – built on such a towering mountain peak that the land below was entirely shrouded by dense mist as far as the eye could see. Spyro hopped from foot to foot, trying to keep the blood flowing to his extremities. That the whole place wasn't buried under several feet of snow was a testament to the strength of the wizards' magic, something they were eager to mention at every opportunity. Still, the lack of snowfall did nothing to keep Spyro from desperately trying to hold in his shivers.

Cosmos was wholly unaffected by the weather. In fact, it somewhat reminded him of the Magic Crafters Homeworld. The grass was tipped with permafrost, and the caves sparkled with stalactites of crystalline ice. Even if the elder dragon found the frostbiting wind to be hard on his skin, he would never have shown it. Cosmos was as stalwart as the mountains themselves, rising above his head and reaching into the skies above. The two dragons stood in the centre of a large courtyard, surrounded on all sides by trees that clung to their foresty leaves despite the weather. If Spyro squinted hard enough, he was sure he could spot Agent Zero peering down from his hideout, monitoring them for any suspicious behaviour.

"Alright, Spyro," Cosmos stated, coughing into his fist to get the young dragon's attention. "Let us begin with the basics. What do you already know about magic?"

Spyro ceased his energetic bouncing and rubbed his chin in thought. He hadn't really considered it. As far as he was concerned, magic just kinda... happened to him. Whether it was through a fairy's kiss or the Powerup Gates that sprinkled the land as if they'd burst from the ground of their own volition. Magic seemed to appear whenever Spyro needed it most, and he never really offered much thought to how exactly it worked.

"Umm…" Spyro pondered. "Not a whole lot. I know that it can be used as a power source, and it's what we use to breathe fire and fly. The fairies seem to burn through a lot of it…"

Spyro trailed off into silence, struck with the realisation that he knew next to nothing about the magic that was ingrained in every aspect of their world. He sheepishly scratched behind one of his horns while offering Cosmos an embarrassed smile. The elder dragon shook his head and waved one hand nonchalantly, entirely unsurprised by Spyro's response.

"That's nothing to be worried about. A blank canvas is much easier for an artist like myself to work with, instead of one already stained with the wrong colours" Cosmos acknowledged, trying to put Spyro's uncertainties to rest. "I would much rather you know very little than your mind already be swamped with fallacies. Magic is so sensitive that even the tiniest misdirection can have disastrous results, and I don't wish to repay the kindness of the Wizards by blowing a hole in the Temple wall."

Spyro briefly imagined the catastrophe that Cosmos described, and quickly decided that he also did not want to blow a hole in the Temple wall. The turquoise elder handed him a hefty leather-bound tome, tinged with royal blue dye and intricately embellished with gold leaf. The author's name was long faded past the point of legibility, and its pages were dog-eared from repeated readings. The book's previous owners had clearly loved it from cover to cover, though Spyro was almost certain that the title once read 'Magic For Dummies'.

"Turn to page 113, please."

Spyro did as he was told, the large book weighing heavily in his arms. He flicked through the pages, resisting the urge to stop at any of the earlier chapters until his amethyst eyes landed on page 113. He even skipped past the section covering the power of flight, knowledge that he would've fought the Sorceress, Ripto, and Gnasty Gnorc back-to-back for the chance to learn. Spyro skimmed over the contents of page 113, absorbing as much information as his brain could hold. He was looking at a vast array of obscure symbols and glyphs unlike anything the purple dragon had seen before. 'Create'. 'Destroy'. 'Beast'. What was he even looking at?

"What is all this stuff?" Spyro asked, glancing up at the taller dragon and raising one eyebrow in confusion.

"This stuff," Cosmos snorted, curling his fingers to create air quotes, "is the basis of any magic spell you could conceive."

He crouched down to Spyro's height and pointed at the symbol labelled 'Create' with a single, sharpened claw. The glyph was nothing more than a weird squiggle to the purple dragon's untrained eyes, but to a master magician like Cosmos, the sigil held a wealth of potential just waiting to be unlocked.

"When one calls upon the power of magic, one must provide directions to guide its way," the elder dragon explained, slowly pacing around the courtyard in intense concentration. "Magic must be given a purpose, must be conducted like the instruments of an orchestra. An actor requires a script; an architect requires a blueprint; magic is no different.”

Spyro didn't really understand the esoteric metaphors, but he could feel the puzzle pieces slowly slotting into place within his mind. He peered at the symbols with renewed interest while Cosmos continued to devise increasingly elaborate allegories in the background.

"So... they're like road signs?" Spyro asked, peering at the scribbles scrawled across every inch of the worn pages. Cosmos spluttered as he was dragged from his monologue, realising that he had allowed himself to get a little carried away.

"I suppose that's a more simplified way of putting it," he conceded. Spyro's understanding of the subject was a little shallow, but it was an understanding nonetheless. "Consider the Superfreeze Powerup here in Cloud Temples. No matter how hard you wish for it, that Powerup will never infer the ability to spit fireballs, or grant invincibility. That's because the Powerup Gate is already ingrained with the directions for ice breath, and the magic that flows through the arches can only follow the instructions given."

Cosmos was relieved to see Spyro slowly nodding along, his face buried in the navy-blue book. The elder dragon was severely simplifying the concept, but he wasn’t lecturing a class of competent wizards. Spyro didn’t need to understand how to tug at the strings of reality until he could shape the world in any way he chose. He probably just wanted to shoot lightning from his fingertips.

"Every spell scribed within that tome was created through trial and error," Cosmos continued, strategically leaving out the fact that this process was mostly error. "When Crafting a spell, it is often necessary to fine-tune the details until the desired effect is achieved. Some dragons spend years slaving over a single spell, tweaking it piece by piece until the magic flows just right."

"Wait, 'Crafting' a spell?" Spyro interrupted, poking his head up from the pages with a confused expression. "Why can't I just use the spells that someone else made? At least they know what they're doing."

Cosmos gasped in dramatic shock and horror, placing one hand on his chest as if he was about to have a heart attack.

"Because we are Magic Crafters, Spyro, not Magic Thieves. The art of Magic Crafting is truly a labour of love, one that dragon society relies upon to this day! We push our understand of the universe to its limits, reaching for the heavens until there is nothing left to learn! Magic will continue to flow around us long after we're gone, but it is only through the act of Magic Crafting that we may unlock its potential and perform miracles! A dragon creates; a thief takes. Are you a thief, Spyro?!"

"NO, SIR!" Spyro bellowed, matching Cosmos' enthusiasm with a salute. "Also I have no idea what we're talking about!"

"Good lad!" Cosmos replied with fervour. "Well, perhaps not the part where you got lost. Just accept that not all dragons are created equal. A spell Crafted by a virtuoso, ahem, like me, may not be useful to a Peace Keeper who just wants something that sets everything on fire. Here, allow me to demonstrate."

The seafoam dragon took a step back, his amethyst wings taut against his back as he called upon the typhoon of magic that raged within his soul. He raised both arms in front of his face and squinted in concentration. Cosmos beseeched the hundreds of thousands of glyphs he had memorised over the years, mentally thumbing through vast sheaves of information until he found the spell he was looking for. He condensed every spark of willpower into one great burst, forcing his magic to flow through his heart and down his arms until it erupted from his fingertips. A shimmering transparent globe materialised around the elder dragon, slightly distorting his appearance as the crystalline surface refracted light as if cut from the most beautiful gemstones. Spyro wordlessly dropped the tome to the ground as if struck by awe at the sight of the iridescent orb that encased the magician.

Satisfied that he had proven his point, Cosmos snapped his fingers and dismissed the shield. The sphere shattered and crumbled to the ground as the fragments disappeared into a fine dust. The only indication that a spell had ever been cast was the ring of grass that was now stripped of ice. A round of polite applause echoed down from the Temple as a small crowd of wizards gathered to watch the dragons in action.

"That was a spell I Crafted almost a decade ago," Cosmos explained, crossing his arms behind his back and puffing out his chest out in pride. "It uses a complicated array of sigils to manifest a barrier that will deflect any blow, physical or magical. It repels projectiles, wards against hexes and curses, defends against annoying Mothers-In-Law, you get the gist. Now, as you can imagine, this spell is very difficult to perform. A dragon whose talents lie... 'elsewhere' may have more luck with a simpler spell that merely provides an extra layer of armour to their scales. This is why we don't just copy the spells that have already been Crafted. By Crafting your own, you can play to your strengths rather than struggle to fill the boots of those who came before you."

Cosmos bent over and retrieved the ancient book from the ground, dusting off the cover and handing it back to the stunned purple dragon. Spyro silently accepted the tome, though his eyes remained lost in a pool of wonder and excitement.

"I've explained the basics, and I've given you a brief demonstration," Cosmos explained to the younger dragon. "Now, I want you to take everything that you've seen and Craft a spell of your own. It doesn't have to be that original, or even particularly useful, but it must be yours. You must find the value of your own abilities; create something that only you could have created. Then, return to me and show me what you've got. Show me the spark that brought Nestor over to your side."

Spyro was briefly overwhelmed by the monumental task laid before him, but the words of encouragement had reignited the fire in his belly. Cosmos was asking a lot of him, to go from total ignorance to bending the flow of magic to his whims in one enormous leap. The elder dragon must have a lot of confidence in his abilities, and Spyro was determined to prove him right. He didn't understand half of what Cosmos was saying, but his passion was infectious.

"You got it!" Spyro affirmed, nodding his head vigorously. "I'll make you proud!"

Cosmos couldn't help but break into a small smile as Spyro scampered off with the royal blue tome tucked under one arm, dragonfly in tow. The young dragon's pep was something to be admired; his zest for life was just as powerful as ever, despite everything he had been through. Cosmos didn't doubt that Spyro would dedicate every ounce of his enthusiasm to his task. He also didn't doubt that his attempts at Magic Crafting would fail. Cosmos wouldn't do the purple dragon the dishonour of dismissing his accomplishments, but Spyro didn't have enough inherent magic for sustained flight, never mind a complicated spell. If he followed the guidelines in that book, he might be able to come up with a simple cantrip or trick, something to satisfying his craving for knowledge. If he threw himself into the fray headfirst and tried to bend the laws of the universe to his will without the experience to back it up, it would blow up in his face. Either way, he would learn a valuable lesson.

Spyro may not walk away with a detailed knowledge of Magic Crafting, but he would walk away having discovered something about himself. As the leader of his Homeworld, that was all Cosmos could do. Besides, he doubted that Spyro would keep him waiting long.

Spyro really, really wanted to flip back to the chapter covering the magic of flight. He could practically hear the ink calling his name, urging him to abandon his insurmountable assignment and sink his fangs into something that he could actually wrap his head around. Fortunately for Spyro, he was so unbelievably stubborn that he refused to back down, no matter the odds. He would conquer the art of Magic Crafting, and Cosmos would have no choice but to admit that he was the better magician!

Spyro began by trying to determine what spell would be the most useful. It was super tempting to create something flashy, something that would make everyone's jaws hit the floor, but the purple dragon had a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that his adventures were not yet over. Trouble seemed to find him at every turn, and the Dragon Realms had been far too peaceful. Spyro was counting the days until he found himself dragged through a portal and dropped into another world that needed saving from an eccentric dictator. It wouldn't be the first time. Or the second. Or the third...

Spyro did his best to remain focused, but his mind inevitably began to wander. He imagined himself in a tall pointed wizard hat zapping egg thieves with lightning that shot from his fingertips. He envisioned using magic to transform Sparx into a MECHA-DRAGONFLY who could BZORP baddies out of the sky with his MIND RAYS. Before Spyro knew it, he had wasted half the day staring at the sky and giggling to himself. The strange, squirming sigils in Cosmos' book just turned the purple dragon's brain to mush. He had no idea that there were so many rules to follow, so many rivers and valleys to navigate. To Spyro, magic was something that naturally happened around him, and he was just along for the ride. As soon as he started applying terminology and calculations, all fun drained away and he quickly became bored. Being bored was what got him into this mess in the first place!

Spyro needed someone with an analytical brain, who thrived when picking things apart to see how they ticked. Someone who could dive into the smallest details and find joy within the inner machinations of the universe. Someone with big smart brain, not big dumb-dumb brain like him.

Thankfully, Bianca was much easier to find than any of the dragon elders. While they had spread themselves out across the Realms on a glorified vacation, Bianca had taken command of the Sorceress's castle in Midnight Mountain. Spyro thought that the rabbit would've preferred to leave the bad memories locked away in the abandoned palace, to move on to greener pastures where she could be free of the Sorceress' shadow. But Bianca's heart was a lot stronger than most gave her credit for. She believed that the instruments and equipment that once rained terror down upon the Forgotten Realms could be repurposed. She could take the potions and gemstones and anything else that wasn't bolted to the floor and turn the wicked witch's magic into a force for good. Bianca could undo all the damage that she had been instrumental in causing.

Speaking of which, Bianca was currently nose-deep in the dusty pages of the dragon tome, reading with blinding speed and absorbing every fraction of information that she could. She skimmed through pages of filler and fluff, hunting for the juiciest morsels of knowledge that lay within the faded ink. The Sorceress only let her read spellbooks intended for children, hoping to prevent her latent magical powers from blossoming so that Bianca would remain under her heel. The hefty tome hurled at her by the repulsive lizard along with a demand to create Buzz and Scorch was the highest level of magic she had even been exposed to. Not only did she now have the witch's extensive library to herself, but she was learning from the masters themselves! The very nexus from which all magic sprung! The dragons!

"So, uhh... Bianca?" Spyro said with a slightly concerned expression. "About the spells."

Bianca almost jumped out of her skin as she was abruptly pulled back down to solid ground. She had been so engrossed in the teachings of the book, charms and hexes that she never could've comprehended, that her head had drifted off into the clouds. Shards of suspicion had wormed their way into her heart when Spyro kicked down the castle door and demanded her attention right that second or he was gonna explode. It wasn't that long ago that they were mortal enemies, and her butt was still sore from the time he torched her cloak in Sunrise Spring. Thankfully, the purple dragon was just as willing to forgive and forget as he was to blast bad guys halfway to Glimmer. Spyro freely handed over centuries of dragon magic without a second thought, and Bianca just couldn't help herself.

"Oh, right! Sorry," Bianca meekly apologised, quickly flicking through the tea-stained pages until she found her place. "I got a little distracted. What sort of spell do you have in mind?"

"Well," Spyro replied, cautiously eyeing up a set of bubbling flasks that belched the occasional cloud of incandescent gas. "I was wondering if you could teach me how you summoned that butterfly."

If Spyro hadn't been poking around Bianca's very delicate equipment and leaving fingerprints all over her beakers, he would've seen the look of shock on her face. That cursed experience ranked amongst her top ten most embarrassing moments, a list that was a mile long. Bianca had exhausted her magic reserves by accidentally turning a fluffy bunny into a two-eyed, two-eared, walking, purple rabbit eater. That misfire also made her top ten most embarrassing moments. Hunter jumped in to save the rabbit mage, despite the myriad of reasons to leave her to her fate, and her magic was so depleted that her attempt to summon a dinosaur to pound them into the dirt only resulted in a single, shimmering butterfly. Which Sparx then ate. At least someone appreciated her efforts.

If Spyro had been a cruel, devious villain, Bianca would've suspected that his innocent request was an attempt at subterfuge. A way to remind her that her mistakes were not forgotten, hanging over her head like ominous stormclouds. As Spyro flicked a jar with a loud PLINK only to hop back in fright as the volatile contents spat back in anger, she realised that she was giving the purple dragon way too much credit. He was a little tactless, but Bianca could see the genuine interest in his eyes. She hadn't penned Spyro as a mage or warlock, but he had surprised her before, and she didn't doubt that he would do so again.

"Alright, I can give you some pointers," Bianca relinquished, setting the weighty tome down with a dull thud. "But only if you stop touching my stuff."

Spyro's claw was less than an inch away from poking a hungry-looking carnivorous plant with more teeth than brain cells. He slowly retracted his finger and shuffled away from the shrub, staring around in the room in feigned innocence. Bianca shook her head in disbelief but couldn't stop a small smile from creeping across her face. She grabbed a rolling ladder and wheeled it across the room, scampering up the wooden rungs until her ears almost brushed the crooked ceiling. Sparx curiously flitted around her head, casting a warm golden light over the crammed bookcase that illuminated the spines of the books. Bianca's fingers danced over the tomes like they had done a hundred times before, searching for a single unique book within a labyrinth of volumes. She recognised the worn, patchy cover as soon as she touched it and snatched the book from its cradle with a triumphant cheer. The books were so tightly packed into the bookcase that the gap left behind was immediately swallowed up by the surrounding volumes, leaving no trace behind.

"Here we go," Bianca declared, zipping down the ladder and blowing away a layer of caked-on dust that had accumulated on the dull grey cover. "This is the notebook I kept when I was learning from the Sorceress. She wouldn't let me touch her books in case I stole them, so I wrote my own notes. I'm sorry for the handwriting. I didn't think that anyone else would ever see them."

Judging by Bianca's description, Spyro expected to find a messy, illegible scrawl of chicken scratch. Instead, her notes were written in perfect cursive and every 'i' was topped with a little star. She had even colour-coded each chapter for easy navigation. Cosmos would like her a lot. Bianca turned to the first page that was tagged with a purple sticker and crouched down so Spyro could read along with her. The page was titled "WAYS TO KILL THAT STUPID DRAGON" in extravagant curly letters. Bianca chuckled nervously and covered the title with her thumb.

"Umm, just ignore that. I was going through a lot," she explained while Spyro shot her a judgemental glance. "This is the spell I was trying to use. I wanted to summon a T-Rex from Dino Mines and drop it on your head, but you know how that turned out."

"Yikes, I'm glad it didn't go as planned!" Spyro exclaimed, wincing at the thought of being buried under several tonnes of dinosaur. Where did they get all those guns anyway?! "So, why didn't it work? Not that I'm disappointed or anything."

"Well, there are two reasons," Bianca patiently explained. "Accidentally turning that rabbit into a monster cost me a lot of energy. Dragons have their own internal reservoir of magic that constantly refills, though it takes time. I don't have that benefit, so I spend a few minutes every day meditating to fill up my stores."

"That makes sense," Spyro nodded. "The wizards in Cloud Temples and Mystic Marsh spend a lot of time meditating. I guess that's why."

"Mmm," Bianca hummed in agreement. "Well, when I tried to summon a monster that could use your horns as a toothpick, I had already used up most of my magic. I didn't have enough left for something that size. The butterfly was all I could manage."

Spyro rubbed his chin in thought. He had never considered how dragons could produce a pillar of fire with little effort or fly for hours without tiring. The source of his flame breath was the swirling, churning furnace in his belly, a tornado of fire that never dimmed or faltered. Spyro realised how much life must suck for those without an unlimited supply of magic in their stomachs. No wonder the Forgotten Worlds had been on the verge of blinking out of existence. To them, magic was a finite resource, something to be treasured and guarded. For the dragons, it was no different than the air they breathed, an inexhaustible fountain of energy that clung to every blade of grass and drop of water.

Spyro wondered if he had been taking the power of magic for granted this whole time.

"That's not all," Bianca continued. "Magic can only do what its told. That's what all these symbols are for. They're like... road signs, I guess. They tell the magic what to do and how to do it. While casting a spell, you hold an image in your mind of the symbol corresponding to the effect that you're trying to create. They stop you from getting distracted."

Well, Spyro was grateful for anything that kept his mind from wandering into the realm of daydreams. Bianca pointed at a specific symbol, a circle with curved horns.

"This is the rune. It indicates that the magic should summon a 'beast'. Summoning a creature from elsewhere is significantly easier than trying to create a new one from scratch. Some spells use only one or two symbols, and some use dozens. It's best to try and keep things simple and clean, so you don't get caught up in all the details."

Bianca sat back on the edge of her workbench, stained with unidentifiable fluids and creaking noisily with the movement. She crossed her arms and let out a remorseful sigh. If the Sorceress had ever discovered such a monumental slip-up, she would've been the subject of Pablo's next 'real-time, four-dimensional performance art' as 'Hideous Exploding Witch, Number Ten'.

"That's where I went wrong. The spell I used was too simple. I should've specified what type of beast I wanted. There's a big difference between a gunslinging T-Rex and a butterfly, but magic doesn't know that. That's my bad."

Spyro hummed in understanding. He appreciated that Bianca was phrasing the concepts in simpler terms. Cosmos' explanation was significantly more in-depth - and probably more correct - but the purple dragon wasn't aiming for a full academic grasp on the power of magic. Bianca just hoped that her interpretation was even marginally correct. The art of Magic Crafting was lost to the annals of history after the dragons were banished by the Sorceress. Not only did they take their magic with them, but they also took their techniques and knowledge. The residents of the Forgotten Worlds had a millennia to practice and perfect the spells they already knew, but no magician worth their salt was dedicating their lives to creating new spells. Without the experience and methods of the dragons, they might as well be children trying to build monuments out of lego.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Spyro exclaimed, looking at the patchwork notebook before flicking back to Cosmos' tome. "These symbols are all different!"

Sure enough, a circle intercepted by a cross in one book was a five-pointed star in the other. Three parallel lines in one book was an hourglass in the other. The descriptions were the same, but the shapes used to represent them were drastically different in each volume.

"Well, that doesn't surprise me too much," Bianca stated nonchalantly. "There are over one thousand years of progress recorded in these books, so they were bound to diverge at some point."

"Aww, man..." Spyro groaned, face-planting himself in frustration. "Why does this have to be so complicated?!"

"I suppose it doesn't have to be complicated," Bianca mused, rubbing her furry chin in thought. "The appearance of the sigils doesn't actually matter. They're just a way of communicating with magic so you can direct it to your will. You can speak any words you like, but the intention of those words will never be lost. If you believe in something with all your heart, then the magic will hear your voice. Kinda poetic, don't you think?"

Spyro pouted in dissatisfaction and handed the notebook back to Bianca. She squeezed the book into a gap on a lower shelf of the bookcase, one that magically appeared to allow the pages to be absorbed by the cabinet once more. The Sorceress never bothered to haul her fat behind up a ladder to reach the top shelves, and they were littered with Bianca's illicit scribblings. Now that the witch was dead, the books could find their rightful place among the swathes of tomes, as they always should have.

"Maybe instead of focusing on the specifics, you should just find what works for you."

Spyro raised his eyebrows in surprise before a spark of determination ignited within his soul. This whole business with 'sigils' and 'glyphs' was flying way over his head, but Bianca made an excellent point. His intuition had gotten him into and out of tricky situations before, and his gut feeling had never led him astray. If the path he was being directed down was foggy and hazy, perhaps he just needed to find a route of his own. Even Cosmos has said so: "what works for one dragon does not necessarily work for another." The foretellers of Magic Crafting had given Spyro the tools, but it was for him to discover how to use them.

"Thanks, Bianca," Spyro nodded with a grin. "That actually helped a lot! I promise that when I'm a world-famous wizard, I'll credit you in my memoirs!"

"Oh, really?" Bianca laughed as Spyro puffed out his chest with bravado. "Well, I appreciate it.”

Bianca barely had the time to say goodbye before the purple dragon was out the door, slamming it shut behind him with a THUD that rattled the delicate glassware. She would've paid good money to be a fly on the wall while Spyro was struggling to control the stubborn nature of magic. It required a gentle touch, words of motivation and coercion to convince the volatile energies to obey. If the purple dragon tried to grab the bull by the horns, he might just blow one of his own horns off. Bianca hadn't known Spyro for long, but she could tell how strong-willed he was when he put his mind to something. The entire universe could be against him, and he would still find a way to emerge victorious. Perhaps he lacked the knowledge, or the aptitude, or the natural talent, but Bianca couldn't help but believe in him.

Spyro could throw thousands of years of knowledge to the wind, and Bianca wouldn't doubt that he'd push through. He would find a way. He always did.

Cosmos had expected Spyro to return with the utmost haste. Cosmos had not expected him to show his face less than a day later.

The turquoise elder was engaging in the most beloved pastime of the wizards of Cloud Temples: watching the rams knock each other out cold. Cosmos had no idea how the sheep survived natural selection. He took a sip of camomile tea and swilled it around his mouth, coating his tongue with herbal flavour before swallowing. The spectacle was rather vulgar, but it kept his mind occupied. Cosmos had returned to his meditation after Spyro scampered off into the wilderness, but his mind refused to settle. Every snowflake falling from the snow-laded trees, every footstep that echoed down the polished halls; sounds that he could typically blot out were now intensely aggravating.

Cosmos' regal and stalwart disposition had chipped at the corners, revealing the worries that nipped at his ankles. The more he thought about Spyro, the more concerned he became. Had he prescribed too tricky a task? Should he have been more hands-on, rather than allow Spyro to run around of his own accord? Did he forget that, despite all the conflict that Spyro had lived through, he was just a child? Cosmos hated second-guessing himself; he was an esteemed elder, the leader of the Magic Crafters, and a damn good magician. Spyro just had that effect on people. He existed so far outside the tidy little boxes that the dragons had sorted themselves into.

Cosmos had almost been relieved when the purple dragon trotted into the temple, grinning from ear to ear and accompanied by his ever-patient dragonfly. Almost. The sun was barely kissing the horizon, casting Cloud Temples into a sweet vanilla twilight. Spyro had been gone for maybe a couple hours at most. The only reason that Cosmos could fathom for such an expedient return was an admission of defeat, but the spring in Spyro's step told him otherwise. The purple dragon announced that he had "MASTERED THE ART OF MAGIC CRAFTING" at the top of his lungs, giving some of the meditating monks a heart attack in the process. Somehow, Cosmos doubted that.

Spyro was springing up and down with barely restrained excitation as Cosmos joined him in the courtyard, cup of tea still in hand. The wizards had heard of the purple dragon's exploits and had gathered to watch, though it was difficult to overlook him with all the ruckus he was creating. The envy in the air was palpable: any one of the mages would've sold their mother for a chance to tutor a dragon in the ways of magic. It was an exalted position, one that Cosmos would never trust in the hands of another. The turquoise dragon took his work very seriously, and he hoped that Spyro would do the same.

"Come on, come on!" Spyro insisted, eyeing up the receding daylight. "Wait 'til you see this!"

"Are you absolutely certain?" Cosmos queried, peering down his snout as Spyro's pacing threatened to wear a hole in the stone paving. "I was not expecting you back so soon. I will judge you harshly if I find that you've cut corners."

"Don't worry about it," Spyro shrugged, dismissing Cosmos' probing with a cocky smirk. "I got some pointers from someone who knows way more about this than I do. I'm sure you'll be impressed with what I've come up with!"

Cosmos raised an eyebrow, his pride slightly bruised by the knowledge that the purple dragon had approached someone else for help. Perhaps he was intimidated by the elder's prowess and esteem! Cosmos nodded and gestured for Spyro to proceed, his fingers still wrapped around the warm porcelain cup in his grasp. He leaned back on his muscular tail and crossed one leg over the other. This was Cosmos' favourite part. Sometimes his eyes would be treated to an exuberant display of magical talent that he hadn't expected. Sometimes he watched his student become engulfed in a cloud of smoke as they accidentally set themselves on fire. Either way, Cosmos would gain the purest glimpse of his student's potential and creativity. He was very interested to see what Spyro had to offer.

Spyro raised up onto his hind legs, a stance that he wasn't old enough to be comfortable with yet, and rubbed his palms together. The warmth generated by the friction couldn't hold a candle to the fire in his belly, but the sensation was familiar enough to ignite the spark of magic in his soul. The purple dragon had taken Bianca's words literally: 'if you believe in something with all your heart, then magic will hear your voice.' His brain just wouldn't hold onto the thousands of symbols written in Cosmos' tome, but perhaps it didn't need to. Rather than trip and stumble over the small details, Spyro cast aside the runes and focused on his gut feeling. He found the glyphs to be confusing and restrictive. They were useful to mark the path, but they meant nothing if Spyro couldn't stay on course. He would have to wrest control over the maelstrom of magic by sheer willpower alone.

Besides, his last attempt hadn't exactly... ‘gone to plan’. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about how Bianca tried to summon a dinosaur, and... well. Spyro wanted to be through a portal and on his way before Cosmos discovered the results of his last practice session.

He shook that thought out of his head and focused on the space between his palms. Spyro imagined a roaring inferno compressed into a gap so small that not even Sparx could wriggle through. Cosmos could sense the droplets of magic coalescing between his fingers like tiny bursts of light. He raised one eyebrow in amusement and took another sip of tea. The magic gathering in Spyro's palms was faint and unfocused like a ship without an anchor, but it was there. The energy was nowhere near enough to affect the world around them, but at least it hadn't fizzled away into nothingness.

Spyro fixated on the burning magic in his palms, imagining lava running down his arms and out his fingertips. He could practically feel sparks of electricity shooting between the tips of his horns. An intense tingling overtook his upper half, but Spyro persisted. He ignored the discomfort and pushed through with every ounce of might in his muscles. As the pulsing heartbeat of magic reached his claws, Spyro opened his arms and slammed his hands together as hard as he could.

...

Nothing happened.

Spyro looked at his palms. The pins and needles that once sunk into his skin rapidly faded as the flow of magic petered away into nothingness. Just as quickly as the reservoir of energy pooled within his chest, it drained away as if sucked up by the air around him. Why had it not worked? Did he not put enough magic into the spell? Did he not focus hard enough on the image of a butterfly? Spyro was so sure that he had this whole 'Magic Crafting' thing figured out; to find that his efforts came to nothing was soul-crushing. He remembered Cosmos' words, how not every dragon was born with an innate talent for magic. Perhaps Spyro just wasn't cut out for this?

Spyro shook his head in determination. He hadn't come all this way to give up at the first hurdle. He wanted to find his place in the Dragon Realms, and he refused to be defeated so easily.

"Please, let me try again," he pleaded of Cosmos, who continued to silently judge his performance. "I was so close!"

Cosmos considered Spyro’s display with a neutral expression. His achievement was impressive for an Artisan, yet floundered into comparison to even the youngest Magic Crafter. The fragile puff of magic wasn't nearly enough to accomplish anything of significance, but there was no clear direction to Spyro's spell anyway. Cosmos wasn't even sure what the purple dragon was trying to pull off. As always, his prediction had been proven correct. The art of Magic Crafting would remain an elusive mystery to those without the right blood.

Still, Spyro's tenacity was to be admired. His willingness to pick himself up and dust himself off after a failure was a trait that Cosmos wished all his students possessed.

"Go ahead," he replied, "But this time, put more thought into the outcome of your spell. You must keep your intentions in mind at all times, lest the flow of magic slip right through your fingers."

Spyro firmly nodded and closed his eyes again. He could see it clearly in his mind's eye. A single butterfly, with fragile wings that reflected pink and gold like the petals of a Dahlia. Its antennae twitched as it searched for the sweet pollen of a nearby flower, carried on a gentle summer breeze. The butterfly was so real that Spyro could almost reach out and touch it, and it was definitely not a dinosaur. Soon, he would be able to do just that. Spyro would summon a butterfly from the far reaches of Avalar. He refused to consider failure as an option.

Spyro would prove to Cosmos, the wizards, and anyone else that dared belittle him that he could do anything he put his mind to. He wasn't 'just' an Artisan. He was a dragon.

As Spyro found a new hope within himself, a surge of flame rushed up from his belly as if ignited by his determination. It filled his whole being until it felt like his horns would shoot off like fireworks. Spyro's magic had heard his voice, and this time there was no hesitation. Once more, he opened his arms and SLAMMED his palms together with a resounding thunderclap that sent shockwaves through his bones. The purple dragon could almost hear a little voice in his head, a tiny whisper that spoke with hushed words. He hadn't memorised any symbols or glyphs, but it didn't matter. His magic understood.

As soon as Spyro's palms collided, the wave of energy vanished without a trace. He froze in place, worried that it was all for nothing. That he had just embarrassed himself in front of Cosmos and the wizards of Cloud Temples. That his Artisan blood was as rigid and unyielding as the earth below his feet. Spyro swallowed the lump in his throat, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes to face the music.

Before his face fluttered a single pink and gold butterfly.

Cosmos remembered the first spell he Crafted. The centuries had been cruel to his memories, but the seafoam dragon still recalled that moment as clear as day. He had already been singled out among his peers as a prodigy, a savant in the making. He was the master of multiple breath types at the age that most dragons would still be spitting coals. He earned his wings while others were struggling to get off the ground. It was immediately apparent that Cosmos was destined for a bright future, and nothing made him happier than the appraisal of those around him. Every milestone he surpassed was another rung on the ladder leading to greatness.

Cosmos was addicted to praise. He longed for the approval of his elders and the adoration of his equals. He was ravenous for knowledge, pushing his innate talents to the extreme in his search for perfection. He devoured the words immortalised in the academy library, reciting millennia of research to memory until there was no more space in his brain. While other dragons were speeding around Sunny Flight or practising Supercharge jumps in Tree Tops, Cosmos was knee-deep in books and scrolls. While others were sandboarding in Cliff Town or antagonising the demon puppies in Dark Passage, Cosmos was brewing potions and elixirs. His peers could waste their livelihood messing around and playing like children. He was going to rise to the top, and he felt no remorse in leaving the others behind.

Before Cosmos knew it, he had no friends. His thirst for knowledge, for supremacy, had estranged him from the other dragons.

Suddenly, Cosmos was no longer receiving the praise he was so insatiably hungry for. His spells once filled the other dragons with wonder, but now they looked at him with disdain. He was 'aloof', 'unapproachable', 'trying too hard'. Cosmos wanted to prove that he was still worthy of acclaim, but his efforts only came across as arrogant and underhanded. Something had changed, but he didn't know what. His books couldn't provide any concrete answers, and why should they? Communication skills were learned by interacting with those around you, not by barricading yourself in a library until night turned into day. Everyone else had already learned how to talk to others, and Cosmos had missed the memo. His lust for impeccability had driven a wedge between himself and the very dragons he sought to impress.

Cosmos liked books more – books didn't change their words after more than one reading. He could determine their contents just by looking at the front page. He could put them down and pick them back up right where he left off. Dragons weren't like that, and he couldn't understand them.

Eventually, Cosmos stopped making an effort. It was easier to allow himself to be swept deeper into his academic studies, pushed by the ungodly high expectations of his teachers. The turquoise dragon had made a reputation for himself as a wunderkind of magic, and now his exemplary performance was mandatory. This landed him an apprenticeship under the currently-reigning Magic Crafters elder; a bitter but wise old dragon with one bad eye and a terrible limp, whose mind was sharp enough to cut through diamond and a tongue to match. He was a sour old coot with an expression like he was sucking on lemons, and Cosmos revered him. He doted on every word, filling notebooks with scrawls and scratchings until he ran out of paper. Finally, this was someone that he could impress. He could renew the flow of praise and accolades that he had missed for so long.

Cosmos' first spell was a teleportation spell. He brushed aside the usual cantrips and charms, wards and enchantments, and jumped straight to the hard stuff. He wanted to show the elder that he, and he alone, was deserving of his attention. That none of his other students deserved to be mentioned in the same breath. What use was a spell to conjure a brief gust of wind, or manifest a small raincloud, or make pigs dance with music? No, Cosmos was not going to waste his mentors time with such boorish drivel. His work was always useful, always safe, and always correct. He was consumed with the desire to prove himself above any other dragon before him and leapt straight into the deep end without knowing how to swim.

Metaphorically, of course. Everyone knows that dragons can breathe underwater.

Cosmos daren't try a newly formulated teleportation spell on himself, not unless he fancied losing a limb or two. His subject was a crispy, ruby-red apple pilfered from the dining hall when the draconic lunch lady wasn't looking. The apple was perfect for his experiments - small in size and light in weight, easy to lift and easy to throw. In fact, perhaps a little too easy. The fruit ended up splattered across the wall as soon as Cosmos' magic touched its succulent skin. Whoops. Still, he refused to admit that he was out of his depth. The turquoise dragon tried again and again, using fruits of all different shapes and sizes, determined to find the one item that reflected his magic in the way he wanted. The kitchen staff had to start locking the pantry door at night. They never did catch the 'Fleet-Footed Fruit Thief'.

When the time finally arrived for Cosmos to present his carefully Crafted spell, he was left ashamed. Not a single attempt at creating a working teleportation spell had succeeded. He had nothing to show for his week of toil, other than a newfound sense of modesty and a passionate hatred of fruit. Meanwhile, the dragons that Cosmos once bit his thumb at were changing the colours of their scales, blowing paper planes around the room, or creating snowballs to shove down each other's robes. Cosmos saw such tricks as below his inflated ego, but the truth of the matter was that his peers had succeeded where he had failed. Even their tiny achievements were miles ahead of his own, encaged as he was within the vice-like claws of his own hubris.

To say that his master was displeased would be an understatement of the highest magnitude. The elder had accepted Cosmos as one of his apprentices on the grounds of his exceptional track record, yet the turquoise dragon had crashed and burned before him. Cosmos was relegated to kitchen duty, a job for only the most disobedient students, but his time scrubbing dishes gave him a new perspective on life. He was so eager to exceed the expectations planted on his shoulders that he had neglected the basics. He was trying to build a skyscraper without first laying the foundations.

If there was one thing that Cosmos had learned, it was that the tallest tree was only as good as its roots. The basics of Magic Crafting may be boring and uninspiring, but they were the building blocks of miracles. Cosmos was the obvious successor after his master passed away, taken out by a chunk of over-cooked vulture steak from Dry Canyon of all things, and he accepted the role without hesitation. As leader of the Magic Crafters, Cosmos would not allow his pupils to make the same mistakes that he once did.

He saw a lot of himself in Spyro, much to his neverending disdain. The purple dragon had the same careless disregard for established rules and regulations that Cosmos himself once wore like a medal. He approached magic like a beast to be tamed, rather than a tool to be used. It was no wonder that Spyro had exerted himself so severely, even though he was only summoning a single, tiny butterfly. Cosmos could sense the sheer magnitude of magic wasted as it leaked out between the young dragon's fingers like smoke, dissipating into his surroundings without direction or form.

It crossed Cosmos' mind that Spyro could've summoned something much larger and much more dangerous with that amount of magic.

The purple dragon stared in shocked silence at the butterfly he had manifested before leaping into the air with a whoop of triumph. The wizards gave a rapturous round of applause as Spyro overcame his self-doubt in the most spectacular fashion. He lowered his horns towards Sparx, and the two shared a victorious headbutt. The butterfly was disoriented and confused, wrenched from a lush pasture and plopped into a frost-bitten temple in the blink of an eye. Spyro had set out to discover if he had been raised by the wrong dragons, born a Magic Crafter but reared by Artisans. Cosmos wasn't entirely certain that his endeavour had cleared anything up, but one thing was definite. Spyro had proven him wrong.

There was just one thing bothering Cosmos, despite the resounding admiration of the wizards. Spyro's 'little' outburst of magic had caused hundreds of green shoots to burst through the cracks in the paving stones, piercing through layers of frigid snow and ice. Despite the chilly winter air, Spyro now stood in the centre of a ring of blossoming flowers.

"So," Cosmos stated, stepping forward as the crowd grew quiet around him. "Please tell me how you formulated your spell."

Spyro sat back on his hind legs, his boastful grin quickly turning into a sheepish smile.

"I, uhh... can't," he admitted. "I tried my best, but I just couldn't remember any of the symbols in your book. In the end, I just thought really hard about summoning the butterfly and hoped that was enough."

Cosmos' face flickered through conflicting emotions as he processed Spyro's words. He was offended that Spyro would approach him for help, yet cast aside his advice as if the purple dragon thought he knew better. He was upset that the art he had dedicated his whole life to was wasted on someone with such clear potential. He was thankful that Spyro had come away from his shenanigans unharmed. He was proud that his teachings had reached the heart of a dragon who would otherwise never open his mind to the wonders of magic. Cosmos' right eye twitched. He was too old for this.

Eventually, he settled on pure, unadulterated shock. No wonder Spyro had wasted so much magic. Rather than pave a clear path for the energy to follow, he had tried to bend the flow to his desires by sheer force of will alone. Not only had the purple dragon channelled a surge of magic far beyond what his Artisan blood should've permitted, but he was lucky to have all his limbs still attached. Moreso, the knowledge that Spyro had summoned a creature at all was mind-boggling. Cosmos wondered if the young dragon recognised just how lucky he was to be walking away unharmed.

An image flashed through Cosmos' mind of what could've been if he had chosen to rear that egg all those years ago. If Spyro had been raised as a Magic Crafter, and not an Artisan. He recalled the Legend of the Purple Dragon, one without a magic signature, who had the potential to master the art of any homeworld. Cosmos had long discarded the Legend as superstitious ramblings, but Spyro was making it difficult to maintain that mindset.

"Spyro," Cosmos grumbled, crossing his arms in disappointment. His vambraces clinked against his seafoam green scales, and the tip of his tail swished in displeasure. "I gave you that tome for a reason. Brute-forcing your way through isn't sustainable. If you forsake the sigils and the runes, you'll need to expend all your energy on every spell you attempt. It worked in this case because the creature summoned was very small, but for anything larger, you would need more magic than you could hold in your body."

Cosmos gestured at the hovering butterfly, just as Sparx swallowed it whole with a satisfied gulp. At least someone appreciated Spyro's efforts. The purple dragon groaned in dismay and rubbed his cheek as his pride took a pounding. He was so pleased with himself for having conquered the task laid before him; to face the brunt of his elder's displeasure was a kick in the teeth. Cosmos sighed at Spyro's dejected expression and uncrossed his arms, squatting down to the shorter dragon's height.

"I'm sorry if I sound unkind, but I understand better than you may know. The basics of Magic Crafting are boring, bland, and uninteresting. You want to skip to the exciting parts, and I don't blame you. But you can't have a building without the mortar to hold the bricks together. You can't grow crops without the right soil. And even the greatest swordsmith must first learn to craft a dagger."

Spyro looked up at the turquoise elder in astoundment as he stood back up, ignoring the creaking of his ancient bones. Cosmos held a wistful, reflective look in his eyes as he remembered the sprightly little hatchling that longed for the admiration of those around him. Who only learnt the value of the fundamentals of magic when it was almost too late. Indeed, Cosmos understood Spyro's intentions well.

"I know, you're right," Spyro admitted. He had always viewed Cosmos as stuck-up and arrogant, aware of his immense magical prowess and determined to make sure everyone else knew it too. Now he was witnessing a different side of the elder dragon, one that rarely saw the light of day. It was a long-founded tradition for the Magic Crafters to sort the unhatched dragon eggs, ready to be welcomed by their new families in each homeworld. Spyro always wondered why the most aloof and unapproachable elder was chosen for such a delicate task. Now, he was beginning to understand why.

"I appreciate that you took the time to teach me about Magic Crafting, but I don't think this is for me. I don't have the patience to learn all these squiggly symbols, or the wisdom to put them to use like you do. I feel like I've wasted your time..."

"I will hear nothing of the sort!" Cosmos bellowed with gusto. "There is no such thing! If this escapade has taught you something about yourself, then your time was well spent!"

Spyro couldn't help but break into a wide smile. He responded to Cosmos' exuberance with a confident thumbs-up.

"Thanks, Cosmos!" he grinned brightly. "I promise I'll keep practising! That way, I can show you something that'll blow your horns off next time! I guarantee it!"

Cosmos snorted in amusement. Spyro had the confidence of a dragon ten times his size. He would've once looked down upon such a declaration with scepticism, but now he had no doubt that Spyro would follow through on his oath.

"You'd best be off then. You have several other dragon elders to pester."

"Aye aye, Sir!" Spyro exclaimed, practically sprinting off to the portal back to Winter Tundra. "Besides, I gotta get out of here before the results of my last attempt show up. Sorry in advance!"

With that, Spyro disappeared through the crowd of wizards in a flurry of amethyst scales.

Cosmos wondered if Spyro was perhaps too young to comprehend the finer points of his message. Even if that were true, wisdom was something earned with time. Whether the Legend of the Purple Dragon was real or not, Cosmos was no longer convinced that it mattered. There was incredible potential churning within Spyro's heart, just begging to be unleashed. It was a deep shame to watch it stagnate, but culturing that repressed talent would change the fundamentals of Spyro's identity. Perhaps, after everything he had gone through, it was best to just let Spyro be 'Spyro'. Cosmos smiled to himself and downed the rest of his tea. It was stone cold.

It was only later that day when he discovered what Spyro meant about the 'results of his last attempt.' It took them hours to stop the very confused and very angry dinosaur wearing a cowboy hat and wielding two magnum pistols from taking potshots every time someone walked outside.

Never a dull moment with Spyro.

Chapter Text

Titan had been counting the days, waiting for Spyro to materialise at his doorstep. He always knew it was just a matter of time.

The orange elder believed that the spirit of a dragon could be felt in the heat of his breath and the tip of his horn. It could be heard in his battlecry, a thunderous roar that vibrated through the bones of his enemies. It could be seen in the bond between brothers, forged in steel and unyielding in its fortitude. There was an unquenchable fire raging in the stomach of every dragon like the undying engine of a battleship. A flame that only reached its true potential on the battlefield. The symphony of metal clashing against metal, fangs against scales, bullets whizzing through the air. A waltz of fury and bloodlust, where a single wrong step could mark the end of the road. It was music to Titan's ears, and he never grew tired of the melody.

Titan trusted in the solidarity of the ground beneath his feet and the wind beneath his wings. The notions of 'destiny' or 'karma' belonged only to those too cowardly to grab the future by the horns and swing it around like a battle axe. He had very little time for the poncy Magic Crafters, the complacent Artisans, the loony Dream Weavers, or the meddling Beast Makers. The horde of gnumbskull Gnorcs knocking on their doors and peeking over their walls would not be repelled by diplomacy! The dragon hatchlings would not be protected from harm by oil paintings or philosophical poetry!

The art of war was truly unique; it was the only craft that would never become obsolete. Any dragon could fight, and any dragon was welcome within the ranks of the Peace Keepers. They would never be slaves to destiny.

No one knew this better than Spyro. He was a dragon who rose above his station, casting off the shackles of his birthright and ascending into the hall of legends. The kid couldn't even fly, yet he was already digging his roots into dragon history. Titan didn't know if Spyro was aware of just how much danger he had been in, how close the dragons had come to being wiped off the face of the earth. Gnasty Gnorc was one well-placed spell away from committing genocide. Spyro was the kind of dragon that Titan hoped the hatchlings would take as a role model. What he lacked in experience, the purple dragon more than made up for with determination and tenacity in spades.

... And luck. Lots and lots of luck.

Titan was a proud Peace Keeper, but it took every ounce of willpower not to beg on his knees for the chance to mentor the young dragon. Spyro solved his problems with his horns, and he flourished in the heat of battle. He could be moulded into a fighting prodigy; a spear to strike down the foes of the Dragon Realms and ensure that the age of peace would continue for millennia to come. Sure, the kid lacked finesse. His repertoire consisted only of breathing fire until his enemies stopped moving. But Titan could change that! He could sharpen Spyro's skills like the edge of a sword until none dared stand in his way.

Nestor didn't see it like that. He feared that any kind of formal training would stifle the intuition and creativity that had kept Spyro alive, burying it beneath the rubble of strict regimens and obedience drills. Just the thought made Titan's hackles bristle in irritation. Nestor used big words, but the orange elder saw through his fake politeness. The Artisan saw the Peace Keeper way of life as primitive and barbaric. Violence for the sake of violence. In Nestor’s eyes, they were no different than the Gnorcs.

Pah! What did Nestor know about war?! What had all his years of lying around admiring art and making shelves taught him about the intricacies of armed conflict?! Titan may be the youngest of the dragon elders, but he would not be lectured like a child! Artisans would never appreciate the beauty encapsulated in explosions, blossoms of fire that painted the sky orange. They would never hear the chorus of steel as blades clanged against shields, creating harmonies of metal that sung of the soldiers who dedicated their lives to the prosperity of their people. Art was so much more than paint and ink, spices and thread.

Perhaps Nestor had finally gone senile. There was no other explanation as to why Spyro appeared out of the blue with the old coot's blessings. Titan's lavender eyes scanned the parchment that Spyro thrust into his hands, reading through Nestor's words with interest. He then crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it over one shoulder.

Titan had been a mere hairsbreadth from accepting that unhatched egg all those years ago. He was the first elder that Cosmos approached, and for good reason! The Dragon Realms had a borderline obsessive focus on the magic signatures of unborn dragons, sifting them into predetermined boxes that suited their innate talents. Most saw their approach as a way of ensuring the children could flourish, but Titan saw the whole thing as a waste of opportunity. Did the dragon have horns? Could he breathe fire? Did he have a will to fight, to protect what mattered most and stand tall in the face of danger? Then he was welcome as a Peace Keeper!

All that stopped Titan from adding the purple-speckled egg to their brotherhood was Gnasty Gnorc, who kept raiding the treasury for gems to metamorphose into his braindead soldiers. The Peace Keepers were already stretched thin dealing with his goons, and the eggs were going to be a handful without another unexpected addition.

"Well, it's about time the old coot saw sense!" Titan declared, resting his fists on his hips and puffing out his chest in pride. "Are you ready to learn how a real dragon lives?"

"You bet!" Spyro exclaimed, matching Titan's enthusiasm in spades. He was almost expecting the other elders to share Cosmos’ reservations, so sharing in Titan’s gusto was a breath of fresh air.

"Now that's what I like to hear! Let's march!"

Titan charged down the arid pathway towards the heart of the homeworld with Spyro at his heels. The towering walls of the canyon were barricades against the glare of the morning sun, but he still felt its warmth against his amethyst scales. It was a beautiful day for some ass-kicking! Spyro always felt an unexplainable connection to the Peace Keepers: the tendency to problem solve with their horns, the courage to endure while grossly outnumbered, the willpower to persevere against insurmountable odds. The other Artisans would never understand how it felt to emerge victorious against an enemy much larger and much scarier than he was. Cosmos' disapproval at Spyro's unorthodox methods had shaken the purple dragon's confidence a little. Perhaps Spyro was about to discover that he had always been a Peace Keeper at heart?

The pair crossed paths with a gaggle of newly-hatched dragon pups as they marched towards the square, born from the eggs that Spyro recovered from the Sorceress. Two scrappy dragons had locked horns, butting heads in an attempt to force the other out of a ring scratched into the dirt around their feet. Their enthralled audience cheered on, whooping and hollering in excitement whenever a foot brushed the edge of the ring. The dragon with a dirty plaster on his nose hooked his forearm under his opponent's belly and suplexed them into the dirt, locking his arms behind their head and holding them down. Their audience applauded wildly as the pinned dragon struggled in vain to wriggle free while Gunnar counted down the seconds to victory. Spyro just shook his head.

"You actually came just in time," Titan mused, unperturbed by the sight of two young dragons beating the living daylights out of each other. "A gang of Gnorcs is giving us trouble, and they're too dumb to realise that their leader is a pile of ashes. We could use an extra pair of eyes."

Some days Titan felt like he was the only elder to remain anchored to the Dragon Realms. The others went galavanting away whenever the whim struck them, but Titan took his role much more seriously. It didn't matter that Gnasty Gnorc had been cooked sunnyside up. It didn't matter that his troops were growing bored as the sieges from the orc's depleting forces became more and more infrequent. It didn't matter that the other dragons were questioning the role of an army in a world without war. Titan would not become complacent, enticed by the fleeting allure of peace! That sort of thinking almost turned the entire dragon race into glorified crystal door stops!

The only worlds that even remotely captured Titan's interest were Zephyr and Breeze Harbour. The two realms had been embroiled in vicious warfare long before Spyro set foot in Avalar. The orange elder hoped to find kindred spirits who understood the thrill of battle and the joy of victory. Perhaps he could even learn from their militaries, glimpse a peek at their battle strategies and offer his own knowledge in return. Spyro fought on both sides of their war, and Titan thought nothing of doing the same. It was just good business.

Instead, he found two species that were at each other's throats, razing their fortresses to the ground and salting the earth wherever they went. There was no distinction between innocent bystanders and mortal enemies. There was no respect for the bravery of their foes. They fought with dirty tactics, struck with low blows. The Land Blubbers and Breeze Builders were so obsessed with emerging victorious that they’d forgotten how to conduct themselves like civilised beings.

War was an honourable sport. Without humility and integrity, they were no better than cavemen beating each other with sticks.

Titan threw that thought from his mind before it could dig its roots too deep into his grey matter. Spyro was not a flabby Land Blubber or a feathery Breeze Builder. He was a dragon! Titan had more important things to do than dwelling on the atrocious conduct of such insignificant races. If he wanted to instil the proper etiquette in his troops, then he should live by his own words.

Besides, he didn't want to know what strings Spyro had to pull for Nestor to let him jaunt away with the other elders. Titan had to take full advantage of this opportunity before it slipped away.

"Here's the situation," the coral elder barked, standing to attention as the pair reached the stone barracks. The shadow of the building offered respite from the blazing sun, but Spyro could still feel beads of sweat trickling between his scales. "A platoon of Gnorcs have been running rampant across the Dragon Realms. Gnasty Gnorc may be six feet under, but his lackeys are still causing as much mayhem as possible in his stead. Plus, we have reason to believe that they've had their grubby fingers in the armoury. We can handle a few disorganised Gnorcs, but a few disorganised Gnorcs with explosives... that warrants our attention."

Spyro sat back on his hind legs and listened intently. This was his first military briefing! Sgt Byrd would be so proud. Spyro had spent so much time adventuring outside the Dragon Realms that he had no idea the Gnorcs were still loose. Were they even intelligent enough to recognise that their leader was gone? Perhaps Gnasty Gnorc's ugly mug was enough to strike fear into the hearts of his minion from beyond the grave, and they were still adhering to his orders. There was no chance of a hostile takeover now, not without a leader with more than a dozen brain cells, but Spyro felt thorns of concern piercing his heart nonetheless. It wasn't the Gnorcs that Titan feared; it was the weapons they’d stolen.

"We've tracked their location to an oasis in the desert beyond the barrier around Cliff Town," Titan continued, reeling off information as if he was addressing a squad of soldiers. "We're gonna wipe them out for good, but there are signs that they're preparing a counter-attack. There isn't enough time for any formal training, but I know firsthand that you can hold your own."

Spyro felt a surge of pride welling up in his chest as he subconsciously sat up a little straighter, basking in the approval. He considered himself a humble dragon, but there was nothing wrong with patting himself on the back once in a while! The amethyst spikes jutting between apricot scales made Titan a severely imposing captain, and he carried himself with the confidence of a dragon three times his age. Receiving such high acclaim from the striking elder was nothing to sniff at.

"Here's where you come in," Titan continued. "Head over to Cliff Town and bunker down at the peak of the hill - mind the buzzards - you should have an eagle-eye view of the desert. If you catch even the slightest whiff of Gnorc-stench, shoot this flare into the sky. We'll see it and come charging."

Titan handed Spyro a flare gun loaded with a single 12-gauge shot. The pistol's red paint was dirtied by the sand that seemed to worm its way into every crevasse of the Peace Keeper homeworld. The gun lay in Titan's palm with room to spare, yet Spyro had to use both hands just to reach the trigger.

"…That's it?" Spyro asked in disbelief as disappointment washed over him like waves against the shore. Titan seemed utterly oblivious to the smaller dragon's disenchantment, grinning from ear to ear as Spyro turned the flare gun over in his hands.

"That's it!" he declared, proud of his master plan that he definitely hadn't just made up on the spot. "We'd totally steamroll those Gnorc if we faced them head-on, but you gotta pick and choose your battles. There's no need to risk anyone's safety by running blindly into action. If we can minimise injuries by catching those Gnorcs by surprise, then our victory is assured!"

Titan punched one curled fist into the palm of his other hand in anticipation, imaging pounding the head of a Gnorc into dust. Spyro did his best to hide his lacklustre reaction, but he was never good at lying. He was hoping to join a squad of elite snipers and take down a behemoth! Launch a raid on an enemy base! Ride on the barrel of a tank while it flattened an army beneath its treads! Instead, he was being placed as far away from the action as possible, delegated to lookout duty. Titan finally picked up on the dejected expression on the purple dragon's face and bent down to whisper into his ear.

"Besides, I heard Ulric really wanted to be the lookout for this mission. He's been hankering for a promotion for ages. Only the strongest dragons in all the Realms would be trusted with such a vital role."

Spyro's gloomy face immediately lifted as rays of sunshine broke through the stormclouds in his mind. Did that mean he was one of the strongest dragons in all the Realms?! Any remnants of disappointment were crushed by Spyro's burgeoning ego as he saluted his superior and bolted for the portal to Cliff Town. He was one of the strongest dragons in all the Realms! Titan confirmed it by putting him on the mission! Now he just had to prove that he deserved to stand among the greats, that his victories over Ripto and the Sorceress weren't just flukes. Perhaps he would even return home with some medals of honour or a trophy to hang on the wall!

Titan chuckled under his breath as Spyro darted across the sun-bleached wasteland like a purple arrow. He almost knocked Asher's cane out from beneath his feet as he weaved between legs and vanished into the shimmering portal. No matter how hard Spyro strived to be treated like an adult, he was still just a kid at heart. He had no idea just how valuable his youthful innocence was in a world that sought to weigh him down. Titan wasn't only keeping the purple dragon out of range of the battlefield because Nestor would lynch him if the kid got hurt. The orange elder feared that Spyro would one day get himself into trouble that he couldn't bluff his way out of. Then again, the kid had faced dangers much nastier than a couple of gnauseating Gnorcs. There was no way he could hurt himself from the top of that hill!

... Right?

Spyro was bored. AGAIN.

There was only so long he could stare at the sparse, wispy clouds before he lost the will to live. A nearby cactus was practically drowning in pebbles that he’d punted at the succulent as target practice. Spyro lay on his back with both arms crossed behind his head, absently gazing at the sky and wondering how long he needed to stare at the sun before he went blind. Small tufts of dehydrated grass struggled to breach the dense sand dunes, clawing for the tiniest droplets of moisture in a barren desert hellscape. Spyro could handle the heat. He’d skipped across open lava pools, dived into the ravenous maws of volcanoes, balanced on pipes of scalding steam. There was just something about the oppressive dry heatwaves of the desert that sapped his energy until he was just as parched as the arid blades of grass.

Seriously, how did Marco do it?! The incessant heat made climbing the highest hill in Cliff Town an absolute chore, and Spyro wasn't even wearing prosthetic wings on his back! He never understood what the Peace Keepers saw in the murky tar rivers and endless expanse of chalky sand that kept getting stuck between his scales. He still flinched every time his eyes caught a glimpse of movement from the buildings embedded into the canyon wall. Cliff Town had been reclaimed by the dragons and was a thriving epicentre of activity once more, but Spyro expected a Pueblo to emerge from the shadows at any moment. He swore the breeze still carried the smell of spicy curries emanating from the cast iron cauldrons. Spyro's stomach growled.

The purple dragon loudly groaned and flopped over onto his belly in frustration, kicking up a cloud of dust like desiccated confetti. The burst of invigorating pep that reignited his soul had been sucked dry, but he figured that he should at least make an effort to aby by Titan's task. Spyro was starting to suspect that the orange elder had severely oversold his role, but that wasn't an excuse to slack off. The Peace Keepers were relying on his eyes to warn them of incoming danger, and Spyro was determined to do his part. He was a towering lighthouse watching over a stormy bay, a stone lion defending a cosmic canyon.

No matter how hard Spyro tried to hype himself up, he just couldn't make his job sound interesting. The landscape was one of the blandest views he'd ever had the inconvenience of being burned into his retinas. There was sand over to his left, sand over to his right. Oh, what's that behind him? MORE SAND. He was losing IQ points with every degree that the temperature rose. Titan was insistent that the delinquent Gnorcs had set up shop at a nearby oasis, but Spyro couldn't see anything other than the infinite crystal-white desert. The entirety of Cliff Town was enclosed by a magic barrier that fortified the settlement from any monsters brave enough to face the hostile wasteland that stretched to the horizon. As far as he was concerned, anything beyond the highest sand dune might as well have not existed at all. Not to bury his head in the sand or anything.

Spyro smacked himself in the face and groaned at his own terrible joke. Was the heat frying his brain?! He had to focus!

A sudden breeze kicked up a billowing cloud of dust perfectly aligned to find its way inside Spyro's nostrils. He coughed and spluttered wildly, spitting a plume of black smoke from his nose as he tried to clear his airways. This sucked. Spyro's heart yearned for the lush green pastures and cascading rivers of the Artisan homeworld, where the biggest threat was the occasional homicidal sheep. By comparison, every inch of the Peace Keeper homeworld was actively trying to murder him. Every icicle in the underground cavern, every geyser of acidic tar, every rickety rope bridge. The world was possessed by malicious intent, and it was going to suck him dry just like it did to the ground and sky.

Spyro was beginning to wonder if he had taken the tranquillity of the Artisan homeworld for granted. If this is what it took to become a mighty dragon soldier, then he wasn't sure he wanted that anymore.

Spyro was on the verge of throwing in the towel when Sparx began insistently tugging on his cheek, desperately trying to get his friends attention. The purple dragon scrubbed gritty sand from the corners of his eyes and tried to swat Sparx away, but that only made the dragonfly pull harder. He really wanted Spyro to pay attention to something. His eyes were watering from the blast of dirt, but his vision cleared in time to discover the source of Sparx’s panic.

Worming their way through the crystalline sand were two gnobbly Gnorcs, hauling a large woven sack across the desert.

Spyro immediately threw himself into the sand beneath his feet and tried to make his silhouette as small as possible. His vibrant purple scales and canary-yellow horns made that hard enough without also squatting on the tallest hill where he could be spotted from a mile away. Only the tip of his snout dared peak over the cliffside as he shuffled forward on his belly, expecting to hear the whizz of arrows over his head. Thankfully, the Gnorcs were too dumb to consider looking up. The green gremlins were clad in extraordinarily shoddy armour, which primarily consisted of metal pots on their heads. The Gnorcs had taped the contents of Titan's garbage can to themselves as rudimentary armour, which only made the masterfully-crafted shields on their backs seem even more suspicious. The sack they lugged across the sand left a deep indent in its wake, weighed down by its contents that clanked and clattered with every step. So the Gnorcs were pilfering from the armoury after all. Spyro had to hand it to them - he didn't know the gnefarious gnats had the brainpower to come up with such a gnifty, gnovel gnotion.

Either they were smarter than he gave them credit for, or much, much dumber.

The Gnorcs were squabbling over something asinine, swatting at each other while grunting and snorting like pigs. One pulled the front of his trousers forward, allowing an obscene amount of sand to tumble out of his briefs like the Gnorc had half the desert in his back pocket. The second Gnorc gave his partner a well-deserved slap around the head. They were utterly oblivious to their surroundings, not even noticing the pair of amethyst eyes drilling a hole into the back of their skulls. Spyro vigilantly spied on the two Gnorcs until they disappeared behind a distant sand dune, the desert wind slowly eroding the trail left behind by the sack of stolen swords.

Spyro let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and fumbled for the flare gun. Those two Gnorcs were no match for the purple dragon, but he was bound to Titan's orders. There could be an entire army of green gremlins beyond the border of Cliff Town, and it was senseless to take them on alone. Spyro would never be able to show his face again if he had to be rescued after charging in without backup. He loaded the chipped flare gun with a single hefty round and pointed the muzzle at the sky, ready to launch the dormant firework that would bring the Peace Keepers running.

He hesitated.

Was he really going to alert the entire army to a couple of gnosey Gnorcs? They didn't need a squad of highly trained officers to flatten a leaderless bunch of bandits. They were using metal pots as helmets for crying out loud! Their mediocre, slapdash armour wouldn't shield them from the points of Spyro's horns. Really, Spyro would be doing the Peace Keepers a favour. Just imagining the look on Titan's face as the rookie soldier returned from his mission with the stolen weapons over one shoulder made Spyro's heart race. He could wipe out the Gnorc threat and solidify his place as a rightful Peace Keeper in one fell swoop!

Either it was the psychic connection that the two best friends shared or the look of temptation in Spyro's eyes that tipped Sparx off to the purple dragon's intentions. His finger hovered over the trigger of the flare gun for far too long. Sparx let out an indignant buzz and darted in front of Spyro's face, snapping him out of his inner turmoil like the crack of a whip. His golden light blinded the purple dragon who lurched backwards with a yelp of surprise. His claws became tangled in a spur of dry grass, and he toppled head over heels down the hill in a whirlwind of purple limbs. It was only when he reached the border between Cliff Town and the sprawling desert that his chaotic descent came to a dizzying halt.

"What was that for?!" Spyro protested at the top of his lungs, spitting out a mouthful of sand. He fumbled around for the flare gun, but it had slipped from his grasp during his impromptu tumbleweed impression and was nowhere to be found. The ravenous maw of the desert had swallowed it up, but at least the flare hadn't detonated while he was doing somersaults. Sparx's buzzing was tricky to understand at the best of times, but it was evident that he was unimpressed by Spyro's inaction. Sparx was by far the brains of the duo, and that was saying something considering the size difference of their skulls.

"What?! I was about to shoot!" Spyro insisted, but they both knew it wasn't true. Sparx remained silent other than the humming of his wings, his beady eyes squinting in suspicion.

"Don't look at me like that," Spyro snorted, matching the dragonfly's deadpan expression. "You know we could take those Gnorcs with our wings tied behind our backs. Well, maybe not so much for you."

Sparx droned something under his breath and crossed all six arms. Spyro just kept digging that hole deeper.

"Sorry," Spyro apologised, meekly scratching the tip of his snout. "That was uncalled for. What I mean is that we've come all this way to find out what it means to be Peace Keepers, but all we're doing is sitting around!"

Spyro threw his arms in the air in frustration. He hadn't realised just how much this whole thing was bothering him until he put it into words. Spyro didn't want Titan to think that he didn't respect his authority, that the purple dragon thought he knew better than the battle-hardened veteran. It was just that Spyro had so much respect for Titan that he was desperate for any opportunity to prove himself. He turned his head to look out at the distant sand dunes that the Gnorcs had disappeared within. The trail left in the sand by the heavy sack was becoming fainter and fainter as it continued to be eroded by the wind. Soon there would be nothing left, and Spyro's opportunity to discover if he was a Peace Keeper at heart would be long gone.

"I just... feel like we could be doing more."

Sparx felt his irritation dissolve away like the sand that licked around Spyro's feet. He just couldn't stay mad. How many times had Sparx wondered if his best friend would be fine on his own, no longer dependent on the magic of a dragonfly to shield him from harm? Yet every time he questioned if the purple dragon had outgrown his meagre assistance, Spyro accidentally threw himself into a lava pit, or got himself blown up, or wandered off a cliff because he was distracted. Their bond was as impenetrable as dragon scales, and they would see this rocky chapter through together. Sparx couldn't stop Spyro from charging into danger, but he could be there to help him weather the blows. He perched on the yellow spines that ran down the crown of Spyro's head and hummed softly.

"…You know what? You're right," Spyro agreed after a moment of deliberation. He understood the point that Sparx was making, but he also heard the words that remained unspoken. The promise that the two would prevail, that they would endure whatever the universe decided to throw at them as long as they stayed together. That Spyro would always have someone on his side. He punched his fists together. "We got this."

Sparx was almost left in the dust as Spyro charged towards the nearest barrier pillar like a bolt of lightning. This time, his small stature wasn't going to stop him. He scrambled up the grooves of the limestone column, using any cracks in the solid rock as leverage to pull himself higher. The magical barrier may be enough to deter the monsters of the desert, but it was no match for a dragon on a mission, and Spyro's ears were already ringing with exhilaration. He summarily reached the spiralled peak of the spire and cleared the magical barrier in a single leap. Spyro's feet barely touched the ground on the other side before he became a purple blur, speeding across the sand dunes with his head down and horns pointing forward.

Those Gnorcs may be prepared for a platoon of Peace Keepers, but they were not prepared for the whirlwind that was about to hit them. Spyro was going to make Titan proud.

Titan remembered the day he was finally accepted into the barracks. It was the best day of his life.

He was a scrappy little whelp, perpetually covered in scrapes and bruises and barely grown into his royal purple wings and horns. Titan was much shorter than his name implied, but he had an attitude several times his size and an ego to match. He was a pure-blooded Peace Keeper from the very first crack in his eggshell and was determined to be the youngest dragon to ever patrol the halls of his homeworld as a bonafide soldier. In his eyes, the most successful Peace Keepers were those with the biggest muscles, sharpest fangs, and scariest spikes. None dared threaten the sanctity of the Dragon Realms lest they taste the acrid sulphur of gunpowder or the metallic tang of steel. The Peace Keepers were perhaps the most amply named division of dragons - only by their iron fist could the kingdom enjoy what some called an endless age of peace.

Sure, some called them brutes or bullies, claimed that their devotion to the art of war would only lead to ruin. It was a badge that the soldiers had come to wear with pride. If anarchy was an inevitable temptation, then the Peace Keepers were the inevitable consequence.

Titan was already building a reputation for himself as an abrasive bully, locking horns and getting into scraps at the slightest provocation. After all, wasn't that what being a Peace Keeper was all about? Striking fear into the heart of anyone stupid enough to meet his gaze? Being the toughest, baddest dude this side of Misty Bog? It didn't matter if Titan had to roll over his peers or step on a few toes in the process. They only had themselves to blame for getting in his way. Maybe if they put in a fraction of the effort that Titan had sunk into his rise to prominence, they could stand alongside him instead of beneath his feet. The coral dragon wasn't going to let anyone or anything stall his momentum. Either they were with him, or they were against him.

With freshly shined spines and a fire in his belly, Titan marched himself over to the Peace Keepers' headquarters and demanded immediate recognition for his achievements and a position within their ranks. He was swiftly kicked to the curb and left to lick his wounds in stubborn solitude.

Really, Titan was lucky he didn't get his butt kicked three ways to Sunday for his insolence. The elder at the time was a true freak of nature, seven feet of pure rippling muscle with tattoos across every inch of skin. He was the kind of dragon to suplex a mammoth and pick his teeth with its tusks. Titan heard that he had an eight pack, that he was ripped. He also really liked playing classical music on an old dusty gramophone.

Titan couldn't understand that old dragon. He could punch a hole through solid concrete and had done on more than one occasion, yet he refused to just walk up to Gnasty Gnorc and sock him in the face. The elder insisted on tactical reconnaissance and organised pincer attacks. He spent more time hunched over a map than he did on the battlefield, and Titan couldn't wrap his head around it. So when the elder announced that his arrogance and egotism was nothing shy of beastly, Titan stormed away in a huff. He hadn’t spent months of his life honing his body into a deadly weapon just to be lectured by a dragon that wasted his potential sitting behind a desk! The Peace Keepers deserved a leader who embodied their doctrine in every way!

Titan no longer wanted to be the youngest dragon admitted into the ranks. He was going to depose the old man and become the youngest leader of the Peace Keepers. The biggest, baddest dude of them all.

With no healthy manner of expressing his teenage angst, Titan channelled every iota of energy into his training. He spent longer at the target range, longer in the gym, longer on the running tracks, working himself to exhaustion in the never-ending pursuit of perfection. He became completely isolated from his peers, devoting every waking hour to pumping iron and chugging protein powder like his life depended on it. Titan was an island that he had built himself; he dug the moat, burned the brides, and closed the borders.

When he finally staged his triumphant return to the encampment, it was with one broken wing and head of a Gnorc under his arm.

Titan was lucky just to have escaped with his life. It was a dry, cloudless night when he snuck past the patrols and scaled the barrier around Cliff Town with his eyes set on the nearest Gnorc camp. Rumours were circulating that Gnasty Gnorc was using gems for manufacturing his army after being banished to the Dragon Junkyard, and their numbers increased every day. Meanwhile, the elder slouched in his tent, pondering over the growing horde without actually taking any action. He was so caught up in his regulations and regimens that he no longer saw the most optimal route, which was to just steamroll the Gnorcs and go home in time for lunch. Gnasty Gnorc continued his vile bastardisation of Beast Maker magic, and the Peace Keepers would only react when it was too late.

Well, Titan wasn't going to let that happen. If the elder wasn't going to do anything to mitigate the Gnorc threat, then Titan would just have to take his place!

That wasn't a mistake he would make in his career again. Either the Gnorcs had their grotty thumbs in the Peace Keepers' pie, or Gnasty had turned into a master weapon-smith overnight. His goons were decked out in near-impenetrable armour and wielding maces and swords that were eerily reminiscent of Artisan craftsmanship. Almost as if the orcs had been leeching from the Peace Keepers' weaponry supplies right under their noses. Not that it mattered - even the deadliest weapons were rendered harmless in the hands of a buffoon. No matter how hard the Gnorcs swung their stolen staves around, they would never access the potent magic sealed within the polished metal. Even so, Titan had greatly underestimated just how many trolls squatted in the sand dunes, and they almost overpowered him by sheer force of numbers alone.

Titan expected to return home to rapturous applause and fanfare, having subdued the Gnorc threat that the elder seemed reluctant to trim at the bud before it sprouted roots. Instead, he got the butt-kicking of his lifetime. He had no retorts or snappy comebacks as the elder laid into him with the fury of a raging bull. Titan was lucky that he didn't come away in a body bag, and the leader was still considering putting the coral dragon in one himself. He had needlessly risked his own life by punching above his station and nearly ruined months of careful preparations. What if Titan's ambush was the straw that broke the camels back and the Gnorc army decided to invade the homeworld before the dragons could prepare? What if they'd had to send a platoon to rescue him? Perhaps Titan would return unharmed, but how would he face those who could've been injured in his stead?

Titan's reckless act of self-importance could've had repercussions far beyond his own wellbeing. In his haste to validate himself, he’d put his own life at risk along with the lives of others, defied the orders of his superiors, and climbed the barrier. The only reason the orange dragon didn't spend the rest of his days exiled on Volcanic Isle alongside the disgraced elder Red was that he’d recovered the stolen weapons and armour. The leader of the Peace Keepers begrudgingly acknowledged this small victory, though it was through gritted teeth. He instructed Titan to keep the head of the Gnorc he lugged back to camp as a reminder of his failures. He had it taxidermied and hung above his bed.

At the time, Titan just thought the brutish elder had reacted so explosively because he was threatened by the coral dragon's burgeoning prowess. After spending a month in recovery, watching dragons offer their own vitality as payment for an end to the Gnorc conflict, he finally understood where he had gone wrong. No, the issue didn't lie with Titan's strength or lack thereof. It stemmed from how he chose to gain it. He had trained in a bubble, a completely isolated environment without feedback or participation from others. He did the same exercises over and over again, losing the flexibility and adaptiveness that made him a candidate in the first place. Battles would never follow the strict regime that his workouts were constructed around; they were unpredictable and wild like the wrath of a typhoon.

The Peace Keeper elder was so fanatical about strategies and tactics because he longed to prevent any dragon under his command from turning out like Titan, with broken wings and shattered bones. He ordered Titan to keep the head of the Gnorc as a memento of his failure. Just how many mementoes of his own did the elder cling to, each one the gravestone of a soldier who never returned home? It wasn't a totem of humiliation; it was a reminder of the cost of complacency.

It might’ve taken Titan almost losing a limb to come to terms with how wrong he was, but now there was a fire lit beneath his feet. His passion hadn't been extinguished by his reprimanding, but merely redirected. The coral dragon poured over centuries of attack and defence formations, memorising the most appropriate methods of engagement and the most efficient manner of retreat. Titan dedicated all of his pent-up energy into making up for what he had neglected. By the time the old elder was ready to retire, eyes blurry with cataracts and a quarter of his teeth missing, Titan was immediately endorsed to take his place. Last he heard, the old bat was writing awful haikus in the middle of a dank swamp somewhere, still listening to the soothing melodies of classical music from an antique gramophone.

For better or for worse, Titan saw the image of his younger self reflected in Spyro's features. His yearning for righteousness no matter the cost, his bold and carefree nature, his knack for getting into trouble at every turn. It made Titan wonder what could've been if he'd accepted Cosmos' proposition all those years ago and taken the mysterious egg into his care. Just how much of the purple dragon’s talents stemmed from his upbringing as an Artisan? Would he have lost his inquisitive curiosity and sense of humour if he had been raised among the cacti and vultures of the Peace Keeper homeworld? The Legend of the Purple Dragon was a load of drivel conceived by dragons who'd inhaled too much incense, but perhaps there was a sliver of truth to be found within the cryptic premonitions.

When Spyro burst through the doors of the barracks with a pleased grin on his face and a sack of stolen weapons, Titan wondered if the writers of the Legend knew what they were getting into.

The team Titan had assembled for the mission might have been small, but it was comprised of the most bad-ass dragons who spat in the face of defeat. Perhaps it was a little overkill, but it was more important than ever to return victorious. The Dragon Realms had entered an era of peace ever since the Forgotten Realms were rediscovered. Fewer and fewer dragons felt it necessary to call upon the fortitude of the Peace Keepers now that their greatest threat was that one irate sheep on stilts. Their latest enlistment records were truly abysmal as dragons traded a life of valour and glory for one of sloth and excess. Their weapons and armour collected dust while their owners travelled across the new worlds, and the ways of the Peace Keepers were quickly falling into obscurity. Some days it felt like the peace was simply keeping itself.

Titan had to prove that the art of war was still relevant, that it still had a place in an era without conflict. The peace could only last for so long.

The squadron descended upon the oasis with fire in their eye and on their tongues, ready to make an example of the few remaining Gnorcs. They expected to find a couple dozen monsters lurking around, probably scratching their backs with all the precious weapons they'd stolen. Instead, they came across a campsite that appeared as if it'd been struck by a tornado. Disused tents had been torn to the ground, their wooden spines snapped in two and scattered like driftwood. Crates of supplies had been upended so their contents could be reclaimed by the encroaching desert sand. Furthermore, not a single stolen sabre could be found amongst the rubble.

Titan was hit with a sudden sense of dread deeper than the depths of Ice Cavern. His keen eyes hadn't caught sight of any flares in the sky, and surely Spyro would've witnessed whatever tore its way through the Gnorc camp. Either the purple dragon had been looking the other way, or...

Titan charged back to the barracks as fast as his wings could carry him. Waves of concern hammered the inside of his skull as he ordered the fastest flier in Cliff Town to check on the small dragon, but the clifftop was barren. All the scout reported was a lengthy trail of dirt and sand running down the side of the hill, as if something had taken a tumble. The severity of the situation seemed to grow in magnitude with every heartbeat. This was supposed to be an easy mission, but it was swiftly turning into an all-out catastrophe. Spyro could've been taken captive by whatever decimated the rebel Gnorcs, or worse.

Titan was a hairsbreadth away from amassing a search party to comb the desert for the stray purple dragon when he threw open the barrack doors. Spyro carelessly dropped a brown fabric sack on the floor, unceremoniously spilling a slew of steel weaponry across the stone tiles before the silent spectators. The young dragon was noticeably out of breath and had sand stuck between his amethyst scales, but he appeared otherwise unharmed. His dragonfly had clearly been pulling overtime - Sparx' golden glow had faded to emerald green, and he was desperately in need of a butterfly or two.

Titan didn't know if he should hug Spyro, or smack him across the head.

He settled for sitting in silence while Spyro wildly regaled them with the story of how he spotted two Gnorcs trudging through the desert and gave chase before the wasteland could swallow them whole. He gestured excitedly as he recounted leaping into the camp and unleashing a barrage of karate kicks, taking down ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND GNORCS Gnorcs with a single uppercut. Titan didn't really believe that, nor the part where Sparx shot lasers from his eyes and Spyro used telekineses to fling a sea of cacti at the Gnorcs. The purple dragon sure had an... active imagination. The only piece that was even remotely plausible was that a swarm of dragon hatchlings accosted him for autographs, which is why Spyro sauntered into the barracks so late. Titan had to stop the vivid storytelling before he suffered an aneurysm.

"I gave you a flare gun for this exact outcome," he stated, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. "Why didn't you use it?"

Spyro halted his demonstration of how he pulverised the Gnorcs by summoning a meteor from space and mashing them into the ground. The fact that he'd technically disobeyed the leader of the Peace Keepers by leaving his post had slipped his mind. Spyro stopped patting himself on the back long enough to notice that Titan was unusually high-strung, and his right eye kept twitching.

"I was totally going to, I swear!" he insisted unconvincingly. "But I... sort of... lost it in the sand."

Titan pinched the bridge of his nose. He was starting to understand why Cosmos had such a short fuse around children. Even Sparx crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes in displeasure at Spyro's halfhearted excuse. Titan was overwhelmed with relief to see that the young dragon had come back in once piece, plus he wouldn't have to face the wrath of the other elders for letting a child be killed under his watch. On the other hand, Spyro's insubordination had fundamentally undermined the entire point of the mission. A child had obliterated the forces that a whole armada of armed adults hesitated to conquer.

That was a line of thought that Titan refused to entertain. It wasn't appropriate to blame his own failings on anyone else, especially a child. Spyro likely didn't realise the consequences of his actions and believed he was helping their cause. Titan could see the eagerness and innocence in the purple dragon's eyes. He knew from the bottom of his heart that he would've done the same if he was Spyro's age. There was so much that Titan saw of himself in the younger dragon; he wasn't truly upset that Spyro disobeyed his orders and acted of his own volition. He just wanted Spyro to recognise his own potential before it slipped away.

"Spyro," Titan firmly stated, his voice level and controlled. "You abandoned your post, disregarded direct orders, and endangered both yourself and your dragonfly."

Spyro flinched at Titan's steely expression, wanting to earth to swallow him whole. Titan did his best to conceal his frustration from the small dragon. Legend or not, Spyro's spirit was overflowing with ambition that could be whittled down and moulded into a sword to slice through anything. No other dragon had the bravery to combat an army of Gnorcs and their brick-headed leader or topple an evil regime and the Sorceress who controlled it. Titan could give Spyro anything he needed to grow his strength until none would dare threaten the Dragon Realms again. So why wouldn't he listen?!

"I'm sorry," Spyro apologised, twiddling his thumbs in embarrassment. "I know I didn't follow your orders, and I didn't mean to make you worry. I wanna show you that I can be useful, that I deserve your attention. Isn't being a Peace Keeper all about fighting bad guys and saving the day?"

Titan felt the corners of his mouth turn up involuntarily. Ah, if only that were true. The life of a Peace Keeper was one of glory and honour, but it was also one of regulations and paperwork. They spent just as much time basking in the joy of victory as they did polishing the floors and rescuing stray cats from trees.

"You know, you remind me of someone," Titan reflected with a wistful expression. "A dragon who wanted to go down in history as the most powerful Peace Keeper. Who would do anything to defend those less fortunate, even if it went against all laws of common sense.”

"Really?" Spyro asked with his head cocked to one side. "Who?"

Titan squatted down to Spyro's level and ruffled his head spikes affectionately.

"Me. Strength isn't just about how much butt you can kick. It's about protecting what matters most. We're Peace Keepers, not War Mongers. Every dragon has a vital role to play, regardless of whether you're on the front line or not. We all must depend on each other to fulfil what is asked of us. You must learn to pick and choose your battles. Victory is worthless if it was paid for with blood."

Titan stood back up to his full height, his royal purple wings glimmering in the glaring midday sun. He remembered this exact moment from a different perspective, one where he was the one being berated for his insubordination. He wondered what the elder felt while looking down his nose at the orange dragon hatchling trying to worm his way into the ranks. Would he crack a rare smile and chuckle under his breath if he heard the same words he once tried to drill into Titan's head now being repeated by the very dragon who scorned his wisdom? His younger self would've despised the dragon he'd become, but that wasn't something to be mourned. It was something to celebrate. It meant he'd grown, he'd gained the experience and worldly insight that he once lacked.

"Don't get me wrong; kicking butt still matters," Titan clarified with a twinkle in his eye. "I'm glad you're OK, but we have rules for a reason, and I can't ignore that you didn't follow what I asked of you."

"... That's fair," Spyro conceded. He could reel off a long list of reasons to explain why he acted the way he did, but Titan deserved better than that after sticking his neck out for him. "I had no idea that being a Peace Keeper meant following so many rules! I'm not any closer to figuring things out, but... I don't know that my place is here."

Titan was reluctant to allow the astronomical potential burning within Spyro's soul like a wildfire slip away so easily, but... he was right. He was a free spirit, a wildcard entirely untethered by the rules and who lived by his own creed. There was something so typically Artisan about his carefree attitude, how he snubbed the pre-established norms in favour of whatever new and exciting awaited beyond the horizon. Spyro certainly didn't fit the typical description of an Artisan, but it was irrefutable that something had rubbed off on him.

"It takes a strong dragon to stand up for themselves when they know they're right, but an even stronger dragon to recognise when they're wrong," Titan declared with one hand over his heart. "Maybe you'll come to appreciate the ways of the Peace Keepers. Maybe you won't. But only you can decide if it matters."

Spyro still wasn't 100% sure he was onboard with Titan's words, but the typhoon in his heart had begun to slowly subside. He was being pulled in so many directions, but perhaps the tugging was weakening. Spyro had spent a lot more time being told off than he intended, but he was beginning to see a side of the other homeworlds that never would've revealed itself to him. Nestor said that the worlds weren't all black and white, but perhaps they weren't necessarily just shades of grey either.

"I can't offer you a position among the Peace Keepers after your debacle today," Titan relented, though his voice held no misgivings. "Though, I'm impressed you retrieved all our stolen weapons. If you ever decide to give this job a real shot, you're always welcome back. But I will kill you if you do that again."

Spyro broke out into a bright grin. It didn't matter that he'd been booted from the barracks before he could battle any baddies. One of the most kick-ass dragons in all the realms was proud of him, and that was enough to put a smile on Spyro's face. He stood on his hinds legs and saluted with a comically intense expression.

"YES, SIR!"

Titan allowed a bellowing laugh to escape his lungs before returning the salute.

"Get outta here kid, and send Nestor my regards."

Titan waited until Spyro scampered out the heavy oak doors on his way to the next homeworld before collapsing into a seat with an exhausted sigh. He felt as if he'd aged several centuries in a matter of hours. It was no wonder the other elders were such bitter old coots - these young dragons kept them all on their toes. How was Spyro such a breath of fresh air and a heap of trouble at the same time?! The purple dragon didn't just break the mould; he shattered it like shards of stained glass. Titan groaned to himself and rested his head in his hands as he tried to steel his shaky nerves. Their mission to wipe out the remaining Gnorcs had technically been a success, but the orange dragon couldn't shake the feeling that he'd come out as the loser.

Titan remembered the day he was freed from his crystal prison as if it was only yesterday. He expected to find his most trusted general by his side with enough artillery to sink a Breeze Builder battleship. Or maybe he would find a scrawny private, fresh out of basics but ready to fight for his kingdom. Instead, Titan came face to face with a tiny purple dragon; a sprog who hadn't even grown into his wings, but who thought nothing of opposing an army of monsters all on his own because it was the right thing to do. A dragon who threw aside millennia of expectations set by his bloodline because the universe was calling him for something greater. At the time, Titan was terrified to know that the fate of the Dragon Realms lay in the scaly hands of an Artisan. Now, he wouldn't have it any other way.

Titan didn't know if a dragon could be a warrior without also being a Peace Keeper, but if any dragon could, then it was Spyro. When he later ran into a mob of hatchlings proudly displaying where Spyro had signed their wings, Titan wondered if he would have long to wait before he found out.

Chapter Text

Bruno always knew that Spyro was bad luck.

He would swear to anyone who dared to ask that he was not one of the more unreasonably superstitious Beast Makers. The homeworld had an unfortunate reputation for attributing even the most minor inconveniences to what were otherwise entirely unrelated events. Flaming the indigenous glowing mushrooms would cause snakes to manifest physically in your house. Stepping on a crack while climbing the temple steps would break your elders back. Polishing your scales during a full moon would give the Devil Dogs in Dark Passage super-rabies instead of just regular rabies. It was a wonder than any dragon ever left their house for fear of the universe smiting them for something they hadn't thought twice about. Bruno wasn't dumb - the crazy superstitions had no basis in the physical or even magical plane. He was a dragon with a sensible head on his shoulders, but attracting the wrath of whatever higher power safeguarded their kingdom wasn't particularly high on his agenda. Bruno certainly wasn't going to be the one to break the elders back. Not this time, anyway.

This ideology bled into the physicality of the creatures that the Beast Makers earned their names from. The Magic Crafters strived to keep the compartments of magic and science separate to retain the purity of the arts. But to the Beast Makers, the two was were essentially one and the same, just expressed in different forms. If Bruno had a gem for every dragon that claimed they were 'violating the sanctity of magic', he could retire to Seashell Shore tomorrow. The day they stopped eating the genetically modified crops that the Beast Makers had selectively bred, or abstained from lighting their houses with the Beast Makers' electricity, was the day he would consider their opinion on the matter.

Bruno did his best not to lump Spyro in with the others beneath his umbrella of contempt. It wasn't his fault that generations of cultural drift had driven a concrete wedge between the homeworlds. No matter how hard the purple dragon puffed out his chest or stood on his tiptoes, he was still just a child. But Spyro was the only dragon that Bruno had ever known who couldn't take two steps without being dragged by his tail into some interdimensional conflict. The fabric of logic seemed to unravel whenever the kid got up to his usual shenanigans, and Bruno couldn't turn a blind eye. Maybe the universe had a vendetta against the young dragon, or perhaps it was on his side, but the Beast Maker elder did not want that attribute to rub off on him. He was very much content spending his time fishing, relaxing, and performing abhorrent acts of voodoo in peace, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, the concept of peace and quiet was lost on Spyro. When he materialised out of thin air, gripping a parchment from Nestor and begging for access to the forbidden Beast Maker magic, Bruno couldn't help but wonder if this was a bad idea.

It hadn't taken Spyro long to track the navy elder down, and not just because his oversized hat was such a bold fashion statement. You could take the Beast Maker out of the swamp, but no one could ever take the swamp out of the Beast Maker. Bruno was silent squatting by the edge of a babbling brook in Spooky Swamp, supporting his weight on his tail and dangling the line of a fishing rod into the murky water. A dented bucket holding a single scrap of meat rested by his side like a loyal guard dog. Fishing was the only time that Bruno ever sat still, and the elder was like a statue while dense reeds brushed against his calves. The only movement was the occasional flick of his tail whenever a gnat fluttered too close.

Spyro wasn't enjoying the musty miasma of the marsh nearly as much. Globs of water dripping from the trees kept landing in his eyes, and the smell of petrichor wouldn't leave his nostrils. Sparx was so small that a single raindrop could knock him out of the sky, so he was sheltering beneath one of Spyro's leathery wings. But still, despite the gloominess of the bog around him, the perpetual rain couldn't extinguish the fire smouldering in the purple dragon's eyes.

Bruno accepted the parchment from Spyro's eager claws, skimmed over its contents, and let out a gruff, nasally snort. Looks like Nestor was sticking his snout where it didn't belong again. Many dragons shunned the prophecy of the Purple Dragon as nothing more than groundless rambling, but no Beast Maker worth his salt would disregard the warnings of those who came before them. What kind of perceptive reptile would accept the existence of ghosts, fairies, and warlocks, yet deny the existence of destiny and soothsaying?! Why was that where they chose to draw the line?! When the Dream Weavers of yore predicted the arrival of a dragon with amethyst scales, who lacked a magic signature or an alignment towards any of the six Dragon Realms, Bruno never doubted them for a moment. It was not a matter of 'if', but of 'when'.

Make no mistake, Bruno did not share the Dream Weavers' optimism. The Legend of the Purple Dragon was not something to be celebrated. It was something to be feared.

"This is a surprise.

Nestor is quite protective

Of his young hatchlings."

Bruno sullenly folded the letter and shoved it under his hat for safekeeping. The fishing lure bobbed in the algae-ridden water as insatiable piranhas nibbled at the bait. The cadmium elder's stomach was already growling at the thought of smoking the fish over an open flame with a little lemon and thyme. Spyro noticed that Bruno's attention was more focused on his fishing and pursed his lips in disapproval.

"I know that firsthand."

I'm trying to find my place

In the Dragon Realms.

I know so little

About all the other worlds.

I have to learn more."

Bruno could practically see the cogs turning in Spyro's head as he tried to fit his pleas into a haiku. Thank god the swamps back home didn't force their inhabitants to speak in poetry; they heard enough cryptic nonsense from the Dream Weavers as it was. Bruno aggressively yanked the fishing line out of the river's grasp, hoping to haul in a horde of succulent, juicy piranhas ready to be served over rice. Unfortunately, the greedy fish had snacked on the bait while Bruno was distracted and all that was left was a slightly nibbled hook. Drat. Bruno took the last slab of meat from his bucket and skewered it onto the steel hook before lowering the line back into the unseen depths of the dark water.

"Hate to disappoint,

but there's a reason for that.

Our blood must be pure.

We have a duty

to shield our teachings from those

who might abuse them."

Spyro could feel the swell of dissatisfaction growing in his stomach. He was sick of being told that he didn't have the right kind of 'blood'. That a dragon could only ever be defined by the circumstances of their birth. He was curious about the inner machinations of the Realms and their leaders, but Spyro was learning that the rules were as rigid and unbending as their scales. Each dragon had so much respect and passion for their chosen trade that they'd inadvertently pushed each other apart for fear of crossing the streams. There was so much more to the Dragon Realms than Spyro could've ever imagined, but it lay just out of reach.

"Is that a no, then?"

Bruno tossed Spyro an expectant look, wondering if he was going to finish his haiku, but the purple dragon bit his tongue. Despite the difference in size and power, Spyro refused to drop his gaze and eagerly stared up at the Beast Maker elder with determination blazing in his eyes. It had been a long time since such a young dragon had stood his ground against Bruno, and he couldn't help but crack a small smile. Spyro was no typical Artisan, that's for sure.

Even after all these years, Bruno didn't regret his decision to reject the orphaned egg. He'd almost spat out his gumbo when Cosmos approached him for help. Both Magic Crafters and Beast Makers were intrinsically intertwined with the gossamer threads of magic, but they never saw eye to eye over how it should be utilised. Bruno saw no difference between the flow of electricity through metal wires and the river of magic running across leaves and feathers. Cosmos would always tout that the dreary swamps were too dangerous to raise a child, and the acres of electrified floors didn't help his case. The Beast Makers saw very few eggs come their way, and that was how Bruno liked it. Witnessing Gnasty Gnorc and his gnincompoop gnoblins run riot with their technology only solidified that stance. The Beast Maker secrets could never be shared with someone outside their kin.

Besides, the Legend of the Purple Dragon was some bad juju if ever there was any. Bruno could tie as many gris-gris around his neck as he wanted, and it wouldn't have been enough. Some saw the arrival of a dragon lacking the deeply ingrained magic signature that defined their place in the world as a sign of an encroaching age of peace. The potential of such a dragon would be feasibly limitless, and no enemy would dare lay siege upon the kingdom again! But to Bruno, it could only be an omen of the apocalypse. No one dragon was meant to hold such boundless strength, and they could annihilate the Dragon Realms just as soon as save them all.

At least Cosmos had the sense to give the purple-speckled egg to an Artisan. If Spyro was indeed the fabled dragon of lore, then raising him as an artist was the best chance they had of eliminating his potential before it spiralled out of control.

Bruno felt something tug on the end of his fishing line and hauled the bait out of the water before it could slip away again. Several ravenous piranhas were hanging from the slab of meat with their razor-sharp teeth still dug into the flesh. Jackpot! Bruno forcefully shook the fishing rod over the bucket, knocking the piranhas into the dented pail. Spyro took a couple steps back, watching the bucket violently shake as the fish inside fought over the meat still stuck between their teeth.

"Not so fast, Spyro.

I can't teach you our magic

But there's something else..."

Spyro immediately perked up at the promise that his request would not go unheeded. He was itching to flex his newfound control over magic and expand his repertoire outside of summoning a single butterfly, but at least this was something! The purple dragon exchanged a soaking wet high five with Sparx who still cowered beneath his wing while Bruno packed up his equipment. The denim dragon held the bucket by its rusted base as piranhas jumped out of the can and tried to bite his nose off.

"I've just had a thought.

I've been working on something

That I know you'll like.

You can help with it!

Meet me back at Misty Bog.

You'll be great for this."

Bruno's heart warmed as Spyro promptly broke out into the widest grin he'd ever seen. The purple dragon began to tap his feet in excitement, splashing water with every step and almost drowning his dragonfly in the process. He had no idea what Bruno had in store, but he didn't care! Maybe he was going to teach him to hex someone, or made a voodoo doll, or SHOOT LIGHTNING FROM HIS FINGERTIPS! Spyro paused in his energetic dancing, thinking hard about a haiku that could put his gratitude into words. There was really only one word he could muster.

"Thanks!"

And with that, Spyro sprinted off into the depths of Spooky Swamp, leaving a trail of raindrops in his wake. He was so drenched that his scales felt like soggy cardboard, but Bruno barely noticed the trickles of water running his curved horns. Bruno had come to terms with the fact that most dragons saw the Beast Makers as backwater savages, overly secretive and unapproachable. It was something he'd almost come to relish, a badge of honour or a mark of mastery. It proved they had successfully sheltered the Beast Maker ways from the outside world. Many dragons had attempted to solve the secrets of the swamp, but none had done so with a spring in their step and a smile on their sleeve. Bruno would never betray his forefathers by revealing the Beast Makers arts to an outsider, but Spyro had dragged himself all this way in the rain. That had to stand for something.

Perhaps Spyro could break free of the bad luck that hung around his horns after all.

Spyro really, really disliked swamps.

Why any dragon would voluntarily spend their lives trudging through muck and sludge all day was beyond him. Every mosquito in the Dragon Realms must've squeezed themselves into the miles of murky marshlands. Moss clung to every plank of the boardwalks that stretched over the green water, and Spyro was genuinely concerned that the boards would splinter below his feet. Slippery mud squelched between his toes, and the lack of sunlight penetrating through the dense fog cast a melancholy shadow over the dank green forestry. Anything standing in one place for too long would inevitably be sucked into the bottomless mud pits before they could say "Metalhead".

Still, Spyro would have to stomach the rancid stench of the peat bogs if

he wanted to continue his quest for self-realisation. At least there weren't any electrified floors out in the far reaches of the swamp. He could still smell the scent of singed scales. Sparx was very lucky that he could fly. Admittedly, the Beast Maker homeworld was the realm that resonated with Spyro the least, but perhaps that was because it reminded him of getting zapped with electricity every five minutes. Some of the most adrenaline-inducing Supercharges were found here, along with the oldest temples and tallest trees. There was a lot to like about the Beast Maker homeworld; maybe Spyro just needed to give it a second chance.

Misty Bog made it very difficult to keep his optimism running. It wasn't even the only realm with homicidal plants, but something about the impenetrable grey peasouper and the ruins of stone skyscrapers set him on edge. Spyro had visited a lot of miserable worlds in his adventures, but the distant sound of incessant croaking made his eyelids twitch with anxiety. Sparx's beady eyes darted around the flat, gravelly landscape, scouring the area for any toads that might want to make him their next meal. The sun was beginning to set past the curve of the horizon, and the shadows cast by the desiccated trees were like witch's fingers creeping across the earth.

Perhaps Misty Bog could do with a few electrified fences after all...

By comparison, Bruno felt right at home. The overly bright and saccharine environments of the rest of the Dragon Realms just gave him a migraine. They feigned a sense of safety with their vibrant colours and whimsical creatures, yet were no less dangerous than the alligators and tar pits of the swamplands. Bruno had seen the metal-plated spiders that scuttered around High Caves, the aggressive sheepdogs of Toasty, and the possessed suits of armour in Haunted Towers. The Beast Maker homeworld had nothing to hide, made no attempt to disguise the threat it posed to those who neglected to treat the marshes with respect.

Yet even in the face of bushes that wanted to devour him whole, Spyro persevered against his fear. He may look like he was on the verge of running for the hills, but he persisted nonetheless. Perhaps Bruno had made the right call after all.

Well, that indomitable resilience was soon to be tested, and the results were sure to be explosive. Spyro's popularity was really going to blow up after this! And who didn't want to end the evening with a bang?

... Bruno was going to have Spyro blow some things up, if he wasn't being clear enough.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly, Spyro," the elder dragon noted as Spyro trotted up to him with a glum expression on his face. He tried to shake off the flakes of mud that seemed to get stuck between every scale, but more just took their place. Spyro really hated swamps.

"No problem," Spyro replied as nonchalantly as he could muster. The only saving grace was that he wasn't being forced to speak in haikus. "So, what are we doing? Are we gonna wrestle some gators or zap some mosquitoes out of the sky?!"

"We?!" Bruno burst into bellowing laughter at Spyro's excited probing, slapping one knee and wheezing as he struggled to catch his breath. "Whadya mean 'we'?! I'm not doing anything today!"

Bruno continued to chortle as if Spyro had just dropped the funniest joke in dragon history. That was until he tried to stand back upright and straighten his back, which cracked and crunched like his spine was made of bubble wrap. There was more than one reason that Bruno wasn't leading the charge anymore. Spyro's grin slowly slipped away as the implications of the navy dragon's reaction sunk in. He'd just assumed that they'd be training together, exploring the lengthy history of the Beast Makers and their unique perspective on magic and science. After all, that was what he'd done with Cosmos and Titan, but Bruno clearly had something else in store and Spyro was getting a bad feeling in his stomach.

"You remember the Attack Frogs, right?" Bruno asked after pulling himself together. Spyro silently nodded in trepidation. He could still hear their raspy croaking, the slapping of webbed feet against mud and soil, the wet slurping of whip-like tongues. Never had any other foul creature received such an appropriate name. Even the sentient bushes quaked at the sight of their sky-blue warty hides, and those bushes ate dragons.

"Well, we've had enough of them running rampant in our swamp!" Bruno bellowed, furrowing his overgrown eyebrows and almost knocking his hat off his head with how angrily he stamped the ground. "We haven't been able to wrangle them back into their cages ever since Gnasty's Gnorcs set them loose; you can't get within five feet of the blasted things! I knew we shouldn't have given them serrated tongues..."

Spyro swallowed deeply at the memory of getting whipped three ways to Sunday by those toads. The Beast Makers had done what they do best - created an apex predator to solve a problem that probably could've been handled by a few landmines and some barbed wire. The Attack Frogs were never meant to roam the wilds of Misty Bog unchecked and untamed, and it showed. Thank goodness the Sorceress had already turned her back on the Dragon Realms long before the toads were conceived. She might've actually won if she had a legion of the pests on a leash.

"So, here's where you come in," Bruno stated with unrestrained enthusiasm, entirely oblivious to the fact that Spyro's face had drained of all colour. "You remember the building where you found Damon, right? The hollow tree where the Attack Frogs are stacked from floor to ceiling? They're using it as a nest at night-time."

Bruno handed Spyro some kind of scratched steel crate that was unlike anything the purple dragon had seen before. It was heavy enough that he had to carry it in both hands, and a faint ticking could be heard from within its metal walls. An unlit screen was set into the top of the strange device, along with a bright red button with a sloppy skull and crossbones drawn on in white paint. Bruno wasn't the most... subtle of dragons, and it didn't take much for Spyro to decipher what the box was smuggling.

"It's dark enough now for you to sneak inside undetected," Bruno explained, glaring at the silhouette of the hollow tree trunk against the setting sun. He could've set the thing on fire without explosives just from how much malice was seething within his chest. "That bomb will make a mushroom cloud large enough to be seen from the Dream Weaver homeworld! We can be rid of the frog menace once and for all!"

Bruno punched a fist into the sky in triumph, accompanied by the snapping of his arthritic joints. He pouted and sourly rubbed his throbbing elbow while Spyro turned the bomb over in his hands. The Beast Makers had an affinity for physics and electricity, so it didn't surprise him that they'd chosen such a straightforward solution. Cosmos would've taken half a month to devise a spell to disapparate the frogs without bloodloss, but Bruno was ready to blast them all to kingdom come. It was an inelegant plan, but no less effective.

But something wasn't sitting right with Spyro. The Attack Frogs were a scab on the face of the swamp, but there were still only frogs. Surely a legion of dragons could herd them up and stick muzzles on them? Was it really necessary to leave a crater where the amphibians once stood? The toads were a blight upon the marshlands, but they were still just animals. Weren't dragons supposed to be better than this?

"W-We're going to explode them?" Spyro questioned, uncertain if he hadn't just misinterpreted Bruno's zest for genocide. "Isn't this maybe a little excessive?"

"Of course it is!" Bruno replied, puffing up his chest in a show of bravado. "Beast Makers never do anything in halves! It's also gonna be very cathartic! Besides, the smoke from the explosion will make the frogs taste great. Just find somewhere to plant it and come back here so we can enjoy the show!"

Bruno wasn't jesting when he described the plan as a cause for celebration. Cleetus and Jed had appeared sometime during Spyro's briefing and were jamming the wooden legs of deck chairs into the muddy ground. Bubba was setting up some kind of food stand and was trying to light a pile of coal with his fire breath without burning down the whole structure. The dragons' hatred of the Attack Frogs spread wide across the homeworld, and more would be coming to watch the fireworks. It was strange to think that a race of resilient reptiles was bested by a bunch of bullfrogs.

Spyro just shook his head and turned his attention towards the carved-out tree trunk looming in the distance like a wooden tombstone. This entire plan was a health and safety nightmare, but Bruno was placing all his trust in the purple dragon, and Spyro refused to let him down. Hopefully the magic imbued in the talismans and fetishes that hung from every neck and horn would rub off on him. He tucked Sparx under one leathery wing to conceal his glow as the last embers of sunlight dipped below the horizon. Spyro was never the stealthiest dragon, but he would have to learn on the job.

Besides, it was only one entire redwood tree filled to the seams with lethal toads whose tongue could slice through bark! Whose saliva contained venom that could paralyse muscles, and whose mere croak was an omen of impending doom! This would be a cakewalk!

Maybe if Spyro told himself that enough, he would actually start believing it.

It wasn't often that Spyro was grateful for the squelching of mud beneath his feet. The soggy earth masked the sound of his claws clicking against stone as he tentatively approached the perilous tree husk. By the icy light of the full moon, the branches were like broken, mangled claws grasping at the sky. By day, it wasn't much prettier. The murderous bushes snored and snorted as the small dragon slipped past, lacking the sunlight to feed them the energy to give chase. Spyro's keen eyes caught flashes of faint light drifting from bioluminescent mushrooms, but no signs of merciless frogs with a taste for dragonhide. Even as the full moon reached its apex in the cloudy skies above him, the purple dragon still expected an army of toads to come crawling out of the sludgy quagmire any second now.

The veil of midnight was both a blessing and a curse to the skittish dragon. His purple scales were almost grey in the few rays of moonlight that penetrated the dense fog, and the sparse scatterings of fireflies disguised Sparx's luminous golden glow. But the shroud of twilight just as readily masked the potential horrors lurking in the shadows. Spyro swallowed heavily and kept his mind focused on the task at hand. The ice-cold metal bomb was like a ten-ton weight in his hands, but the purple dragon refused to let his nerves overwhelm him. Not only was this a chance to prove himself to Bruno and the reclusive Beast Makers, but to ensure the safety of baby dragons for years to come! Perhaps blowing the Attack Frogs halfway to Avalar was a little overkill, and Spyro couldn't help but wonder if they really deserved this, but he didn't doubt that Bruno had considered every other resolution before landing on the one that used gunpowder. Maybe.

The dynamic duo skipped across the stones leading towards the tree, afraid to even breathe too loudly lest they wake the irritable amphibians sheltered within the bark-lined sanctuary. Spyro glided over the river of toxic swamp water as it bubbled and broiled beneath his shadow. The majority of Misty Bog was connected by rickety wooden piers, barely holding their weight against the acidity of the marsh, but this building was the exception. No gangways lead up to the cavernous mouth of the desiccated tree, and Spyro was beginning to understand why. The Attack Frog could come and go as they pleased - their leathery hides were barely touched by the astringent river - but the tree was effectively closed off from the rest of the swamp. Only the stupidest dragons would ever go out of their way to brave the moat of battery acid.

As Spyro's claws quietly clicked against the wooden staircase, he wondered what that made him...

Now that the pair were out of sight of any starved and salivating shrubbery, Sparx wiggled out from under Spyro's wing that was holding him a smidge too tightly. His golden light illuminated the corpse of the tree like a lantern. The opening leading into the dead tree's guts was like a tooth-lined maw opening up to swallow the pair whole. Spyro swallowed the lump in his throat and skulked forward, keeping his body as low as he dared without losing his balance on his hind legs and dropping the bomb clutched in his claws. He did not want to drop the ordinance on his foot and get caught in his blast radius. This wasn't the time to test just how flame-proof dragon scales were.

Spyro pressed his back against the wall and peered around the corner using his peripheral vision. Only the tip of his snout jutted beyond the threshold as he tried to sneak a peek at the contents of the main room. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he strained, Spyro had not developed the ability to see around corners. Only the croaky snoring of unseen amphibians offered a clue as to what awaited him on the other side of that wall. Sparx's stare burned a hole through Spyro's skull as the dragonfly silently gestured towards the interior with his bulbous eyes. Even though those Attack Frogs could snatch the golden insect out of the air with a sticky tongue before he could say 'suppertime', Sparx was urging the pair to continue ploughing forward. Spyro could almost hear the dragonfly's thoughts: 'We've faced much worse than this. Are we really scared of a few frogs? Are we going to crawl back to Bruno with our tail between our legs?'

Well, Spyro was absolutely not going to be shaken by some antagonist amphibians! And that wasn't just because he was the only one of the duo who had a tail! He was the hero of the Dragon Realms, the liberator of the Forgotten Worlds, and the record holder of every skate park in Avalar! He was going to pull himself together, straighten out his scales, and march into that tree like the unstoppable badass that he was! Obviously Bruno had asked for Spyro's help because he was the only dragon alive that could take on the hoard and come out unscathed! With a renewed sense of righteousness and the distant sounds of applause that were definitely only in his head, Spyro jumped out of the shadows and prepared to throw some hands.

The entire tree was overflowing with sleeping frogs.

Spyro gawped at the literal army of toads while trying to keep his muscles as still as possible. He didn't dare breathe as Sparx's sunny yellow glow reflected off iridescent slimy skin and webbed toes. Nature had a funny way of advertising just how dangerous a creature was by painting them in rainbow hues, and the Attack Frogs were no different. Thankfully for the purple dragon, the dragonfly's light wasn't enough to rouse the frogs from their shared slumber. Spyro's heart almost stopped beating as one flopped over onto its back with a wet slap, and another frog licked its bulbous eyelid with its neon tongue, but he had evaded detection. For now.

Spyro let out a shaky breath, his mouth suddenly as arid as Dry Canyon. There had to be a couple dozen frogs stacked on top of each other in there, more than enough to overpower a dragon several times his size. He should've paid more attention to Handel and Greta's ninja moves. Spyro had four left feet and two left wings. This was gonna be tough, but he hadn't come all this way to trip right at the goalposts. Maybe he didn't have the aesthetic flair of an Artisan, the aptitude for wizardry of a Magic Crafter, or the dutifulness of a Peace Keeper. But he sure as hell had the gumption and bombastic character of a Beast Maker! To them, the neverending flow of magic was something to be tamed and harnessed, moulded by pylons and resistors into something to be used for the betterment of dragonkind. Spyro resonated much stronger with their pragmatic ideology than with the Magic Crafter's pursuit of perfection. The swamp would take some getting used to, but Spyro would never find his place if he stood cowering in fear of what the future held.

With a newfound surge of confidence, Spyro forced himself to delve into the belly of the tree. He winced every time his claws scraped against the wooden panelling as he stepped over legs and around unfurled tongues. He turned into an amethyst statue whenever a frog kicked its legs or licked its lips in its sleep, probably dreaming of the succulent taste of dragon steak. Spyro's eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting of the hollowed tree, and he caught glimpses of glossy eggs bunched up beneath the bellies of several Attack Frogs like piles of gems. The translucent eggs were suspended in a glue-like fluid, and he could faintly make out the silhouettes of tiny tadpoles nestled within their gelatinous cradles. Spyro smiled as a vision of himself perched upon a mound of jewels and crystals crossed his mind. It seemed that the love of shiny objects transcended species. Perhaps they weren't so different after all.

Spyro's relief was palpable as he finally made contact with the smooth stone stairs in the back room. He scrambled up the steps before his tail could be slurped up by a slippery salamander. The indent of the pedestal where Damon was once imprisoned as a statue still marred the floor like an unsightly bruise, and the night sky trickled down the stairs that wound around the outside of the building like a coiled serpent. Spyro carefully laid the bomb in the centre of the pedestal's remains and cautiously pressed the red button painted with the skull and crossbones. He half expected the explosive to denote on the spot, but the device merely let out a muted beep and the screen superglued to its surface flickered to life. The display turned on and off several times before beginning a countdown to its inevitable ignition. Spyro took a very large step back, but the bomb seemed content to sit on the floor and wait.

Spyro would've patted himself on the back if not for fear of waking the incapacitated amphibians behind him. The trap was laid, and he could strut back to Bruno like the champion he was. No one could deny that he lacked the fortitude to persist in an environment that was out to kill him at every turn. The Beast Makers' doctrine was unconventional, but that was Spyro's middle name!

... So why was his heart still filled with doubt?

Spyro looked back at the mass of sleeping Attack Frogs. They seemed so innocent and unassuming when they weren't trying to turn his insides into chow mein. He could still catch the faint shimmer of the swathes of eggs nestled beneath fat frog bellies, winking back at him like stars in the dead of night. Spyro had not forgotten the sting of their whip-like tongues against his skin, but they were just animals. They weren't vengeful or belligerent; they were just acting off their instincts. Instincts that the Beast Makers had given them before disowning their creations and leaving them to fend for themselves. The frogs had even inherited their creators' love of shiny round objects. Was Spyro really going to condemn an entire race to oblivion because the dragons couldn't cope with the idea of something being higher than them on the food chain?

Spyro slapped his cheek and shook himself out of his introspective stupor. He'd fought on both sides of the war between Zephyr and Breeze Harbour. He hadn't interfered when the magicians accidentally turned the fauna of Crystal Islands into gems. Was this really where Spyro drew the line? He'd been given a job to do, and he was not about to trundle up to Bruno and announce that he'd backed out because his conscience was too fragile. Before he could talk himself into tossing the armed bomb into the sludgy swamp, he charged out of the back entrance and unfurled his wings into a glide that carried him towards solid ground. Well, as solid as the ground could be when everything was so wet and dreary. Now there was no chance of taking back the explosives, not unless he wanted to sneak through a tree stuffed with Attack Frogs for a second time.

What's done was done. Spyro just hoped that the consequences would be worth it.

Bruno still remembered the first beast he'd made. It was an absolute disaster.

That was a pretty impressive feat for such an old, wisened dragon. Years of inhaling noxious swamp fumes had killed off most of Bruno's brain cells, and he could hardly tell his voodoo from his hoodoo these days. It was only last week that he used his TOTEM OF INFINITE DESPAIR to stir his gumbo instead of a ladle and almost poisoned half the realm. That's what he got for keeping his gris-gris in the same drawer as his cutlery. Bruno didn't know how the Beast Makers became so obsessed with rituals and luck, but he wasn't going to be the one to break their centuries-long streak. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Bruno was always a slightly... odd-shaped dragon. He'd joke that even his egg was bottom-heavy and weighed as much as a bowling ball. The navy-blue dragon was short and wide with horns so large that they threw off his centre of balance, and the toxic quagmires of the Beast Maker homeworld were not the place to fall flat on his face. The swamp seemed to suck Bruno in like quicksand with every step, and no amount of scrubbing could get the lichen out from between his scales. He hated the homeworld and every inch of its dirty sludge and grime. Why did the Dream Weavers get to float around in the clouds while the Beast Makers dredged through murky, piranha-infested waters every time they left their huts?!

Well, Bruno was going to find a way out of this swamp if it killed him. His ancestors could all shove their totems up their butts for all he cared! The cobalt dragon spurned any connection to the wacky world of voodoo and lasered his focus on the homeworld's other speciality: electricity. Now this was something that Bruno could get behind. The crackling of sparks cascading through the air like a bouquet of roses. The neon glow of copper wires like veins creeping out from the heart of the temples. The Beast Makers had conquered one of the most volatile forces of nature and tamed it like a dog on a leash, and Bruno saw a wealth of untapped potential. The rest of the Dragon Realms could peer down their snouts at the Beast Makers' superstition, but no other species could claim mastery over the elements quite like the swamp folk. If Bruno could claim even a passing proficiency with electricity, he might find his freedom before he died of malaria.

Unfortunately for Bruno, he never particularly embodied the definition of 'peak physical condition'. The porky dragon would jovially pat his belly and declare that he was virtually bulletproof, but his fat distribution was only a hindrance when it came to erecting pylons and soldering wires. Turns out the domestication of lightning was more than just shooting arcs of neon-blue plasma through the air like a mad scientist. Bruno spent more time hammering earthing electrodes into the soil and cleaning debris out of turbines than he did wrestling the eyes of thunderstorms. How did such a superstitious species become so submersed in science anyway?!

Bruno's lack of progress eventually drew the attention of the Beast Maker elder; a menacing dragon with jet-black scales and piercing red eyes like rubies encased in obsidian. Bruno swore that every single stereotype about the Beast Makers originated from that one dragon. He was gruff and boorish, rarely spoke more than four words at a time, and was never seen without half a dozen amulets around his thick neck. Bruno was dwarfed by the other dragons on the best of days, but even the loftiest Beast Maker shrivelled in size beneath the elder's piercing gaze. One of Bruno's buddies claimed that he saw the elder take his armour off in the shower and he had an eight-pack. That he was shredded. He was also an ardent lover of classical poetry. Some claimed that he and Darius would scribe sonnets and soliloquies until the sun set. Just the thought of their leader holding a delicate quill in his meaty fists was enough to spark a chorus of laughter.

The obsidian elder had not judged Bruno on his short stature, his rotund frame, or his podgy limbs. He didn't bat an eye when he accidentally overcharged the central transformer and plunged the realm into darkness. The only thing that the leader judged Bruno on was his attitude towards himself.

The cobalt dragon may have been in denial, but anyone with a working pair of eyes could see that Bruno was trying to force a square peg into a round hole. Watching him attempt to wrangle the unpredictable forces of electricity was like watching a mime trying to give a public speech. Technically possible, but his talents clearly lay elsewhere. Bruno may be astonishingly headstrong, but even his skull wasn't thick enough to break down that wall. There was a big difference between snapping the chains of destiny and stifling natural talent, but Bruno was too stubborn to see that. The jet-black dragon unwrapped a frayed rope from around his neck and slipped it over Bruno's horns, carrying with it several rows of jagged yellow teeth pulled from the jaws of some ungodly creature. He claimed that it would 'dispel the negative energy that was leading Bruno astray.' Bruno wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended.

So Bruno quickly found himself enrolled in a series of lessons aiming to keep the ancient Beast Maker arts alive. The task couldn't have been simpler – create a beast. It was literally in the name of their clan. Their entire way of life revolved around the concept of biological manipulation, and many elders feared that the craft would die off as the younger dragons shifted their focus towards electricity. Bruno was definitely one of those younger dragons. His clutch-mates were practically frothing at the mouth at the thought of constructing hybrid beasts; monsters that nature could never dream of birthing. Bruno just wanted to get it over with so that he could pick up a soldering gun. The art of Beast Making wouldn't get him out of the swamp. In fact, it would probably alienate the other realms and close doors before he even had the chance to turn the handle.

The assignment was vague enough that Bruno could deliberately misinterpret the wording and wiggle out of putting in too much effort. He didn't need to make a beast that was flashy, or useful, or healthy. As long as he could point at it without it keeling over and dying, the denim-blue dragon could stroll out with a passing grade.

Bruno settled on a sheep. The Artisans had them coming out the wazoo and wouldn't miss one if it disappeared into the shroud of dusk. He was tempted to transfigure its blood into a nice honey glaze and barbeque the thing, but Bruno doubted that the elder would let him off that easy. The fang-lined twine around his neck was a perpetual reminder of the crimson eyes that watched his every move. As Bruno watched the sheep repeatedly walk into walls with a glazed-over expression, the solution leapt at him like some sort of vicious, venomous frog with a tongue like a razor's edge. He could make the sheep smarter. It wouldn't be too difficult to add a couple dozen points to the woolly lamb's IQ, and surely it would be enough to earn a C-. There was no way something so simple could go wrong!

Well, the last Bruno had heard, that sheep was still terrorising the Artisan Homeworld dressed as a scarecrow. It was... best not to mention it.

But Bruno's endeavours into the world of Beast Making hadn't just illuminated the neurons in that sheep's brain. It had sparked something inside of him that had been dormant the whole time. He'd put such little energy and effort into his spell, yet the results were staggering. If Bruno had pushed himself a little harder, clenched his butt cheeks or crossed his fingers, the sheep might've been smart enough to learn to read and write! Then again, maybe it was a good thing that it hadn't escalated that far. That sheep was now too damn smart for its own good.

His teacher berated Bruno for his flippant and inconsiderate attitude until the sun rose, but the cobalt dragon's attention was engrossed by the amulet around his neck. His clawed fingers fiddled with the sharpened teeth laced together with string, pressing the needle-like tips against his thumb as he stared off into the distance in deep contemplation. Was there some truth to the elder's claims after all? Was there really some obscure magic embedded within the amulet that warded off the bad juju? Bruno had always turned his nose up at the baseless foundations of voodoo, but had those same beliefs stepped in and steered him in the right direction when his vision was too clouded to see the truth?

Despite technically fulfilling the requirements of his class, Bruno was inevitably issued with a failing grade. Turns out that forging a vengeful vermin was a great way to speedrun his way out of lectures by getting kicked out. But for the first time in his life, Bruno's belly was swirling with fire that wasn't just stoked from the embers of his fire magic. The cobalt dragon had never been the most motivated or mindful student, but the puzzle pieces had begun to fall into place and the final image was revealing itself. The Beast Makers' forays into the power of electricity was not a threat to their traditions - it was a tool that could strengthen their understanding of the whims of nature. If magic and science were two sides of the same coin, then Bruno just needed to land that coin on its edge. Many of the older dragons still looked upon their looming pylons and spiderwebs of cables with disdain, but Bruno's leadership ensured that the Beast Makers' would keep their head turned towards the future.

The obsidian elder dragon never spoke of this again, not even when handing over his leadership to Bruno, but he swore he caught a glimpse of a knowing twinkle in the old lizard's eye. Bruno still wore that amulet to this very day. Whatever forces observed them from beyond the veil, the day that their powers would no longer be needed had yet to come.

In a way, Bruno saw a lot of himself in Spyro. Some would say that was a bad thing! The purple dragon probably felt like he was the only one to go through a saga of uncertainty, isolated from those around him and facing a confusing world with no one by his side. But no dragon was an island. Bruno wasn't very good at speaking his thoughts or knowing many words with more than three syllables, but he sympathised with the young dragon's dilemma. He understood how painful it was to be forced into a box too small for his ambitions because someone else had decided his fate. But he also knew how important it was to trust the intuition of those with more experience. No dragon had the right to dictate Spyro's place in the universe, but they could gently guide him towards his own revelation.

If Spyro truly was the dragon whose name was etched into aeons of legends, then he held the potential to learn any magic he put his mind to. But that didn't mean that he should. Beast Maker magic wasn't going to blow up in anyone's face like the Magic Crafters. It wouldn't lead to a labyrinth of nightmares like the Dream Weavers. And it wouldn't collapse into dust like the Artisans. But the repercussions of incorrectly applied Beast Maker magic would be harboured by the subjects of their experiments, and that was a degree of responsibility that Bruno wasn't sure Spyro was ready to shoulder.

Speaking of the purple dragon, he could see the yellow glow of his dragonfly darting above the sodden swamp like a beacon. Bruno hadn't been kept waiting for as long as he anticipated.

For all the two dragons shared no bond of blood, Bruno still felt the knots in his intestines loosen as Spyro emerged from the bog. Those frogs may wear deceptively amiable colours, but they were no laughing matter for even a fully-grown dragon. The fact that Spyro could stand his ground against the hell beasts was cause for applause on its own, even without the whole 'saving the world three times' thing. Nestor would turn Bruno's hide into a navy-blue wallet if Spyro met a frightful fate at his hands.

Misty Bog was naturally a barren, spiritless wasteland, but today the sounds of laughter and chatter echoed across the peat bogs. There wasn't a dragon for miles that hadn't been slighted by those damned frogs, and the Beast Makers had gathered to watch the amphibians finally meet their makers. Which, ironically, were the Beast Makers themselves. Half the homeworld had turned out for the show, chortling loudly and punching each other in the face in friendship. Bubba was serving hotdogs from a stand that he had pulled from... somewhere, and the smell of sizzling pork was a nice change from the swamp gasses. Cleetus and Zeke were arguing about whose leaf hat was more impressive. Bruno smirked and adjusted his towering leather hunter's hat precariously perched between his oversized horns. There was only one hat worth talking about in this swamp.

"Nice work, Spyro!" Bruno bellowed, greeting the returning dragon with open arms. "No tongue-marks on your scales, eh? Looks like things went well."

"Yeah, it went smoother than I thought it would," Spyro replied, eyeing up the expanding crowd while shaking a stray lily pad off one foot. "...What's with the crowd?"

"They're here to watch the fireworks!" Bruno exclaimed excitedly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I just need to set up these chairs; then we can get this show started."

Lyle handed the cobalt dragon a stack of colourful striped fabric chairs while scarfing down the dragon fruit clenched in his other hand. Bruno unfolded one of the chairs and unceremoniously jammed the legs into the mud with a squelch. The chair sunk several more inches into the dirt as Bruno clambered into its embrace, squirming around until he managed to roll onto his back. Spyro wasn't sure he wanted to know where the Beast Makers kept pulling all these props from.

"Umm... Bruno?" he asked tentatively as more deckchairs found their place in the mud and a dragon to fill them. "Where did these Attack Frogs even come from? They don't exactly fit in with the rest of the swamp creatures."

"HA! That's a polite way of putting it!" Bruno snorted as Bubba handed him a slightly charred hot dog practically drowning in mustard. Just how he liked it. The cobalt elder swallowed the sausage in one bite, licking mustard from his claws in delight. "We created those blasted frogs years before you were hatched. They were supposed to guard the borders of the village but broke out after the Gnorcs rerouted power away from their electrified cages. We've never managed to round them back up, and no one wanted to volunteer to be bait."

Bruno couldn't hide the contempt in his voice at the admission. He'd only discovered the transgression after Spyro freed him from his crystal prison, yet the Beast Maker homeworld was still plagued by the frog infestation. Waking from a dreamless sleep to find that the amphibians had taken over his swamp almost gave his ageing heart a jolt. He knew they should've used something other than electricity to keep the amphibians put. It was always a balancing act between creating a beast that could actually fend off threats, yet was docile enough to follow orders. Bruno should've just planted some landmines; at least they wouldn't talk back. His ranting thoughts were interrupted by Spyro's face slipping into a forlorn frown, his eyebrows furrowed as if he was battling an internal conflict. The expression somehow didn't suit his friendly features.

"Something bothering ya?" Bruno asked while balancing an enormous beer stein on his belly. He might as well have just stuck a straw in the barrel. Spyro huffed and unconsciously rubbed the canary yellow spines on his nape, avoiding his elder's gaze.

"I just feel like maybe this wasn't the right thing to do," the purple dragon replied despondently, a stark contrast to the increasingly rambunctious crowd behind him. "It's our fault that the frogs are so dangerous; they're only behaving like they were bred to do. They don't know any better! And some had even laid eggs - couldn't we just collect the eggs and rehabilitate them or something?"

Bruno sighed deeply. He wasn't surprised that Spyro's snout had poked deeper into the situation than it should have. Artisans had such a fine eye for detail; they were never satisfied with something's face value.

"Spyro," Bruno stated with a controlled, level timbre. "When you were running around on your escapades in Avalar and the Forgotten Worlds, did you ever wonder if the monsters you fought deserved to be spared? They were merely trained to attack anyone who posed a threat to their master. They had no self-awareness, no autonomy or freedom to act otherwise. They were pawns in a game of chess, but had been given the rulebook for scrabble."

Spyro stared up a Bruno as he absorbed the elder's words. The cloud of confusion was yet to dissipate from his vision, and the young dragon didn't fully grasp Bruno's point.

"No, you didn't," Bruno continued, cramming another singed hotdog down his throat and speaking between chews. "Because if you'd chosen to spare the Gnorcs or Rhynocs, someone else would've suffered for it. They would've repaid your mercy with the blood of innocents. No creature ever deserves to be wiped off the face of the earth, but sometimes we have to step in for the greater good."

Bruno would've gotten out of his deckchair and patted Spyro on the back, but he was afraid of slipping a disc in his back. Instead, he wiped the beer foam from around his mouth and offered a compassionate smile. Spyro tried to return the gesture, but the Beast Maker leader could tell that his heart wasn't really in it.

"It's not for us to decide who is and isn't worthy of living just because we're dragons," Bruno stated, softening his southern drawl in an attempt to sound more sympathetic. "Just because something is morally right, that doesn't make it easy. Sometimes it's necessary to cut off a toe to save the rest of the foot. Besides, if they're laying eggs, then we gotta take action before it gets out of hand! That bomb probably only has a couple minutes left."

Bruno downed the rest of his beer in one gulp, tossed the empty flagon over his head, and clapped his hands together. The murmuring of the crowd grew silent as the sound cut through the air like a snare drum. All eyes were on Bruno as he sat a little higher in his chair and pointed at the sky like the conductor of an orchestra.

"ARE WE READY FOR THE SHOW?!"

The silence immediately shattered as every dragon in the vicinity broke out into rapturous cheering. Spyro and Sparx were almost deafened by the ruckus that resonated across the placid swamp. Several snoring trees jerked from their sleep and threw venomous stares at the dragons, but none were dumb enough to rush the fire-breathing lizards head-on. Spyro turned his head towards the black silhouette of the hollowed-out tree as the dragons began clapping and chanting in sync as if egging on the imminent detonation. Sparx reflexively darted behind one of his friend's curved yellow horns and squeezed his beady eyes shut. Spyro's chance to change his mind had been and gone. The bomb didn't care about the moral ambiguity of their actions, and that gunpowder was going to ignite whether he liked it or not.

As the final seconds ticked down on the dynamite's patience, Bruno plucked a pair of sunglasses from beneath his hat and slid them over his eyes.

An enormous fireball engulfed the tree and spread across the skyline, throwing beautiful shades of yellow and red across the surrounding grasslands. A brutal shockwave surged across the poisonous water, shooting waves and chunks of mud into the air as explosion decimated everything it touched. Any trees too close to the encroaching wall of fire were disintegrated by the intense heat, and those lucky enough to survive the blast emerged screaming and wreathed in flames. Spyro had never seen the shrubs move so fast. He wildly shook his head to clear the spots from his vision, almost knocking Sparx out of the sky with his horns. Where there once stood the withered husk of a mighty oak tree, there was now a gigantic mushroom cloud that reached for the heavens like a fungus searching for the sun.

A moment of silence fell across the crowd as the onlookers stood in awe of the spectacle. A charred and ashy branch dropped out of the sky and landed at Bruno's feet. The light of the fire reflected off multi-coloured scales and cast a rainbow on the singed blades of grass. The smoke now smelled of more than just sizzling sausages. As the dust began to settle, the dragons calamitous whooping and hollering started up again with even more gusto than before. Cyrus threw his hat into the air in celebration before quickly chasing off after it before it could land in the mud. Bubba flipped his entire hotdog stand and let out a bellowing roar while flexing his muscles. It was almost enough to drown out the ringing in Spyro's ears.

"I don't think I'm ready for this kind of moral dilemma," he stated blankly as a rain of lightly roasted frog meat fell from the sky and splashed into the muddy water. Sparx stuck out his tongue in disgust.

"That's fair," Bruno conceded as a disembodied frog's leg landed on his belly. He tossed it into the air and chomped it down without chewing. Sparx stuck his tongue out further. "We're a lot to handle. But hey, you're made of tougher stuff than some of my boys for you to handle those frogs on your own! I know I said that I couldn't teach you our magic, but I could offer you something more engaging than just wasting your life painting. If you change your mind, just give me a holler."

Spyro nodded meekly and left with his head lowered in respect for the creatures that had just lost their lives. He wove between the legs of the Beast Makers that gleefully harvested the frog meat from the clutches of the swamp with their hands. Perhaps Spyro was still fine-tuning his moral compass and Bruno had asked too much him, but the cadmium dragon felt somewhat satisfied with the outcome. He'd pushed Spyro out of his comfort zone and incited a surge of retrospection that would only help him grow as a dragon. If the legends were to be believed - and Bruno had no doubt in the veracity of the stories - then this wouldn't be the last time that Spyro would have to decide where his limit lay. The betrayal of Elder Red was still fresh in Bruno's mind, even though it occurred many decades ago. Maybe Bruno couldn't teach Spyro how to master his latent powers. But perhaps his expertise just came from a different source.

Bruno lay back in his chair with his arms crossed behind his head. The explosion that once lit up the sky like a second sun had dimmed into a dwarf star and the veil of night was skulking forth once more. The pillar of angry smoke continued to smoulder, staining the clouds above with a dark grey hue.

Maybe Spyro wasn't such bad luck after all.

Chapter Text

(Hey, just because Spyro has had some terrible games in his time doesn't mean they aren't canon! lol!)

Lateef had known Spyro would be coming for a lot longer than he knew himself.

Irrespective of the fact that the Dream Weavers were possibly the most finicky dragons in the six Realms when it came to accepting eggs, Lateef treasured children. Adult dragons habitually demonstrated a remarkable absence of empathy and intuition, falling into the trap of closed-minded thinking as they aged. Children didn't suffer from this; many dragons would describe the Dream Weavers as eccentric or possibly even 'loony' if they felt like being offensive, but children saw them as playful, whimsical, eclectic. They had an appreciation for the light-hearted and effervescent atmosphere of the Homeworld, which was typically dismissed as incoherent and irresponsible by their older counterparts.

Yes, he knew it was only a matter of time before the purple dragon would embark to the floating Realm with questions he wasn't sure if he could answer. Even if the Legend did not refer to Spyro specifically, his ambitious and non-partisan nature would make him a willing and welcome student, and Lateef could tell he would benefit greatly from a guiding hand, regardless of any prophecies bearing his nomenclature. Spyro may not know it yet, but his destiny was drawing him to the dream-like Realm, leading the dragon pup towards the knowledge that would ultimately guide him headlong into his fate.

Oh, and the other Realms could help too, he supposed.

Unsurprisingly, not a single Dream Weaver had voluntarily relocated out of their Homeworld; barely any had left the Dragon Realms at all, even after the portals to Avalar and the Forgotten Realms had been opened. None of the other worlds had appealed to them – they were too sensible, or too dangerous, or too boring. Besides, the dragons had already fabricated a Realm that gratified their every need, why would they want to leave when they could be comfortable where they were? The only time any dragon had ventured outside the iridescent borders of the Homeworld was to exchange their potions for gems. Even the most stoic Dream Weaver still needed a hoard to sleep on.

Ah, but he was getting off track again. The sapphire dragon was already prepared for Spyro's arrival, having dreamt that he would manifest at the entrance to the highest peak of the tallest tower in Lofty Castle before Spyro had doubtless even thought of the idea himself. He was looking for assistance, wide eyed and bushy tailed as always and parchment in hand, accompanied by his ever present dragonfly.

Lateef smiled knowingly at the contents of the parchment.

It was a common misconception that the dragons alleged to be the most amicable by any Dream Weaver were the Magic Crafters, being thus that their mastery over all things magic was a trait shared by the two Homeworlds, but this could not be further from the truth. The Magic Crafters' talents were weighed down by their obsessive focus on detail and rules, afraid or unwilling to expand past their 'Sigils' and really reinvent their magic. No, the dragons that Lateef held closest to his heart were the Artisans – artistic and creative in their pursuits.

The royal blue dragon's decision to refuse the unhatched egg was fully intentional, but was not done senselessly. As swiftly as Cosmos had approached him, barely hiding his distain towards the other elder, and revealed that the egg held a magic signature that did not match any of the Dragon Realms, Lateef knew it was time. The Legend of the Purple Dragon had been misinterpreted and warped over the decades as each new generation of dragon began the fruitless search for the creature, but the true meaning of the prophecy remained with the dragons who had written it. The child could not be raised as a Dream Weaver. If the legend was correct, it did not matter which other Realm raised it anyway.

Besides, the Magic Crafters had not even considered the fact that there were more than five Dragon Realms! The sixth Realm had not been actively inhabited by dragon-kind for millennia, but it would be nought but imbecilic to disregard its existence. Not that he would ever say that to Cosmos' face – he was perfectly content having all four limbs still attached, thank you.

"I didn't expect this all to take place so soon," Lateef mumbled to himself, lost in thought. "And coming from Nestor of all dragons…"

"Huh?" Spyro queried, head cocked to one side. Lateef shook himself out of his reverie and redirected his attention towards the waiting purple dragon.

"Sorry Spyro, my mind often wanders in its old age," he explained, folding the parchment and setting it to one side. "You're looking to learn the art of Dream Weaving I assume?"

"That's right!" the amethyst dragon replied, wings extended in confidence. His lack of success with the other elders might have set him back a little but he was still determined to follow through. Nestor would kick his butt if he chickened out half way through, that is if Spyro didn't kick his own butt for being a wuss. Lateef felt a smile cross his face at the display.

"Very well," he stated genially. "After all you've done for us this is the least I could offer you. Please, come inside."

He stepped back to allow the peppy dragon and his escorting dragonfly to enter his abode. The interior was a little hazy due to the vapour exuding from his smouldering rock salts, but the elder dragon had already set up a cauldron and rearranged his monumental collection of ingredients in jars with cork stoppers. He had spent a good hour trying to decide if he should organise them by name, colour, or attributes, eventually throwing caution to the wind and organising the bottles in whatever manner he found the most aesthetically pleasing. Cosmos had pitched a fit more than once at the haphazard assembly on the rare occasion that he managed to drag himself out of his self-imposed solitude long enough to visit.

Chuckling to himself at this image he sat back on his feathery tail and crossed both legs, suspending himself comfortably in the air, and breathed in the clarifying scent of the burning salt rocks. Spyro sneezed, the salty vapour burning in his nostrils.

"Have you ever used one of our potions before, Spyro?" Lateef queried, eyes slipping closed as he became more relaxed.

"I can't say I have," the purple dragon responded, sitting back on his hind legs. "I've seen some of the other Artisans drink them, though."

The royal blue dragon suspected as much – the concoctions brewed by the Dream Weavers found no bearing amongst the youth, but were used and often abused by their older brethren.

"I shall endeavour to provide a brief overview of what we accomplish as Dream Weavers, then." Spyro nodded, the faraway look in Lateef's eyes creeping him out a little. "When a dragon approaches us for assistance we do not dwell on the small details of magic like the Magic Crafters, or the ethical conundrums like the Beast Makers. No spells are used in our line of work."

Lateef reached out and plucked a vial from the shelf containing a transparent oily solution that seemed to cling to the glass sides of the jar it was trapped within.

"Rather, all our work is done through the medium of potions."

He swiftly turned the vial on its head and held one thumb over the aperture at the top to prevent the liquid from escaping. Disturbing the fluid caused it to emit a soft pint and mint green glow which reflected off the violet scales of the now very impressed dragon as he cooed in awe. The radiance was only conquered by the sunny yellow aura emitted by Sparx himself as he reciprocated Spyro's astonishment.

"You probably discovered during your time with Cosmos that Magic Crafting is only really suitable for those with a predisposition for magic," Lateef retorted, his brow crinkling in distain at this thought. "The use of potions for Dream Weaving was chosen specifically because it avoids this dilemma – an ingredient will still perform its desired effect if used in the right context, regardless of the skill of the dragon involved. You'll probably find the art of Dream Weaving a little more… accessible."

Spyro let out a sigh of relief – finally a dragon that wasn't going to try and dissuade him based on the Homeworld in which he was raised.

"Every ingredient you see on the shelf behind me holds a different property that makes it useful," the elder dragon gestured at the imposing collection to his rear. "The effects of each component have already been explored and inscribed for future use so there is very little trial and error. Whether you're looking to create a dream to assist with studying for an exam, or to gain a glimpse of the future, or just for a pleasant sleep, the necessary ingredients have been documented by the scholars who came before us."

Spyro's eyes gazed up at the towering cabinet in wonder, scanning the exotic contents of each bottle. Most he recognised – the rainbow wings of a beetle, the crushed petals of an orchid – but some appeared to have been plucked right out of a science fiction novel, or a bad fanfiction at that.

"So where do I come in?" he queried, his eyes resting on what appeared to be a snowstorm trapped within the glass confines of an urn.

Lateef handed the purple dragon a book, not even turning around to make sure it was the correct one. Spyro felt a sense of reprieve to find that this particular tome was nowhere near as thick or as worn as the last one he had been presented with. The cover was very… unique, decorated with scribbles of clouds and rainbows that gave it an almost childlike quality.

"That tome does not contain an exhaustive list of ingredients and their effects, but it is useful for beginners," Lateef wistfully remarked, remembering the day he had been presented with the same book by his tutor. "You're welcome to use any of my constituents in any combination you like. I task you with brewing a sleep potion with some sort of effort other than just to help you sleep, then drink it and let me know what the results were."

Spyro glanced up suddenly from the book, having already started to thumb through the pages distractedly as the images assaulted his eyes with bright colours.

"That's all?"

"Yep," the blue dragon replied, his expression not changing from his usual serene gaze.

"No catch?"

"Nope."

"… Do I have to make any potion in particular?"

"Nope."

Spyro looked back down at the book. He wasn't used to having such a hands-off instructor and was a little puzzled on where to even begin. The other elders had been very specific in their expectations of him, so the idea of being given free rein almost left him overwhelmed with possibility; he would have least appreciated a starting point. He was brought out of his reverie by the older dragon tousling the spines on the top of his head affectionately.

"You should have more faith in yourself, Spyro," the cobalt blue dragon remarked warmly. "For an Artisan you worry far too much."

Spyro huffed indignantly but did not respond. Tucking the tome under one arm he thanked the taller dragon and departed with his dragonfly in town, his mind still racing with the endless possibilities held within the pages. Lateef fully expected the dragon pup to dive horns first into the most difficult potion he could muster – he knew better than to try and deter the headstrong purple dragon and would even find himself disappointed if Spyro returned to tell him he had dreamt of puppies. He knew how reckless he was, and there was very little point in trying to change that while he was still so young.

Closing his eyes in meditation, he felt himself beginning to drift off. A poorly brewed potion would thankfully not suffer the same explosive results as an improperly Crafted spell, although a bad dream could potentially leave a young dragon with psychological scars. Lateef was content to simple sit back and let Spyro carve his own way. He briefly considered if he was being a little too inattentive, but his desire to snooze overrode any other obligations he had. His mind drifted into slumber, still in the same meditative stance he took before.

He hoped this time he would dream of good news for a change.

In his defence, Spyro had not given up as quickly as before.

He immediately found himself grasping the basic concept of Dream Weaving much faster than his excursion with Magic Crafting – the tome thankfully spent very little time covering the intricacies of elixirs and jumped straight to the ingredients he had to play with and what their effects were. He had begun to suspect that the book was perhaps intended to cater to dragons a little… younger than he was, based on the pictures of cartoon dragons explaining everything in speech bubbles, so he didn't doubt that any other books covering the subject would become a boring wade through practises and traditions.

The purple dragon deduced that every concoction began with the same core ingredients and any added in excess to that would dictate the outcome on the drinker. Lavender to send the drinker to sleep. Kava leaves to reduce anxiety. Dried Pulsatilla petals for sedation. The rest of the potion seemed to be made of a milky solution brewed from freshly fallen snow, water from the fabled spring of life, and egg whites. The book even went into details about other more 'controversial' ingredients, such as the use of dragon wings for eternal life. Spyro briefly wondered how this particular property had been discovered, then resolved to never think about it again.

For all he found his footing quickly with the finer parts of Dream Weaving, the Homeworld was not exactly the most… conductive for a session of intense studying. More than once he had found himself distracted by the site of a gaggle of invincible Fools thwacking each other over the head in some sort of twisted game. Considering they were impervious to damage they had been going at it for longer than Spyro had thought they would with no signs of stopping. He understand now why the Dream Weavers had a reputation for being nonsensical.

He made the decision to relocate once the cacophony of incessant warbling of the Slap-Happy Armoured Monks started to grate on his nerves. No wonder the Dream Weavers needed to use potions to get any sort of sleep around here; even Sparx was starting to look a little more antsy than usual, and he couldn't sit still at the best of times.

Besides, he was wondering if he needed a second opinion on this whole thing, and there was only one person that came to mind.

Spyro would maybe describe Elora as being a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, quick to ire but quicker to forgive, and there was no doubt that she was more sensible and down-to-earth than any dragon in the Dream Weavers Homeworld, Spyro included. He would never deny that he valued her opinion greatly, whether he had asked to receive it or not, and for all he couldn't see her being versed in the art of Dream Weaving in any capacity he could still appreciate any input she had to offer.

At least the faun had been easy to track down. Elora seemed to hold the lush green meadows and gentle flowing rivers of Summer Forest close to her heart, despite being the only faun Spyro had ever encountered there, and was tirelessly toiling away trying to get the Homeworld in some sort of presentable shape after Ripto had left his grubby fingerprints all over it. Even after such a long period of time had passed since the angry orange goblin had been overthrown, a lot of the damage he had left in his wake was still being rectified. Regardless, the welcoming atmosphere of the endless meadows had not changed and was a stark contrast against the dank swamp that was the Beast Maker Homeworld, if nothing else.

The two had exchanged small talk before they sat down in the grass together, Elora delicately building a chain of plucked flowers while Spyro explained the situation to her. She was flattered that he had chosen to approach her for assistance instead of any of the other dragons who were undoubtedly more affluent in the subject at hand, but the purple dragon seemed to hold her in high regard. At least she knew why he hadn't visited Avalar in so long – he couldn't go five minutes before involving himself in some sort of contrived scheme to take over the world. She wasn't totally convinced that the dragon dragged into Glimmer by the Professor just happened to be Spyro by pure coincidence, rather than some form of cosmic intervention.

Elora would admit to being completely confounded over the whole situation – the idea of being raised by an entire community rather than a person's parents was not one she had encountered before – but she felt the dragon's plight. The notion of struggling to find one's place in a world that had seemingly already decided it for her was one she was not unaccustomed to, and she was more than willing to offer any council in the matter if she could.

"I mean, I don't know a whole lot about this 'Dream Weaving' stuff," she admitted, plucking another group of flowers from the grass to be added to her chain. "Well, I don't know a single thing about it."

"I know," Spyro responded, watching the ginger faun force her thumb nail through the stem of each flower and link it to the chain, "but I needed a second opinion and you're the most sensible person I know."

Elora stifled a blush before being abruptly handed the tome Spyro was previously nose-deep in. She had never encountered the craftsmanship of a dragon before, but she wasn't completely convinced that the book was not actually a children's colouring book and Spyro had just picked up the wrong one.

"It's very… colourful?" she stated as tactfully as she could managed.

"I'm aware," Spyro responded, deadpan. "I swear it's meant for children, the pages are even waterproof."

Elora giggled at the notion and flicked to the page that Spyro had been so invested in. The paper was lined with cartoonish diagrams of insects, all making peace signs or giving thumbs up, together with a list of potential uses or effects. The faun was surprised to find that she recognised a lot of the components, but some of them were completely foreign to her. How would one even go about collecting the skin of a unicorn anyway?

"So what kind of dream do you have in mind?" she questioned, crossing her hooves and getting more comfortable in the grass.

"Not a clue," Spyro admitted, laying his wings out on either side of his torso and soaking up the warm sunlight. "It's kind of ironic that this whole thing started because I couldn't sleep and now I'm trying to make a sleeping potion..."

Elora hummed in agreement, her attention still focused on the book in front of her. For all she was an inherently magical being in her own right the finer points of magic had never interested her. She much preferred to use her own wits and penchant for motivational speaking to her advantage, rather than rely on the crutch of a spell. Still, the idea of potion making had at least piqued her interest.

"This is fascinating," she mused, her eyes lighting up with interest at the array of exotic insects on display. "I wonder where you could even find a lot of these in the wild…"

"No idea," the dragon huffed, blowing a small puff of smoke out of his nostrils in irritation. "Most of them don't even seem to be native to the Dragon Realms. The majority of the ingredients covered are for peaceful dreams though, so I was probably going to follow that…"

Well, therein lay the problem. Spyro was by no means an incompetent chump, but Elora did sometimes wonder how he had come so far by being so blockheaded. Maybe smashing things with his head had given him brain damage. Shaking her head in bemusement, she closed the book and returned it to the sulking dragon, picking her daisy chain back up and finishing with the final flowers.

"That explain it then, you dork!" she stated matter-of-factly to the now confused dragon. "Since when have you ever tried to follow what someone else told you to do?"

Spyro's face held a befuddled expression as he looked back down at the cover of the book in his hands, Elora's words registering in his mind but not making sense. He heard the dry rustling of the leaves forming the faun's dress as she stood up and hooked the now completed flower crown over his canary yellow horns to rest on his brow bone. If he looked up hard enough he could see the yellow and purple petals hovering on the edge of his vision. He felt warmth rise inside him at the thought that the colours of the petals matched his own scales.

"Instead of caring about what other people expect you to do, just do what you want to do."

Elora tried to stifle a laugh at the sight of the now extremely perplexed purple dragon wearing a flower crown and grasping a children's book. Unable to control herself she ended up hunched over clutching her stomach in a laughing fit, rubbing her eyes as they began to water with the effort. She had tried to be sage in her advice, but… well.

Spyro beheld the now hysterical faun as her words started to sink in, his attention cast back down to the book in his arms. He felt a smile creep across his face as Elora's elation was infectious. The flower crown slipped down his brow and landed across his eyes, obscuring his vision. He shook his head to move it out of the way, resulting in it resting around his neck like a wreath.

Hmm… that was a thought.

"How come you're so clever?" he joking asked Elora, who had sat back down to recover from her laughing fit. She shrugged.

"Guess I'm just that good."

And modest, clearly! Spyro let out a chuckle himself, finding his passion for the project reignited. For all the faun hadn't been able to help him narrow down his options for the potion, he felt revitalised; just what he needed. After such a serious and strenuous week it was refreshing to be able to sit down and have a laugh with a friend.

Plus, he might have figured out what his next steps were; he just needed to put it into practise.

The tome was very adamant that there was no specific combinations of ingredients that would guarantee a particular dream. Every component had a use, however it was up to the drinker to utilise the full value of the potion – most ingredients were just representative of an idea and the dragon would need to interpret that in their own way.

The elixir was essentially a musical score, but it was down to the drinker to play the symphony.

Spyro was by no means a musician, but being raised around Artisans meant he was at least able to grasp the metaphor. He had retreated back to the Dream Weaver Homeworld after his sojourn to Avalar and was hunched over Lateef's cauldron. The dragon pup had followed the instructions for the base potion and now had a softly bubbling milky white broth. It smelled absolutely fowl – he blamed the egg whites – but it hadn't exploded or melted through the cast iron crucible so he felt like he was on the right track.

He was adamant on what sort of dream he was looking for: he had no use for a dream about practising public speaking, or learning about any past lives he may have had, or even about foreseeing the future. Almost every enemy he had faced against on his travels had been taken down with a single burst of flame or charge with his horns, barring those he could refer to as 'bosses'. Doctor Shemp, Gulp, Buzz. They had all taken a much longer struggle to defeat and Spyro felt like he needed practise.

The only problem was that he couldn't exactly walk out into the wilderness and fight a pack of Gulps like he could with the Gnorcs. They was only one, and he was already gone; if he could dream about fighting them then maybe he could use it as a chance to try some tactics that he wouldn't be able to in real life for fear of failure. After all, if he messed up in his dream it wouldn't have any real world consequences.

Nodding to himself in determination, he slipped the flower wreath back over his head and held it firmly in one hand. He considered the fact that Elora had chosen to use Dandelions and Lobelia for the circlet might have been more than just to match his own colour scheme. Dandelion symbolised 'overcoming hardship' and Lobelia symbolised 'malevolence'; considering what he was planning on dreaming of, they would ideal. He was wary at the idea of destroying a gift from a close friend, but his current plight demanded his full cooperation.

Determined not to allow his hesitation to talk him out of it, he tossed the flower crown into the cauldron and watched it sink below the surface of the fluid.

Unwavering in his decision not to focus on the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach he used a stainless steel ladle to stir the mixture, turning the potion a magenta pink as the flower petals were dissolved into the solution. He was relieved to find that the noxious fumes were covered by the floral scent of the plants. After he was sure the potion was completely blended he used the ladle to scoop up a cup-sized amount and held it to his lips.

He was sure he was supposed to put it in a flask or something first, but considering he was just going to drink it straight away he decided to save on dishes to clean. Raising the ladle in cheers to Sparx who was watching on nervously, he downed the mixture in the spoon in one mouthful. Pulling a face, he noted that the floral highlights were not restricted to only the smell – it tasted like he had just eaten a mouthful of lawn shavings.

Shaking his head in disgust he fought down the nausea bubbling up in his stomach and flopped down onto the softest pillow he could find, curling his head under his tail. Lateef hadn't technically told him he could also sleep in his house, but it wasn't like he was going to make the trek back to the Artisan Homeworld just to have a nap. Besides, he was pretty sure flying under the influence of a sleep potion would land him into trouble if he crashed.

He felt the potion begin to take effect almost immediately as he sunk deeper into the feather-down pillow. Sparx landed on his back and rested alongside the dragon as his eyelids drew closed on their own and he drifted off.

The first thing Spyro noticed was that he was aware he was dreaming. The world around him held an almost surreal quality, with the vibrant colours of the night sky of Winter Tundra muted and almost pastel. The position of the stars in the sky seemed to change every time he blinked and his limbs felt light, as though they weren't attached to the rest of his body. It certainly wasn't uncomfortable per se, but Spyro could tell that what he was experiencing wasn't real.

He was pleased to find that his elixir had worked – he was in the palace courtyard surrounded by rivers of open lava and facing against Ripto once more. The orange pest was as rage filled as always, but Spyro couldn't understand what he was saying. Not that this mattered: now the two could fight again and Spyro could get some much needed practise in!

Ripto raised his glowing purple Sceptre above his head in an overly dramatic fashion and blasted a cluster of white orbs at high speed towards the purple dragon. Grinning to himself he quickly charged back and forth in a zigzag pattern, feeling his heart pumping as the balls of light narrowly avoided searing his scales. Now this was familiar to him! He skidded to a halt and began to excitedly scan the arena for the powered up orbs that Hunter would drop for him.

No orbs materialised, and the sky was devoid of any flying cheetahs.

Glancing around in confusion, he spotted Ripto running around the arena as if he was still trying to collect orbs but nothing had fallen for him to use. The Professor was supposed to have infused the green spheres with various abilities that both Spyro and Ripto could use against each other after collecting enough, but nothing was happening. The purple dragon was frozen in mystification – this wasn't how he remember it!

This feeling grew into fear as Ripto tersely stopped in his tracks and hunched over in pain. Letting out a ferocious howl the dragon watched on in terror as he began to grow at an astonishing rate, tearing through his clothes and yowling in apparent pain. Fangs began to protrude from his jaw and his single horn became a large, wicked spear. The transformation only stopped when Ripto stood at four times Spyro's height, towering over him in a mockery of his previously tiny stature.

Still struck with fright at the transformation, Spyro wasn't able to react in time and found himself being punted across the arena, stopping just shy of the lava pit that enclosed the duo. The monster that was previously Ripto snarled in victory, sending shivers down the dragon's spine. He had wanted to use his dream to face off against his nemesis again, but not like this! Spyro prided himself on his ability to think on his feet, but his mind was so astonished at the dramatic change in events that he couldn't bring himself to retaliate.

"WAS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED, DRAGON?!" the monstrous orange dinosaur roared, the bestial rage in his voice echoing off the stone walls of the castle. "IS THIS WHO YOU ARE?!"

Spyro's mouth felt parched like he hadn't drunk water in days. Ripto growled and charged at the incapacitated dragon again, his feet cracking the stone underfoot with his newfound weight. He fully intended to lob Spyro into the lava behind him – a fitting end considering Ripto himself had suffered the same fate at the dragon's hands. None of his limbs would respond as the orange dinosaur closed the gap between the two, spit frothing at his mouth and eyes hungry for revenge. Realising that he wasn't going to be able to get out of the warpath in time, Spyro gasped and folded his wings in front of his head to protect himself from as much damage as he could.

The impact never came.

Opening his eyes and peeking through a gap in his wings, Spyro found himself in an oriental style dojo perched precariously on a cliff side and surrounded by dull green and yellow grass. Feeling his heart racing in his chest he dug his claws into the tatami mat under his feet and tried to calm down. It was clear that he was no longer in Avalar, or indeed in any location he had visited prior. All that mattered was that he was still alive.

Slowing his breathing he took in the area. The sky was breath taking, streaked with pink and gold light from somewhere beyond the horizon, but he noticed how dull the area seemed to be. All the colours seemed to be desaturated and hollow, and even the environment was barren with only the occasional dragonfly hovering around, staring at the foreign dragon in their midst. Spyro wasn't sure if he was seeing the realm in a different light because he was dreaming, or if the world itself was indeed so devoid of life. Then again, it might not even exist at all. And why was Moneybags in a kimono?!

His head pounding with conflicting emotions, he rubbed his eyes hard enough to see spots to try and clear his mind. When he reopened them he had moved again, now finding himself in a large industrial facility with conveyor belts and metal grates on almost every surface. Seems like Red was using a combination of magic and technology to transform his minions into indestructible robots. The Beast Makers would either be proud or horrified.

Speaking of the menace, Red had finally found it within himself to show up. Spyro readied himself – he was more than capable of taking the disgraced elder down and was itching for a fight. Electricity burned in his throat, ready to shock the ruby dragon if he came within five feet of him. He was tired of being underestimated by everyone who met him and the desire to enact justice flowed through his veins.

Charging at the dragon, Spyro was shocked to find that Red did not respond to his presence, as if his mind was somehow elsewhere. Snorting in irritation he head-butted the elder as hard as he could, sending the taller dragon toppling to the floor like a fallen tree. As he skidded backwards with the force of the impact he collided with an ambiguous machine to his rear which began sparking violently, wires hanging loose due to the damage inflicted.

Before Red could pull himself to his feet, a might bolt of electricity leapt from the tear in the machine and struck the dragon, sending him into violent spasms. Spyro shielded his eyes from the intense burst of light, only to find that Red had been transformed into a robot himself. How ironic. Red inspected his now reflective scarlet metal exoskeleton, seemingly unfazed, before pulling himself back to his feet. He didn't seem to care: he viewed it as just another tool to use in his quest for retribution against the dragons who had exiled him. Plus, he could shoot rockets now, which was always nice.

Spyro braced himself for the imminent conflict, but this never came. His stomach churning with vertigo, he was wrenched away from the scene before the metallic fiend could attack and leave him nothing more than a red smear on the ground.

The eerie galactic skies of Convexity were doubtlessly beautiful, but betrayed the venomous aura that permeated the entire dimension. A sense of malignancy could be felt in the air, the magic saturated in every breath tingling against Spyro's tongue and leaving a metallic aftertaste in its wake. A bellowing echo reverberated against his ear drums from a Void Whale languidly drifting in the distance.

Sparx said something unintelligible, the purple dragon still unable to comprehend any words being spoken, but he didn't doubt that it was probably steeped in sarcasm. Exchanging a look with his brother, he pushed on over the floating rocks towards what appeared to be the centre of the dimension. A bright purple bolt of lightning shot up in perpetuity from a blindingly bright light source, probably some kind of black hole. No one would describe Convexity as lacking in interest, at least.

Spyro was intensely nervous but resolute in his stance. He carried the weight of the world on his flightless shoulders, and was reinforced by the thought of the other dragons waiting at home for him. Steeling his nerves and followed closely by the dragonfly who had refused to allow him to go alone, he took a step forwards towards the light.

Hearing a crash behind him, Spyro turned around in time to see the shadow of a towering black dragon open her mouth and snap shut around his head.

A dragon sat at a desk, surrounded by copious mounds of books and illuminated only by the soft glow of an oil lamp. He wrote with a quill, occasionally dipping the tip into an ink well as he continued to expand the contents of the newest tome. Closing the covers of the book with finality he tossed it over his shoulder onto the top of the pile behind him, and picked up a fresh book. Etching a continuous stream of words onto the first page of the new tome without pause, his grey scales shifted into blue as he adjusted his position to address the purple dragon.

"You shall know me as the Chronicler. Seek me out."

Spyro woke.

Lateef remembered the first dream he had Weaved.

He could not remember any time that he would have considered himself as being more powerful than any other dragon whose name was spoken in the same breath. He was decidedly mediocre, competent enough to avoid blowing himself up but without any unique talent that might have set him apart from the next dragon. He was average for his size, average for his weight, and average in his personality.

He didn't mind. The Dream Weavers did not place a strong focus on those uniquely gifted, or even a strong focus on tutoring. The Homeworld was a tranquil place, undisturbed by conflict or complications since before Lateef was hatched, and the majority of dragons were content for that to continue. Why cause distress in a young developing dragon when they could be allowed to play and learn freely on their own? Why encourage any dragon to delve into their specific talents when the act of Dream Weaving was so accessible to any level of ability? Lateef wasn't even sure he could remember having a mentor at all, and certainly not any kind of formal training.

He was passably confident that he may never have been trained in Dream Weaving at all if he hadn't been so insistent. The leader, a youthful green dragon born maybe only a couple of clutches before Lateef himself, seemed content with allowing each dragon to pursue their own goals and achievements with little to no input on his behalf. Lateef appreciated that he was not forced to attention the prison camp that was school, but was a little dismayed that the opportunity to learn may have completely passed him by.

The leader had been prepared to coach the young Lateef in the ways of Dream Weaving, which turned out to be nothing more than giving him a book detailing the process and sending him on his merry way so that he could sleep. The cyan dragon had been concerned that the leader spent a lot of time drinking his own potions and slumbering, but he couldn't deny that the idea of nothing but blissful dreams for the rest of his life sounded rapturous.

He had followed the instructions given to him, produced a potion, and slept for twelve hours. He dreamt of vast meadows of poppies and cathedrals made of gold. He skipped stones across a frozen glacier and made s'mores in an open volcano. He explored the entirely of the Dragon Realms without leaving the comfort of his home.

So why wasn't he gratified?

His potion had worked – he had experienced the dream he was looking for, but he felt a sorrowful emptiness in his stomach. Following the instructions to the letter hadn't satisfied his curiosity. He wanted to try dreams that no one had ever dreamt before, good or bad, and use ingredients in new and inventive ways. He wasn't appeased by just throwing flowers and bugs in a pot and then getting eight hours a night.

He hadn't twigged as to the cause of his unhappiness until the leader passed away. He had been consuming more and more of his own potions, needing multiple doses to get a restful sleep. Lateef knew that the carefree quality of sleep awarded by Dream Weaving was intoxicating, but he hadn't know it was addictive. How easy was it to just roll over and go back to sleep instead of facing the difficulties of real life. When had the Dream Weavers become so dependent on their elixirs to the point where they would freely ignore their own existence for the sake of an extra hour in bed?

Lateef didn't like what the Dream Weavers had become.

He didn't see himself as an overly serious individual, still preferring a lifetime of play and leisure over petty politics, but he wouldn't allow his Realm to fall into such a dire state of apathy. He knew there had to be a happy medium, but even he struggled to find where this was. He was at least grateful to Spyro for rescuing him and his kin from crystal – it forced the otherwise hapless dragons to face the realities that they had been so stringently avoiding.

He was devastated when he learned Spyro had a night terror under his watch.

Lateef would admit that he didn't really know the young dragon all that well: Dream Weavers tended to be a little reclusive when it came to the other Realms. The only times he had encountered the purple dragon revealed him to be a cocky and innocent child, filled with wonder and enthrallment at the world around him. Seeing him in a state of distress was not an experience the cobalt blue dragon wanted to have again.

After calming the young dragon down, he covered the dream he had suffered through with vivid details, gesturing wildly as his Artisan blood showed itself through his imagination. Lateef was not surprised that Spyro had gone for a theme that was outside the norm for Dream Weaving, but he was surprised to hear that he had such a violent reaction to the elixir. He probably should have mentioned that the recipe was intended for an adult dragon, so he should have perhaps halved the measurements…

"It's difficult for me to say what exactly you experienced," Lateef consoled as Spyro began to calm down. "Judging by the fact that you mentioned the dragon 'Red', whom you will hopefully never cross paths with, it would appear that you had a prophetic dream."

Spyro finally began to calm down, his dragonfly buzzing around in worry. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and did his best to steady his breathing.

"Are you sure?" he queried.

"Not at all!" Lateef laughed warmly. "The future is very unpredictable and volatile and can be changed by even the smallest thing. It's possible that what you witnessed will never come true, and it's equally possible that events may take place exactly as you witnessed them."

Spyro felt his wings sag in disappointment – if this turned out to be the case it meant that Ripto had somehow survived his cannonball into lava, and he had already had more than enough of the cheeto villain. Then again, he supposed that his dream had fulfilled what he wanted. He now had a chance to prepare and consider a strategy to defend himself should the need arise. Lateef patted the young dragon on the shoulder affectionately.

"Anxiety begets apathy, young one," he stated cryptically. "There is no use in worrying about what may not come to be, otherwise you may find yourself unable to take action if it does."

Spyro sighed.

"You're right," he admitted. "And I guess I still had the dream that I asked to have, although maybe looking back it wasn't the one I wanted."

Lateef nodded, pleased that his advice was sinking in.

"Are you going to return to Nestor now?"

Spyro rubbed the spines on his nape in thought.

"... Not yet," he replied wistfully. "I guess I still have one more Realm to visit."

Lateef was confused for a moment before Spyro's words took hold. He nodded in understanding and allowed the tired dragon and his dragonfly to depart his home. He had hoped that his instruction in the Dream Weavers arts would have left the purple dragon in better spirits but he was content knowing that his time in the Homeworld was not for nought. He reflected on his previous sentiment that he was being too hands-off, and remembering the sloth of the leader before him, resolved to do better in the future.

Using the ladle, he siphoned a sizable amount of Spyro's potion from the cauldron into a glass bottle and capped it with a cork. The mixture was now cold, but Lateef liked preserving the first attempt of each dragon he had taught – it was always good to whip them out at birthday parties and embarrass them. Chortling to himself, he wrote the ingredients used on a label and attached it to the side of the bottle before stopping himself.

Spyro hadn't used any ingredients that would have caused a clairvoyant dream.

Eyes widening, he perused the list of components again to be sure. He had expected Spyro to have used something like Swallowwort, or Crayfish shells, or maybe he had even dipped into his prized pot of Unicorn skin for him to have had such a divinatory slumber. But no, nothing of the sort had contributed to the elixir, meaning that the clarity of the dream and the fact that Spyro had a precognitive dream at all must have been done under his own power.

Lateef shook his head and cast the thought out of his mind. It was not possible to know if the dragon pup's experience was indicative of future events or if they would eventually come to pass after all, or even that he wasn't just having an intense nightmare. He would do good to follow his own advice and not allow concern for something that may never occur to sway his hand.

Lighting a stick of incense to calm his nerves, he sat back on his tail and crossed his legs, running his claws through his feathered wings and preening them. Spyro was no doubt a lot of work, but the sapphire dragon felt like he had the wind kicked out of him. His mind wandered back to the Legend of the Purple Dragon and he smiled to himself.

Seems like the Council of Elders would need to convene one more time.

Chapter Text

(We almost there, thank God I didn't have to write any dialogue this time)

Spyro wasn't sure what had brought him to Gnorc Gnexus in the first place.

Very few dragons still considered the former Dragon Junk Yard to be one of the Dragon Realms any more – this was the case long before Gnasty Gnorc was forcibly imprisoned within the cast iron borders of the Homeworld. Of course, the continued residence of the ugly green orc had not helped in that regard, but no dragon had resided within the wastelands for millennia before then. Only the most intrepid of dragons or bravest of Balloonists would even be willing to make the trek to the isolated lands. Even the inherent magic of the place had faded, still barely clinging to life as the years passed and the Realm became more and more out of touch.

Gnorc Gnexus wasn't even on the list of worlds Spyro had planned to visit, considering there was no elder to learn from and no dragons that called the dismantled Realm their home, but he had found himself inexplicably drawn there. He could at least justify the cause – he had embarked on his journey in order to learn about the other worlds and try to determine his place in them after all, and the former Dragon Junk Yard was one of said worlds…

That being said, he still found himself distinctly on edge. The foreboding aura that seemed to envelop the area had mostly dispersed after Gnasty had been given the old hot-foot, but the air itself seemed to be weighed down with a sense of neglect and abandonment. Spyro deliberated if anybody had even disturbed the layers of dust on the ground after he had ventured here last. Very few history books covered the denizens who had previously inhabited the Realm; it almost seemed like the remaining dragons were happy for the Realm to simply fall into obscurity.

Spyro just wanted to get away from it all for a while. He hated feeling ambivalent about anything; the words and teachings of the leaders still whirled in his head like a typhoon and he hadn't completely processed them. Combine that with his own lingering sensation of self-worth and it produced a noxious mind-set that was still eating away at him. He didn't want any second opinions, he didn't want any lectures on morality, he just wanted some time alone. Even if it was only for a moment.

Sparx was loathe to leave the purple dragon unattended, especially considering that Spyro's mood had notably dimmed with each Homeworld he voyaged to, but the purple dragon insisted. Even Amos the Balloonist had tried to convince him otherwise, but no one would ever describe Spyro as being fickle or easily swayed. Reassuring the increasingly concerned dragonfly that he would be back before sunset, he had boarded the balloon to the desolate wastelands.

Dropping the young dragon off, Amos had refused to dock in Gnorc Gnexus for long, citing the inherently unwelcoming atmosphere. He had loosed a few sandbags from the side of the airship and advised Spyro that he would return to collect him before his self-imposed curfew, but he would not leave himself open to attack by waiting around. Spyro couldn't necessary blame him – he was grateful that he had even agreed to ferry him at all – and wholeheartedly agreed. He just had to make sure he didn't lose track of time, otherwise he'd be forced to spend the night, and that was a fate he didn't want to consider.

He had felt a rush of nostalgia hit him at the sight of the dragon heads in the Homeworld. Very little remained of the essence of the dragons that had once inhabited the Realm, either due to neglect or intentionally defaced by Gnasty and his gremlins, but the portals had stood the test of time. The only other portal of its kind could be found in the Artisan Homeworld, constructed as a replica of the originals after the Dragon Junkyard had been abandoned. Spyro couldn't help but wonder about the stories of the dragon that bore the visage of the portals.

Breaking eye contact with the imposing construct, he entered Gnorc Cove. The purple dragon didn't really have any destination in mind, content to aimlessly wander the lands and reflect. It had been a long time since he was able to choose a direction and just meander, even more so now that the portals to Avalar and the Forgotten Realms had been permanently erected, so it was almost liberating to have no final goal to work towards.

Spyro was actually pleasantly surprised for once.

It seemed like the former shipyard had benefitted greatly from Gnasty's absence. For all the docks were just as gloomy and utilitarian as before, the water was notably less polluted and didn't smell of rancid waste. The rambunctious honking of seagulls seemed echo off every surface, and although the cacophony started to reverberate through Spyro's skull, the gentle crashing of waves against the docks calmed his nerves a little.

Making his way over the rickety and rotting wooden bridges, and wondering why they hadn't been made of metal, he noted that he felt oddly relaxed. The last time he had found himself in Gnorc Cove the area had been a hive of activity, with silver barrels plunging into the inky depths of the bay at an astonishing rate, TNT barrels being thrown around like toys, and the repeated bellowing of a ship horn. He had never discovered what Gnasty had been using the cove for, but he had suspected that it was actually closer to the intended purpose of the docks than he original thought.

Now that the flurry of movement and clanging has ceased, a tranquil atmosphere had enveloped the area. Spyro found his attention cast back to his time in Breeze Harbour, but shook his head before he could think too much about the repugnant trolley track. Gnorc Cove didn't hold a candle to any of the seaside resort he was familiar with and likely never would, but the purple dragon found himself appreciating the solitude and rustic ambience more.

He still gave the TNT barrels a wide berth. He wasn't about to forget those.

He breathed in deeply, feeling the sting of the salt on the wind tingling his nostrils. His mind was cast back to the sensation he experienced with Lateef's rock salts, although the sea air was much more pleasant and less overwhelming. His mind had calmed from the onslaught he had faced and he found himself able to interpret the events of his dream with a more rational mind. Rather than focus on the crushing fear he had experiences, his mind was already ticking over the events he had witnessed.

Firstly, if what he saw was correct then Ripto had somehow survived. This wasn't all that implausible, seeing as the Sorceress had initially survived her dip into lava the first time, but the magic he had used to transform into… whatever that was didn't jive with Spyro's admittedly limited encounters with magic. He had faced off against larger enemies before so he felt a little disconcerted that he found himself so easily overpowered, but chalked it up to being caught off guard.

The part that was bothering him the most began with the conflict with this 'Red' character. He was sure he had heard the name before, whispered under baited breath and closed doors, but he couldn't put a claw on it. Even more worrying was the fact that he had clearly been belligerent towards other dragons, and Spyro didn't know any dragon that wasn't part of the Realms. He wondered why Lateef had wished that the two would never cross paths, but the unnerved feeling in his stomach conformed to this sentiment.

Spyro was suddenly stopped in his tracks by walking headfirst into a large mass blocking his path. Wincing as his snout was smooshed by the impact he fell back on his hind legs and gingerly rubbed his nose, grateful that no one who mattered was there to witness that. He was doing exactly what Lateef had told him not to do – he was spending too much time worrying about something that might not even happen. Besides, even if the events seen in his dream did turn out to be an accurate prophecy, would Spyro even be able to change the course of fate? If he couldn't prevent the events themselves from occurring, if the future was already set in stone, was it worth his time giving himself anxiety over it?

The blockade Spyro had meandered in to let out a deep grunt as it pulled itself up from the cold concrete floor. Blearily rubbing its eyes as if woken from sleep, it rolled over almost crushing the purple dragon. As he sharply hopped back out of the way, the two made eye contact, the sudden flicker of recognition registering in the monster's eyes.

It was a very large and very sleepy Dockworker.

Spyro felt himself reflexively jerk back in preparation. The Gnorc, now fully awake at the sight of the dragon, let out a bellowing roar and pulled itself to its feet. The purple dragon might have been away from Gnorc Cove for a long time, but the burning desire for revenge was still strong within the black heart of the minion. Casting his eyes back, Spyro noted that the howl had alerted some of the other snoozing denizens which were clamouring to see the cause of the commotion.

Spyro's mind instinctively ticked over his options. On one hand he could take the Gnorc out on his own, but the armour it was wearing would protect it from his flame, at least from the front. If he could get behind it he could torch its butt, or if he could lure it towards a metal barrel he could use that to break it's armour.

On the other hand, Spyro was without the fortification provided by Sparx so even a single hit could be enough to incapacitate the young dragon, and it was clear the Gnorcs' hatred of dragons had not diminished. Plus, what was previously a single drowsy Gnorc was rapidly becoming hoard, and for all Spyro knew he had defended himself against more than enough Gnorcs in his lifetime, if something happened to him then Amos wouldn't be returning until the evening so he was completely on his own.

He spotted a Gnorc in his peripheral vision tentatively reaching for a TNT barrel.

His mind turned back to the advice given to him by Titan – it was important to pick and choose his battles. Spyro's gut was telling him he would torch these fools no problem, but his head was telling him that he was massively outnumbered. Noting that the Gnorcs were starting to approach and the Dockworker had picked up a TNT barrel ready to smash it off the dragon's head, he made his decision.

He turned and ran.

Wincing as the harsh scraping of a metal barrel against the ground skidded past his head, he charged away as fast as his legs would carry him back towards the way he had come in. He couldn't leave a Realm the same way he had come in, but maybe he could duke the Gnorcs and zip around them somehow. He might be unable to overpower them, but he could certainly outsmart them. Then again, a cheese sandwich could probably outsmart a Gnorc.

Jumping over a chasm between storage units to avoid the haphazard bridge, he unfurled his leathery wings and glided safely to the ground. He turned his head to see several Gnorcs attempt to cross the bridge at once, resulting in the rotten wood splintering beneath their feet and plummeting them into the icy waters. Snickering at their misfortune and gloating that his intuition was correct, he ducked behind one of the storage crates and wiggled his way into a gap between the slabs of corrugated metal. He hoped his scales would protect him from tetanus…

This was just in the nick of time – as the purple dragon disappeared into the crawlspace a large explosion detonated where he had once stood, set off by a lobbed TNT barrel. The heat dried his eyes out, but his tough hide was more than enough to prevent the amethyst scales from being singed. He ducked in an attempt to make his silhouette as small as he could and watched nervously as the shadows of the minions darted past, unable to see the retreating dragon but lacking the foresight to consider checking the crowded storage area.

Spyro waited until the coast was clear before emerging from the improvised cubby hole. He didn't like using such underhanded tactics instead of facing his problems head-on, but if his time in Misty Bog had taught him anything his stealth skills had clearly improved. Discovering that the Gnorc's were now wandering around confusedly at the realisation that they had lost their target, the dragon pup took the opportunity to leg it towards the exit portal.

This was far more excitement than he had wanted!

Twilight Harbour had… not fared as well as Gnorc Cove.

Spyro didn't believe for one second that the Gnorc's had enough brain cells between them to build such an enormous factory on their own; it was more likely that they had simply re-purposed what was already there. Gnasty's influence had made an enormous impact on the Harbour and left it in a dire condition.

The factory was deactivated – obviously – but it seemed that this was not intentional. Spyro had not returned after his last visit, and he doubted any other dragon had done so, meaning that the engines and machinery had been left running. It wasn't clear how long ago this had changed, but more than one building had the roof blown clean off so he assumed that the machinery had perhaps overheated or failed due to neglect, and this was the result.

The pleasant ocean air still washed over the walkways, but the scent of sea salt on the wind was stifled by the thick miasma of oil and sludge. The degradation of the factory had resulted in a substantial oil spill, tainting the formerly golden reflective waters a murky brown. Even as Spyro walked he kicked up rust from the grating beneath his feet, making him concerned that the walkways could give way beneath him.

Spyro felt his heart grow heavy. This was not the first world he had encountered that had been ravaged by pollution, but this was the worst he had ever seen it. What remained of the dragon's presence was lost beneath piles of sewage and oxidation – he felt sorrow knowing that he would probably never know anything of the dragons who used to reside in this Realm. Gnasty had obliterated anything that remained of the magic that would have saturated this place, either on purpose in an attempt to wipe out all evidence of the dragons that he loathed, or out of ignorance.

The purple dragon couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt for the current state of the Realm. He knew it wasn't exactly his responsibility to make sure the factory was decommissioned before he left, but he wondered if he should have tried to convince the dragons to reclaim the Gnorc Gnexus rather than the Forgotten Realms.

Slapping himself, he tried to get this thought out of his head. The dragons had already written the former Junk Yard off well before Spyro had hatched, so it was likely already beyond the point where it could be saved. In comparison, the Forgotten Realms had been clinging on to the remaining magic for almost 3000 years – he couldn't necessarily blame the others for wanting to invest their time in the gold bar, rather than the lump of coal.

He morosely meandered through the Realm without purpose, the cascading golden rays of the perpetual sunset peeking through the clouds and warming the scales on Spyro's back. The gentle crashing of waves against the metal was still as soothing as before, and did a lot to take the edge off his nerves. Despite the repugnant atmosphere of Twilight Harbour, he still found himself feeling more relaxed as time went on. At least he hadn't been jumped on by any oversized Gnorcs yet, so that was always a plus.

Speaking of which, Spyro's attention was grabbed by what seemed to be a warm flickering light coming from one of the factory buildings. It could just be the permanent sunset reflecting off one of the many metallic surfaces, or maybe a fire had broken out, but his curiosity was piqued. Afraid of another potential ambush, he carefully creeped towards the building and peered inside.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden light as he found himself looking directly at a burning fire pit.

Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, he saw a small group of Gnorcs wearing camo print huddling around a campfire. He felt a brief flutter in his chest seeing that they still bore the firearms on their backs, but they weren't paying attention to their surrounds at all. One of the larger looking grunts wearing leopard print pants and a torn red beret was cooking what seemed to be a rat on a stick, smoking it over the open flame with the others looked on, openly salivating.

Spyro felt conflicted at the sight. He knew that approaching them was a bad idea, especially considering they were heavily armed so he kept his distance, but something seemed to be off about this. Why were the Gnorcs still fervently protecting the dying Realm with their leader terminated? They were still even wearing Gnasty's uniform, some with medals made of metal scraps still proudly displayed on their chests. It seemed like Gnasty's authority still held weight over his minions, even in death.

The Gnorcs were clearly too hungry and to impatient to continue waiting, and started squabbling over the toasted rat. The Gnorc Survivalist held the stick above his head while the others tried to bat it out of his hand, swiping at the morsel of meat hungrily. One of them inadvertently punched the other in the face which devolved into an all-out brawl, none of the monsters noticing that the rat had fallen into the fire and was now no more than a lump of charcoal.

Spyro shook his head in dismay and decided to leave the scrapping monsters to themselves. He remembered the advice given to him by Bruno – dragons could not and should not decide who does and doesn't deserve to live. The young dragon got the distinct impression that the elder would have taken out the Gnorcs without a second thought, seeing as they could be a potential threat, but from what Spyro could see they were simply choosing to continue guarding the Realm they had sworn to protect. Besides, if they were considering mounting an attack on any of the other Realms then would wouldn't still be posted within the confines of Twilight Harbour.

He almost considered their dedication to their former master a noble cause.

What was he doing, trying to empathise with the Gnorcs who had previously attempted to shoot and kill him? The monsters certainly wouldn't spend their time pondering the moral repercussions of their actions while trying to pump a kilo of lead into the small dragon. Spyro wondered when he had become so introspective and when the worlds stopped being so black and white to him. Sighing and continuing with his journey, he ventured to his last port of call.

The peaceful atmosphere that had fallen over Gnasty's Loot was quickly disturbed by whooping as Spyro took to the skies in free flight.

He dove and span through the air, dodging between piping and narrowly avoiding being seared by the open lava. He flew as low as was safe and as high as he dared, pushing the magic that allowed his to fly with no restrictions to its absolute limit. He beat his wings as hard as his muscles would let him and flew straight up, gaining height until he breached the reach of the magic trapped within the boundaries of the world. He paused in his ascent before quickly falling back down to earth, opening his wings at the last moment and soaring against the ground in exhilaration.

Spyro still detested the fact that he was unable to fly under his own magic. He could take on whole armies on his own, Craft spells, Weave dreams, but he still didn't have the power of free flight. He knew the size of his wings had nothing to do with it – some of the older dragons had wings barely larger than their heads for crying out loud – and that this ability was completely dependent on a dragon's own magic reserves, but he still needed supplementary magic from the environment to manage anything more than a brief glide.

He dodged beneath three rusty pipes that jutted precariously out of a wall and curved back into the ground beneath him, gritted his fangs, then angled himself upwards into a loop. Feeling his eyes spinning slightly in his head he spun himself mid-air in an aileron roll before his face and the ground became too closely acquainted. He could hear the blood rushing through his ears, fuelled by adrenaline.

The purple dragon had always had an inkling that the world now known as 'Gnasty's Loot' was previously a flight training course, like Sunny Flight from the Artisans Homeworld. There were no other worlds in all of the Dragon Realms where the saturation of magic was so intense that it was buoyant enough to allow even the smallest dragon whelp to fly under their own power, even in the Realms still occupied by the dragons. Spyro's mind wandered to consider the dragons that would have trained in these grounds before him, honing their acrobatic abilities ready for true flight once they reached the right age. He smiled at the thought that he was following in their footsteps. Well, wing beats.

Spyro skidded to a halt on a patch of mossy earth, wincing as he landed harder than he intended and the impact reverberated through his knees, and admired the locale. Gnasty had clearly found very little use for this world as it had been mostly untouched by the corruption he seemed to leave in his wake, and nature had returned to take back what was lost. Almost every surface was covered in moss and plants, some even flowering despite the tumultuous conditions, and he could see the tops of perennial trees peeking above the borders of the Realm when he flew to the highest point. The chirping of birds could be heard from an unseen direction.

Panting at the exertion of his flying, Spyro lay down and rubbed his back into the earth, feeling the blades of grass tickling between his scales and the scent of pollen in the air. Oddly enough, he was reminded of the sprawling meadows of the Artisan Homeworld; if he closed his eyes long enough he could almost believe that he was back home.

Almost.

Even though this Realm was mostly intact, the absence of dragons had continued to take its toll. In the other flight training worlds Spyro was able to fly as high and as long as he dared, but in Gnasty's Loot he could only fly as high as his last perch. It was obvious that the magic had started to siphon itself out of the world, no longer powerful enough to act on its own and needing the inherent magic of a dragon to function. Gnasty would not have been able to utilise the magic in the area so the continued neglect had caused it to dissipate. Spyro wondered how long it would last before the world was no longer able to sustain free flight and it became as barren as any of the other worlds in Gnorc Gnexus.

Huffing and spitting a small smoke cloud from his nostrils, he linked his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. He had lost track of time in Twilight Harbour, being that the Realm was in a constant state of sunset, but the dusk had started to fall over the Homeworld as a whole, indicating that his time was coming to a close. He had ventured to Gnorc Gnexus to have a chance to relax and get away from his obligations, but had done the exact opposite. His ability to find trouble wherever he went even surprised him sometimes.

Spyro reflected on his experiences with the other elders. It was clear to him now that he had a lot of misconceptions as to what the other Dragon Realms contributed to their society, although he was honoured that they had all agreed to take time out of their undoubtedly busy lives to entertain the purple dragon and his whims.

He had seen the Magic Crafters as wizard with unlimited power, but in reality they were bound themselves by a self-imposed set of rules, whether that was a good thing or not. He had seen the Peace Keepers as heroic machos that defended the Realms with their bare hands, but in reality they were cautious and meticulous, preferring to strike with precision and with the right timing. He had seen the Beast Makers as backwards shamans obsessed with dangerous creatures, but in reality they grappled with the moral implications of their actions on the daily. And he had seen the Dream Weavers as airheaded and incomprehensible sleep addicts, but in reality they were relied on by countless dragons and non-dragons alike for their wellbeing.

He wondered if he had any misconceptions about the Artisans.

He also considered that the elders were not perfect. Cosmos had insisted that the use of Sigils was paramount to success, but was unable to consider the possibility of triumph without using then. Titan had insisted that adhering to a specific role in a team was necessary, yet his narrow-sightedness has delayed a resolution to the conflict. Bruno had lectured that dragons should not decide the fate of those seen as beneath them, but had made that decision himself when he detonated the explosives to take out the Attack Frogs. And Lateef had stressed that making himself anxious over something he could not control was unwise, yet he himself was so laid back that he had not taken the needed steps to ensure Spyro was properly informed before he Weaved his own dream.

Speaking of which, Spyro sat up suddenly and clasped his palms together. Closing his eyes he allowed his magic to well up in his belly and trickle down his arms before clapping his hands together. A bouquet of golden sparks erupted from his clasped palms, coagulating together and forming a gold and pink butterfly. Spyro let out a breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding – for all he still wasn't finding Sigils to be particularly useful it was good to know that the spell he had Crafted was still viable.

He also noted that it was much easier this time. His arms tingled but there was no pain, and he didn't feel out of breath in any way like he did the first time. He was either getting better at keeping his magic in check, or he was funnelling more magic into the spell. Either way, he beamed at the sign of improvement.

Watching the butterfly flutter away and land on a patch of marigolds, he considered the Dragon Junk Yard. Part of him mourned at the loss of the world, seemingly beyond the point of restoration, yet another quieter part of him felt hopeful. It may only be restricted to Gnasty's Loot, but nature had already begun to take the Realm back from the clutches of Gnasty; it would hopefully be only a matter of time before the other more impacted worlds returned to the earth like this one. They might never be useful to the dragons again, but just because they were not useful to them didn't meant that they had to interfere.

Spyro wanted to see the lands restored to their original glory, but perhaps allowing nature to take its course was an equally agreeable option.

Spyro was not opposed to the idea that he was not the most intellectual of dragons, but he was not stupid. He had heard of the Legend of the Purple Dragon, although any information given was mostly through hearsay and rumours. Before he had even left the Artisan Homeworld he had perused the parchments written by Nestor, intended for only the eyes of his peers but the dragon pup had been unable to control his insatiable curiosity and disregard for authority.

He didn't want to entertain the idea that the legend could be referring to himself. Not only had there been many purple dragons before him and there would be many after him, including several dragons he had rescued from the talons of the Sorceress, Spyro still considered himself humble. He didn't want special treatment because he was the one to take up the gauntlet each time trouble arose, nor did he want to be considered to be 'above' anyone else because of his reputation.

Besides, he didn't embark on all those adventures just because some crusty old dragon had written it in a book. He did it because he wanted to.

Smiling to himself, he stood back on his feet. Whether there was any remaining magic in this Realm didn't matter – there were creatures that called this place 'home' and that made it worthy of protection. Vowing to return in the future, he turned his back on the once forgotten Realm and began the journey back to the Homeworld. He didn't want to keep Amos waiting.

As he was about to depart through the exit portal, Spyro turned his back to gaze at the Realm one more time. Something caught his eye – the spot he had been lying on had suddenly sprouted a vast array of flowers, all blooming in the dwindling sunlight in every colour of the rainbow. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't question it too much. After all, if dragons could bring their magic back to the Forgotten Realms, who was to say that dragons couldn't bring magic back to this Realm also? All it needed was one dragon to make a difference.

Well, Spyro had taken the role of the single dragon before. Who was to say he couldn't do it again.

Chapter Text

(OK, I lied. There's one more chapter after this.)

Nestor wasn't expecting letters from the other leaders to come flying through his front door so soon.

The Artisan elder had eventually admitted defeat at the hands of the foreman from Idol Springs in his efforts to teach them how to craft idols without them coming to life; he collected his pay and swiftly moved on to the next horizon. He had been tentatively hopeful that some minor progress was being made, but after finding out that some of the more… creative foreman had been fashioning a small army of wooden hula girls for their own entertainment, which then broke loose and beat the apparently chauvinistic men up in a display that would have impressed even the strongest Peace Keeper. He had hedged his bets and bounced while the going was good.

His intentions were to travel to the volcanic Molten Crater and study their tiki heads next, but the unplanned reunion with Spyro had filled him with a scalding homesickness. Nestor hadn't realised how much his scaly heart ached for the boundless green pastures of the Artisan Homeworld, the sweeping spires of the castles, the gentle singing of the riverbeds. The worlds of Avalar and the Forgotten Realms held wonders beyond his imagination and he was loathe to pass such an opportunity up, but his mind still turned to the simple and humble pleasures of the Homeworld that had raised him.

The emerald dragon was caught off guard when he arrived to his home in Stone Hill to find a letter posted through his front door, presumably having been delivered even before he had returned. The parchment was neatly folded and was sealed with wax that shifted from pink to blue in the light; there was only one dragon Nestor knew who would enclose his letters in such an extravagant manner. The only way the Magic Crafter elder would have gotten this letter to the Artisan Homeworld before Nestor himself had arrived meant he had probably rejected Spyro's request.

Nestor felt heaviness in his heart at this realisation, but he wasn't overly surprised. Cosmos had defiantly refused to accept any apprentices regardless of the incessant pestering of the other leaders, so when Nestor had written the letter addressed to the seafoam green elder he hadn't been too optimistic at the outcome. He could see the other elders being open minded enough to consider the proposition – especially Titan, who had been nagging him for this opportunity for years – but Cosmos in particular was exceptionally stubborn and pompous. Nestor prayed that Spyro's resolve hadn't been shaken by the refusal.

Opening the tightly sealed letter, he was blasted in the face by a multitude of flames erupting from the wax.

Holding the parchment at his arm's maximum length he swatted away the sparks. Cosmos must be very unhappy for him to trap the letter with a spell, even thought it was clearly not intended to cause harm. More so, it was a direct reflection of Cosmos' feelings towards the green Artisan. Waiting until the shower of sparks ceased, Nestor puffed in irritation and unfurled the letter.

Dear Nestor,

I hope this letter finds you well, you preposterous cretin.

As yes, it appeared that Cosmos was as mild mannered as he remembered.

It seems more and more these days that one cannot have a single moment of peace to themselves. I find myself struggling with the newly hatched and returned dragon pups only to find, lo and behold, yet another stray dragon pup on my doorstep. As if I was not horribly overworked already, not that you would know what being overworked feels like.

I do not know what game you are playing at sending Spyro to me, but whatever you are planning will not come to fruition. The Legend of the Purple Dragon is a myth, nothing more than hearsay, so while you still cling to your rudimentary beliefs we Magic Crafters do not! We look to the future of the Dragon Realms, the next step for magic and for all dragons alike! We shall not dwell upon the repercussions of a prophecy written eons before we were hatched, bleary eyed and stumbling into the world as we were!

Cosmos' letter continued like this for several lines. Nestor had long taught himself not to be offended by the arrogant elder's insults – sometimes it seemed like Cosmos didn't know how to interact with others in any other fashion. The emerald dragon let the spiteful words wash over him and skipped a good paragraph or so until he could tell that Cosmos had got himself back on track.

Anyway, back to what I was saying. Spyro is fortunate that he is owed such a great debt by us all, otherwise I would have sent him away. It is clear to me that he does not possess much in the way of natural talent when it comes to Magic Crafting, however I cannot deny that his capacity for magic is far stronger than would be expected, especially for a dragon that was not born a Magic Crafter himself. His skills are rudimentary, but nothing that a solid course of tutoring and perhaps a boot up his backside couldn't improve on, and I could see him finding success in the future if this is the path he wishes to choose for himself.

Lastly, and I must stress that I mean this in the best of faith, I implore you to consider your intentions regarding this whole escapade. I am fully aware that many already believe the Legend of the Purple Dragon is indicative of our purple friend, however no dragon alive today could comprehend what this means for either Spyro himself or the rest of dragon-kind. Spyro is ultimately a child and deserves to have a gentle and conflict-free upbringing, although I am aware that he would disagree with this statement. I feel it may be best to let this ship sail undisturbed.

Best wishes,

Cosmos xx

Nestor grimaced and folded the paper back up. He and Cosmos did not have the best of relations and would never pretend to do more than tolerate each other, but there was no doubt that the emerald dragon held the Magic Crafter elder in high regard. He was a powerful wizard and scholar, possibly even the best of his kind, and was both reliable and reasonable. Mostly. Nestor had counted on him several times before to act as the voice of reason within the Council of Elders, a role which he was more than willing to accept even when it was not asked of him. Or indeed wanted of him.

The two clearly did not share their opinions of the Legend. Cosmos had long dismissed the prophecy as nothing more than a fairy tale, deserving only of inclusion in children's' storybooks, but Nestor still trusted in the magic within the words. It seemed that Cosmos was of the impression that encouraging Spyro to pursue his destiny would be detrimental to his growth as a young dragon, although Nestor believed that it would be instrumental in allowing the purple dragon to come into his own.

Shaking his head in exasperation, he dropped the letter on his desk and unhooked his tool belt. Both the belt and his jacket found their rightful place on a disused and slightly dusty coat hook. The emerald dragon was honestly surprised that Cosmos had even agreed to entertain Spyro's premise to begin with, so it was clear that Nestor was not the only elder of the opinion that the purple dragon had a lot of potential, prophecy or not. He noticed that his beloved succulent collection had turned a little yellow in his absence, and growled to himself. He should stop spending so much time worrying and focus on his duties as the leader of the Artisans. He had been away for far too long.

The nest letter found its way to him the following day.

Nestor had been assaulted almost immediately by Delbin, one of his closest confidants, who insisted that he accompany the ruby dragon to Sunny Flight to watch the hatchlings train. He wasn't sure if this was to witness how far the young dragons had come in his absence, or just to have a good chuckle over how many times they landed with their faces, but he had consented none the less. Observing the small dragons soar through the flight stage while narrowly avoiding mid-air collisions with each other had sent the elder dragon back to his memories of his own youth; the dragon pups would only face-plant into the ground so many times. It was amazing how quickly a dragon would learn when the only other option was to injure themselves.

While the two older dragons had sat on a grassy outcrop and placed bets on how long it would take before one of them wiped out in the shimmering blue ocean below, Nestor had been approached by a messenger fairy, desperately trying to keep afloat in the air with a large satchel bag over one shoulder. She had quickly handed the dragon a rolled scroll tied with a gold ribbon before teleporting away, clearly wanting to relive herself of the heavy burden. Nestor unfurled the scroll, feeling Delbin reading it over his shoulder, and inspected the contents. Thankfully, no fireworks this time.

Oi, old man!

I see you finally changed your mind! Maybe you haven't gone senile after all!

Well, there was only one leader who would speak to him in such a manner. Nestor snorted; Titan was only about a century his junior, but he spoke like Nestor was about to keel over from old age at any second.

Thanks for sending Spyro over to me, I was hoping to keep him but it seems like he didn't want to hang around too long. I'm sure he'll have plenty of stories to tell you when he gets back. He's still a little too young to behave in the way we would need of him, but give him a couple of years and I'll gladly take him off your hands! He would make a fine Peace Keeper.

Now, that being said, the letter you sent with him worries me a little. And I don't  like  feeling worried, Nestor. There have been enough attempts to train any dragon born with purple scales in the hope that they would reveal themselves to be the dragon of the Legend, and all have failed. I've sat through enough of Asher's lectures on the subject to know that first hand. I'm convinced that the Legend isn't true, and even if it  is  true then it doesn't ultimately matter. Just let the kid do what he wants.

Also, can you send over some more of your weapons please? The Gnorcs keep getting into our stock and we're running low.

Thanks in advance!

Titan

"Sounds like Spyro's having fun, eh?" Delbin remarked, a knowing smirk on his face.

Nestor shook his head and rolled the scroll back up, slipping it into his tool belt. Titan was the youngest leader and it showed sometimes – although his prowess in battle and his ability to strategise had no peer, the green dragon couldn't help but feel a little insulted by the casual nature of his letter. He couldn't deny that the cocky leader was correct in some regards – Astor could talk for hours about the intense training he had endured after hatching when it was discovered that he shared the same scale hue as the dragon of lore.

Then again, Astor could talk for hours about anything.

For all Nestor wasn't surprised that the Peace Keeper leader had jumped at the opportunity to teach Spyro, he was surprised that he was recommending that the purple dragon mature for a couple years before proceeding, as if he was some kind of fine wine or cheese. Titan had practically grovelled at Nestor's feet in the past, hopeful for even a single chance to mould Spyro into a soldier, so the remark that he didn't believe that the dragon pup was ready for his teachings was very out of character. He didn't know that Titan was able to even comprehend the idea of maturity.

The penultimate letter arrived two days later.

Nestor had found himself drowning in a deep sense of anxiety when a letter failed to find its way to his front door on the third day. He would deny it to anyone who asked, but the idea of Spyro encountering any kind of difficulties on his trip filled him with dread, especially when Nestor had approved of the idea to begin with. The emerald scaled dragon felt a degree of responsibility for the young dragon, even though he knew he could look after himself just fine, so the lack of news had rattled his nerves a little.

Swigging down a bottle of iridescent sleep potion designed to fill his dreams with peace and relaxation, he awoke later than planned to find another letter stuck in his letter box, stained a suspicious green colour from some unknown nasty looking fluid. Nestor practically threw himself out of bed with his sheets tangled in his wings, noting that it was almost midday, and grasped at the letter, hoping for nothing but good news.

Nestor,

Hello. I hope you are well. Please keep off the sleep potions.

Nestor grumbled and massaged his brow bone, the beginnings of a headache starting to form from oversleeping.

Spyro came to speak to me. I  hope  you're not trying to use him to get to the Beast Maker secrets. You know that won't work. He's made of tough stuff, but I'm not teaching him jack about our magic. Especially not if you sent him.

The Legend of the Purple Dragon is not a good thing. How do you feel knowing that a dragon will come along who can do what we can but do it ten times better? Doesn't that make you concerned for our future? It's better to leave things as they are. Spyro's a good kid – don't involve him in this.

Bruno

Nestor snarled and roughly clambered back into bed, pulling his sheets over his eyes to block out the piercing sunlight. He hadn't used a Dream Weaver potion in a long time, not since he left the Dragon Realms to go adventuring through Avalar and the Forgotten Realms, so had forgotten how much of a headache they gave him. The green dragon refused to become dependent on them like so many others were, preferring to keep his senses sharp, but a good night's sleep was more than worth the inevitable discomfort that came with it.

Bruno was never known for his eloquence, the swampy elder coming across as abrupt or unkind even when it wasn't intentional. Nestor was almost certain that he was doing it intentionally in this case. Beast Makers were renowned for being superstitious to the point of paranoia, so for all Nestor's intentions had been misinterpreted he wasn't particularly amazed to hear that Bruno had interpreted Spyro's visit as an assault on their secretive way of life. Nor was he surprised to learn that Spyro hadn't been gifted knowledge of any of their magic.

At least at didn't sound like Bruno had sent the purple dragon packing with nothing to show for his visit. The large-horned elder's abrasive personality scared a lot of dragon pups, and Nestor knew the he appreciated that Spyro didn't see him as just an angry old man shouting at clouds. Not that he would ever admit that out loud. Rolling over in bed he blocked the glaring sun rays with his back and covered his head with one of his wings. Just a couple more minutes.

The final letter arrived on the fourth day.

Recovered from his migraine, Nestor had ventured out into the Realm with the intent to work on some of the bureaucratic drudgery that had piled up in his absence. Artisans had a stereotype of being unreliable, preferring to spend their time slaving over their individual arts instead of buckling down and dealing with the more unpleasant work, which Nestor couldn't necessarily disagree with. He knew he fit that mould and would much rather craft a fine oak table than fill in forms any day, but someone had to do it.

The Artisan leader was attempting to resolve a dispute occurring between Devlin and Alvar taking place in Town Square, both of whom had caught wind of Spyro's endeavours and were preparing a feast to celebrate his return. Oh, and Nestor's return too, they supposed. For all the two dragons shared very similar professions, it was almost impossible to get the duo to work together. They two just couldn't see eye to eye, arguing over whether a large multi-tiered cake or a barbecued hog roast would be more to the purple dragon's tastes. Neither dragon considered that Spyro would eat just about anything thrown at him without complaint.

Nestor had tried his best to diffuse the situation, but neither chef was interested in listening to an opinion that didn't fortify their own stance on the matter. The emerald dragon was almost relieved when the same messenger fairy approached him with another letter, seemingly more upset than before at being made to lug around two oversized letters. This one was folded neatly and carried a faint smell of incense. Ducking out of the kitchen, which was soon to become a battleground, Nestor unfurled the letter and perused the contents.

My dear friend Nestor,

Salutations, my good man, best wishes to your health and family. It has been far too long since the two of us have had the time to hold a symposium and the arrival of your esteemed student prompted this letter, so I thought it best to grasp the opportunity by the horns. Considering that the state of our Realms becomes more and more fragile by the year, our friendship also becomes more valuable. Like an antique Bocote cabinet, or the most delectable Artisan wine, or-

Nestor felt his eyes begin to glaze over. It wasn't just Lateef's potions that could put a dragon to sleep. Blinking and slapping himself lightly he skimmed the rest of the letter, amazed at how many metaphors the Dream Weaver elder could pack into one paragraph.

Ah, I do apologise, it seems I may have gone on a tangent again. Back to the matter at hand. You can probably imagine my reprieve upon reading the letter you sent with young Spyro – I am gracious to know that another elder has not forsaken the prophecy written by my ancestors. The others may have turned their backs on the scriptures for fear of the consequences confined within the meaning of the words, but this will only delay the end results, not prevent them.

I will be proposing a conjugation of the Council of Elders in due course to discuss this affair, preferably in a civilised manner, although we will have to see how the others deem best to respond. I hope to have your full cooperation in this sense, and I'm certain that Spyro would agree. I doubt that he is unaware of the prophecy at this point, even if efforts were made to protect his young mind from the daunting perils of the future. The Legend of the Purple Dragon cannot and will not be allowed to escape our grasp.

Oh, and Spyro did well at Dream Weaving. Sorry, my mind grows older and oft allows thoughts to slip through like a sieve. Please forgive me.

Yours in all perpetuity,

Lateef

Oh Lateef, as sesquipedalian as always.

"Does this mean Spyro will be coming back soon?!"

Nestor jumped, startled at the sudden exclamation from behind him while he was deeply focused on the contents of the letter. Both Devlin and Alvar had ceased in their spat and were frantically trying to catch a glimpse of the words on the parchment. Alvar seemed to be covered in large amounts of icing, the feud having turned physical at some point. The duo looked at each other in shock.

"We better start getting ready!" Devlin declared.

The two scattered in a flurry of activity, all qualms with each other thrown to the wind as they began to rapidly prepare. Nestor had never seen so much food produced in such a short amount of time before. He slowly backed away, content to leave the two to their own devices. At least the fighting was over.

Nestor wasn't sure if he considered Lateef to be a 'friend', per se, but out of all the leaders the two got along the easiest. Not that this was really saying much, but the Dream Weaver leader had a fascination with Artisan crafting, and Nestor suspected he was simply happy to speak to a dragon that didn't immediately write him off as being insane. He found that dealing with the royal blue dragon required a lot of patience, especially when it came to his vocabulary, but he was glad to have someone on his side.

Nestor considered his stance on the prophecy. Lateef had taken an almost maniacal stance on the situation, ready to throw himself head first into training Spyro to become the dragon of lore, but the emerald dragon wondered if that was necessary or even a good idea. His mind wandered back to the words of the other elders – Spyro was still a child. Would it be better to allow him to experience a carefree childhood first? Or would it make more sense to reveal his true nature to him while his mind and abilities were still malleable?

That was something that Nestor would leave for another day. Regardless, it seemed that the purple dragon would not keep them waiting for long and preparations would need to be made. He knew that Spyro would not appreciate a fuss being made over him, but the other Artisans were unable to control themselves when it came to celebrations. Nestor could recall more than one occasion that he had needed to pick himself up off the floor in Tree Tops after a heavy night of partying.

Well, if it was true that Spyro would be returning shortly, he supposed he had better make his own preparations.

Spyro hadn't returned when he was expected to.

Nestor swore the purple dragon was going to give him an aneurysm some day with all the stress he put the elder through. Sparx had touched down in the Artisan Homeworld alone, ferried by Marco who looked a little perplexed that he was shipping a dragonfly without their dragon. Nestor had instinctively feared the worst, although he could think of no logical reason as to why a dragonfly would have abandoned their dragon. Well, he could imagine a couple of reasons, but as his mind ticked over the possibilities the worry in his chest only grew deeper. None of the reasons were good news.

Sparx appeared to be equally concerned, his golden glow flickering in worry. The dragonfly had explained that Spyro had requested that he travel back without him, although the insect didn't know where the purple dragon had ventured to after he had departed on the Balloon. Nestor immediately felt a sense of foreboding sweep over him – he had made the decision not to involve Spyro in the Legends surrounding the colour of his scales until he was old enough, but there was no guarantee that the other leaders had done the same. He had no choice but to consider the possibility that the other leaders had brought the prophecy to the young dragon's attention before the time was right.

Nestor resolved not to allow his fortitude to be shaken. As leader it was his calling to be responsible for the well-being of his kin, but making decisions without Spyro present was unfair on the young dragon. He had just as much a say in his own future than any other dragon above his station. While the other Artisans were sorrowful to hear that Spyro would not be attending the impromptu party, the festivities still proceeded. Very little could come between an Artisan and a celebration.

When Spyro did return, Nestor was ashamed to admit that he was a little hung over.

The first thing he noticed was that the dragon pup appeared to be in good spirits. The emerald elder was relieved at this but also a little confused: it may have just been the pounding of his head after spending one too many hours singing karaoke, but the contents of the parchments from the other elders had warned of a sour mood on the horizon. He felt joy knowing that the spunky attitude that the purple dragon was known for had not been extinguished.

The taller dragon allowed a smile to cross his face and wordlessly stepped back to allow the younger dragon to enter his home. Spyro trotted inside, his face flush as the heat indoors warmed his cheeks, to find himself face planted by a hysterical Sparx. The dragonfly whizzed around the purple dragon in a golden blur, somewhere between gratitude that Spyro had returned unharmed and fury that Spyro had left in the first place. The dragon took it in his stride; it was probably what he deserved after everything his best friend went through to protect him.

Nestor let out a puff of flame to boil a pot of water and made the two some herbal tea, kindly provided by Cosmos on one of his scarce good days. Spyro would inevitably turn his nose up at the drink but Nestor felt like he needed something to quell the churning in his stomach. He handed the dragon pup a ceramic mug and sat himself cross-legged on the floor, tucking his tail under himself to keep it warm.

"So," he began, taking a sip of the tea. "It sounds like you have a lot to tell me."

Spyro's face burst into a bright grin, his small fangs glinting in the light, and began to regale the elder with his stories. He explained about his misdemeanours with Magic Crafting, but tactfully left out the giant dinosaur that was probably still wreaking havoc in Cloud Temples. He recounted his adventures in Cliff Town, although Nestor was moderately doubtful that Spyro had used his newfound abilities with Magic Crafting to drop a warhead on the Gnorcs or that Sparx had turned into a kung fu werewolf. He detailed his experience in Misty Bog, covering how he wiped out the Attack Frog threat with explosives, and he relayed his attempts at Dream Weaving although Nestor could tell the purple dragon wasn't telling him the full story with that. He made a mental note to try and pry the facts out of Lateef later.

All the while, Nestor sipped his tea and took in the tale without interruption. It seemed that Spyro had encountered very little resistance on his trip, although he was going to have a word with Bruno when he got the chance – allowing such a young dragon anywhere near explosives was incredibly risky, never mind those damned frogs! As the story drew to a close, the green dragon rested his now empty mug on his tail and turned his attention to the dragon pup.

"It seems like the other leaders were welcoming, at least."

"Yeah," Spyro responded, sitting on his haunches. "The only one who wasn't totally open with me was Bruno. He wouldn't give me any info about what Beast Makers do in the slightest!"

Nestor wasn't shocked to hear this. Out of all the dragons the Beast Makers were by far the most reclusive, and considering that Bruno was already so opposed to the prophecy, Nestor expected nothing less. Still, each leader Spyro approached had offered him some small assistance in their own way.

"Has this cleared up the way you were feeling before?" he questioned, watching Spyro sniff the herbal tea and recoil in disgust.

"I'm… not sure," the purple dragon responded, meekly rubbing the spines on his head. "I'll admit that my impressions about what the other Realms did weren't up to scratch, but I kinda feel even more confused now."

Nestor nodded in pensive thought. He was grateful that he had never experienced the same feeling of self-doubt that the younger dragon was going through, and he honestly couldn't imagine what he would do if he found himself in the same situation. Spyro was too often written off as being nothing more than a hatchling, but even a blind dragon could see that his spirit was strong. Maybe even stronger than his own.

"Nestor?"

Pulled out of his momentary reverie, the emerald dragon blinked and looked back up at Spyro. The purple dragon was gazing up at him expectantly, head cocked to one side.

"Sorry, Spyro," Nestor apologised. "Please, go ahead."

Spyro shuffled back and forth on his feet, trying to get his words in order. The Artisan elder raised one curious eyebrow but said nothing, content to allow the young dragon to speak on his own time.

"So, uhh…" Spyro started, his head turned down. "Do you think the stories about me are true?"

"What stories?" Nestor replied. "You seem to have more stories to tell every time you come home."

Spyro laughed – he supposed this was true.

"The Legend of the Purple Dragon…" he continued. "Do you think it's about me?"

Nestor let out a long weary sigh and sat back on his arms, careful not to allow the ceramic mug to slip and crack against the wooden planks on the floor. He had spent a lot of time over the last few days contemplating how this conversation would pan out, the realisation of Spyro's fate now inevitable, but the letters he had received had caused his stance to waiver. His mind was filled with the words of the other leaders, spinning in his skull like a tornado.

"Spyro," he began carefully. "When Gnasty Gnorc trapped all of us in crystal, did you set out to save us because it was written that you would, or did you do it because you wanted to?"

Spyro watched the older dragon slowly stand up and collect both mugs, the scented liquid remaining in a pool in his own mug going unnoticed in the tense atmosphere. Nestor relocated the mugs to the nearby sink and returned to his stance in front of the young dragon.

"Did you agree to help the denizens of Avalar because you were told you had to, or because it was the right thing to do? When the Sorceress stole our eggs, did you brave the uncharted depths of the Forgotten Realms because it was predicted that you would do so, or because you were the best dragon for the job?"

He paused in his soliloquy to crouch down to the small dragon's level, patting him on the head affectionately.

"There have been many purple dragons before you, and there will be many after you. Whether the path you choose to take is predestined or not, that doesn't take away from the weight of your actions. To me it makes no difference if the Legend refers specifically to you, I imagine that you would have still acted the same regardless."

Spyro considered this for a moment before nodding.

"I guess it's up to me to decide if the Legend is true or not then!"

Nestor felt a burst of fatherly approval radiate in his chest at the young dragon's statement. He did not favour Spyro above any other dragon hatchling, including the most recently born ones, however the notion that a dragon under his care had grown both mentally and spiritually was undeniably pleasing. He extended one hand in a fist bump, which Spyro eagerly returned.

"I just wish there was some other way for me to have learned all this," Spyro mused. "That took me almost a full week."

"Perhaps," Nestor agreed, smiling warmly. "But they say that history is written by the victors. Maybe you could be the one to provide this information to those who find themselves in the same position in the future?"

Now that. That was an interesting thought.

Nestor remembered when Gnasty Gnorc had launched his first attack.

He was a tiny dragon runt, small in stature and demeanour after hatching before he was due, even his scales dull in colour and sparse against his shoulders. The green dragon pup was raised with love, the accommodating atmosphere of the Artisan Homeworld ideal for raising children, alongside dragons who nurtured a sense of adventure and intellect in their kind. His diminutive size often prevented him from being able to participate in activities with the other hatchlings for fear he would be stepped on, and was often forced to witness events from the sidelines while his more developed brethren blazed ahead.

Nestor was never content with the hand he was dealt. He was grateful that he was not born a Peace Keeper or his size would have made him unfit for battle, but he felt ostracised by his peers none the less. Watching dragon pups the same age as him roam freely through the Realms, catching bugs and going swimming while he was barred from anything that would put his already ailing physique under stress ate away at him inside. Thankfully the Artisans did not put a great deal of weight behind physical prowess.

When the green dragon had reached adolescence he first heard of the Gnorc running rampant throughout the Dragon Realms. There was no clue as to his origins or even his intentions really, but some of the elders were growing concerned. What was previously nothing more than a large lumbering oaf calling himself 'Gnasty' was now quickly gaining support, with bandits and stray thieves swearing their allegiance to the green monster. Those who were no threat on their own before found strength in numbers, and although the goblins could be taken down in one hit easily, dealing with large numbers of them at once would be a task for only the strongest dragon.

The Homeworlds each reacted differently to the impending threat. The Peace Keepers wanted to put together an armed squadron to preemptively vanquish the threat, but the others felt this was a waste of both resources and time that could be better used elsewhere. The Magic Crafters wanted to use magic to seal the Gnorc away, but the actual numbers of the Gnorc's followers were not known so the spell was unlikely to completely eliminate them. The Dream Weavers wanted to sleep, so were mostly ignored. And the Artisans…

Well, the Artisans were content to do nothing at all.

Nestor didn't agree to this decision in the slightest, but it wasn't as if a dragon whelp like him could have a say in such a decision. The Artisans didn't wish to involve themselves, determining that the ongoing peace of the Realm was more important than the troubles that would be brought about by the conflict. They wanted to use their time to craft works of art, cook food with new and bold flavours, write symphonies and vignettes. They did not wish to dirty their hands with the blood of their enemies.

When Gnasty struck for the first time, it was not to be the last.

With every Homeworld holding a different stance on the rising conflict, no action ended up being taken which meant that the seed of dissent had been allowed to grow freely. Nestor did not know where the minions had found the weapons and armour, crude as they were, but the element of surprise was on their side. Throwing themselves over the castle walls of Stone Hill the Gnorcs had attacked during the night and laid their weapons upon the hides of the unsuspecting dragons.

Nestor didn't remember much about the fierce battle that ensued, the hatchlings being whisked away to safety as soon as the fighting begun, but it was clear to even his immature eyes that the dragons were unprepared for such an assault. The armour worn by the monsters did little to deflect horns or fire but this was made up for in sheer numbers. The last he saw before being teleported away to safety was the Artisan leader, a frail old dragon with tattered wings and shaky hands but a mind more creative than any seen before him, throw down his walking cane and shuffle into battle. A captain always goes down with his ship, so to speak.

Nestor did not know what befell the dragons that stayed to fight, but he never saw the leader again.

Now that the threat imposed by the army had revealed itself, clawing it's way into the light with fangs bared, the Council of Elders were able to reach a decision for once in their lives. The Peace Keepers assaulted the army with fire and weapons made of the hardest diamonds known to dragon-kind and crafted by the most experienced Artisans. Once the numbers had been thinned to a manageable amount, the Magic Crafters summoned their most wizened wizards who Crafted a spell powerful enough to contain a brute like Gnasty within its cage for several hundred years. The Gnorc was lured out by the promise of victory and promptly whisked away to the long abandoned Dragon Junk Yard, disappearing in an explosion of purple light. The elders relented that the loss of the sixth Dragon Realm was an acceptable casualty.

What was briefly the darkest time in dragon history became an age of hope. While Nestor had never really developed the strength of his peers, preferring to rely of the strength of his charisma instead, the attack had inadvertently formed a bond of brotherhood between the once distant Dragon Realms. The inaction of the worlds had almost cost them everything they held dear, and they would not permit this to happen again.

Nestor was unhappy with what the Artisans stood for. He didn't deny that combat was not exactly something anyone would trust a playwright with, but the inaction of his superiors had cost the dragons their lives. The Artisans suffered under the stereotype of being unreliable which the emerald dragon had always detested, but now he could understand why others felt this way.

Rather than feeling defeated or disqualified by this realisation, Nestor vowed to change himself. If he wanted other dragons to see the Artisans as something other than lazy and good-for-nothing, he first needed to reflect this in himself. Even after he found his calling as a carpenter he kept his creed in mind, pushing for motivation within his community to encourage change.

He swore under his name as leader that no Artisan under his rule would allow their inaction to taint their name again.

Chapter Text

(And that's a wrap. Thank you to everyone who came on this journey with me, especially to all those who took the time out of their day to leave a review. The support I've received writing this has been overwhelming, and I can't express how grateful I am. I hope you decide to stick around - this story might be over but I hope that this will not be the end. The story ended up being 45,663 words and I'm not even kidding, so thanks to everyone who bothered to get this far!

Also, a pat on the back to anyone who notices the hidden reference in this chapter. Sorry, I couldn't help myself lol)

Nestor had found himself in this situation many times before.

The emerald green Artisan leader was perhaps not so emerald green any more, his old age having finally caught up to him and tinted his scales with a reflective silver hue. More and more he found himself relying on a cane to keep his spine upright, able to hobble short distances unaided but standing for long periods of time made his legs quiver with the strain. His eyesight had deteriorated to the point where he had to wear glasses thick enough to beat a Gnorc to death with, but even though his body was past his prime Nestor still didn't feel a day over 100 years old.

Well, that's what he told himself anyway. His joints would probably disagree with him.

Smiling to himself, the Artisan leader folded the corner of the page he was perusing to keep his place and snapped the cover of the tome closed, the magic sewn into the thread of the purple velvet cover weaving together and locking the book from prying eyes. He gently slipped the book back into its rightful home on the shelf of the bookcase, the gap created by its absence a perfect mould of it's form due to how tightly packed the shelf was. He grasped the jewel-encrusted head of his cane in one hand and used it to steady his stance as he turned to face his guest.

Kage would describe himself as self-assured, zesty, and a natural born leader, but his peers would probably describe him as arrogant and brutish. The small dragon hatched maybe only one or two clutches ago, although he walked around the Homeworld like he was five times his size and with an ego to match. His pastel blue scales almost glowed with the pale moonlight falling upon the grass of Dark Hollow, and the tip of a second pair of horns behind his existing pair peeked through the skin on his scalp. Accompanying him was his dragonfly, who constantly emitted a light pink glow except when she stood in for any damage that the young dragon took. And Kage took a lot of damage in his various over-the-top schemes. His dragonfly was very patient.

"You seem to be very certain about this," Nestor pondered, gazing down the glasses balanced on the pit of his snout at the young dragon. Kage puffed out his chest in response.

"Yep!" he declared boldly. "I wanna be like those heroes in all the stories you told me. I wanna fight some bad guys and kick some butt, and I can't do that here! Please, let me train with the Peace Keepers!"

Nestor snorted in amusement and grinned widely. The aging elder had heard many stories about the young dragon in question from his tutors; most were concerned about his lack of self-preservation when it came to throwing himself horns first into any trouble he could get his claws on. Only last week he and a couple of his clutch-mates had been given a month of kitchen patrol after they were found terrorising the sheep in Toasty to see how many they could stack on top of each other before the improvised totem pole collapsed.

The sky blue dragon's request was not completely unique. Nestor was reminded of another dragon, small for his age but full of spirit who had made an eerily similar request many years prior. Although the intentions behind the two appeals were worlds apart, with Kage seemingly looking for glory rather than for self-realisation, Nestor still felt a wave of nostalgia roll over him. Cosmos would tell him that he was just becoming soft in his old age, but he found that rejecting the pleas of any dragon pup almost caused him physical pain.

"Well, Kage," he laughed, "I must say you seem to have thought a lot about this!"

Kage nodded eagerly and tried to puff his chest out even further to prove his might in an attempt to convince the elder to approve of his demands.

"But right now, I must decline your request."

The dragon pup deflated as quickly as he had puffed himself up.

"Aww, come on! Pleeeeease…" he whined nasally, tail flicking in irritation.

Nestor ignored the pleading dragon pup and turned back to the oak bookshelf behind him. He leaned in to try and get his eyes to focus on the spines of the books, his nose grazing the violet velvet lining as he scanned the shelf for one particular volume. Locating the book he was looking for, he carefully wiggled it out of its position, fearing that any sudden movements may cause the whole precarious collection to fall down on top of him. As the book broke free of the pile the others filled in the space left behind, swallowing the gap as if it was never there. Nestor really needed to build a new bookshelf for all of these.

"Firstly," he began, turning back to the blue dragon pup. "The Peace Keepers are not heroes like in your stories. They are normal dragons, just like you and I, and very busy dragons at that. I cannot simply ask them to stop in their patrols and take the time to tutor you when they may already be engaged with something else."

Kage groaned heavily, realising that he was maybe being a little forward and dropped his head in shame. He had spent so many late nights lying awake dreaming of taking to the skies and bridging the gaps between the Dragon Realms with fire on his wings and in his heart that he had not considered needing the consent of more than just the Artisan elder.

"Secondly," Nestor continued. "Your teacher told me that you haven't been turning in your assignments on time. There is no way I could justify interrupting your existing studies for another venture without trust that you would not fall behind in the meantime."

"But-" Kage tried to protest only to be silenced by a single palm held out by Nestor.

"And thirdly," he surmised. "You still have one week of your kitchen patrol to finish, yes?"

Kage reluctantly grumbled and shuffled his feet meekly before relenting. The green dragon shook his head – he had always detested the mindset that so many of his own elders took regarding children. He had suffered through many rants from the other leaders about how children these days didn't have enough respect, or enough drive, or didn't turn the lights off when they left a room. The last thing Nestor wanted was to replicate such a toxic mindset in his own actions. He had vowed several centuries ago that he would not expect anyone else to hold a virtue unless he himself demonstrated the same in his own actions, and this stance had not changed.

"That being said," Nestor stated, crouching down to the level of the smaller dragon, "It takes a lot of guts to approach your superior and ask to be transferred elsewhere, and I applaud that. Very few dragons could find the strength of spirit to defend their ideals in the face of opposition, including those older than you are."

Kage looked up in tentative optimism to find Nestor presenting him with a book he had never seen before. Reaching out he gently took it from the grasp of the emerald elder and ran his claws over the cover. The tome was bound with royal purple velvet that left trails every time his palms ran across the surface, and was lined with golden thread that seemed to reflect rainbows when the light of the full moon bounced off the surface. The book screamed opulence as if it was only fit for the touch of a king. Kage felt a little humbled simply by being allowed to hold the pages within his grasp, an emotion which was amplified ten fold when his eyes took in the name of the author.

"…S-Spyro the Dragon?" he stuttered, eyes wide in awe. "The Chronicler?!"

Nestor allowed a slight chuckle to escape under his breath. Spyro would never let him live it down if he found out that dragons were calling him by that moniker. For all the nickname was decidedly fitting for his profession, the purple dragon had cringed every time the name was used to refer to him. Nestor had never discovered the true reason for this and was content to respect the dragon's wishes, although the same could not be said for the legions of fans that religiously followed his every move.

"That's the one," the emerald dragon replied, a twinkle in his eye. "Many years ago, Spyro approached me with a similar request. He was barely older than a hatchling at the time, probably about the same size as you are now, and he ventured across all the Dragon Realms and beyond to find his true calling. When he discovered his purpose, he collated all the information he had gathered on his journey and wrote it down for the generations to come."

Nestor stood back up tall, fervently ignoring the aching pain shooting down his back at the movement, and centered his weight on his cane. Kage had not looked away from the exquisite cover of the book as if it was an illusion and would vanish into thin air if he let it out of his sight.

"You see, the worlds are not as black and white as we once believed they were. Just because you're an Artisan does not mean that you can't possibly be good at anything else, and Spyro knew this better than any other dragon I've ever met."

Kage stared up at the Artisan leader with a look of shock in his eyes.

"Is it really OK for me to have this?" he questioned quietly, the weight of the situation beginning to fall on him.

"I mean, you need to return it when you're done…" Nestor replied. "Tell you what, if you finish your kitchen patrol and hand your next project in on time, I'll speak to Titan and try and sort something out. But I need your word on this."

Kage managed to tear himself away from the cover of the book to look upwards at the taller dragon. Spyro was an idol to him – a dragon who was born an Artisan but had found his calling travelling the worlds on a never-ending adventure, dragonfly in hand, kicking all kinds of butt. Kage would've given his right wing to have a chance to meet the purple dragon and shake his hand even once. The pastel blue dragon's eye wandered from the face of the green elder towards the bookshelf that he had retrieved the tome from.

Dark Hollow was known for it's extensive collection of literature of all varieties, with bookcases reaching from the floor to the ceiling and crammed into every available corner, but this was something else.

The bookshelf was practically bursting at the seams, stuffed to capacity with identical velvet lined books that threatened to spill out at any moment. The spines betrayed their contents, with books covering the arts of Magic Crafting and Dream Weaving, bestiaries from Realms he had never even heard of, advanced flying techniques, it seemed that everything Kage could think of could be found somewhere within the words. He even spotted several volumes covering the elusive Beast Maker magic. Just how many of these had Spyro written?!

Nestor waited patiently as Kage continued to stare blankly. He wondered if maybe giving him a book written by his idol had been too much for the young dragon. His dragonfly rolled her eyes and nudged him with her head. The pastel blue dragon shook himself out of his stupor and stood on his hind legs and gave a salute.

"Aye aye sir!"

"That's what I wanted to hear!" Nestor laughed. "If you ever run into Spyro make sure to tell him that you read his books. His reaction is always hilarious."

Nestor raised an eyebrow as the young troublemaker scampered off, energetically regaling his dragonfly with details of the purple dragon's various adventures that she had probably heard a million times before. The Artisan elder adjusted the glasses balanced on the end of his nose and turned his attention back to the shelf behind him. He was lucky if Spyro returned to the lush green pastures of his birthplace even once a month, appearing unannounced and arriving on an airship alongside one of the many Balloonists. Nestor wondered how many Balloonists had taken up the mantle after hearing tales of how they were instrumental in the purple dragon's quest to save the Dragon Realms from Gnasty.

It seemed like Spyro left an impact on everyone who came into contact with him.

The purple dragon was undoubtedly busy but Nestor was touched that he took the time to visit the aging elder. The two would sit and talk for hours, herbal tea in hand, while Spyro would reel off all the new worlds he had discovered and the enemies he had taken down along the way. He spoke of deserts encroached by freezing tundras, lands where stew spewed from volcanoes like lava, and worlds where the moon was less than an hour's flight away and gravity was nothing more than a fleeting thought. Some worlds had never met a dragon before, and some didn't even know they existed in the first place. Somehow, the dragon always found his way back home.

Nestor had repeatedly attempted to convince Spyro to take the role of Artisan leader so he could step down, but the purple dragon had declined every time with that deep bellowing laugh of his. He had found the freedom he craved in the skies of uncharted lands and the oceans of uninhabited realms. He was on the sidelines of every war, the peak of every mountain, the depth of every chasm with his dragonfly on his shoulder and his pen in his hand. No, he would not give his dream up for the world. Nestor couldn't blame him - if he didn't take such a long time getting his stiffening body out of bed in the morning he would have considering joining the duo on their excursions.

Speaking of Sparx, Nestor was surprised to find the golden dragonfly was still with them on every visit. Most insects didn't live beyond a dragon's adolescence, dying of inevitable old age just as their dragon was grown enough to no longer need their support, but Sparx had remained. Sure, he couldn't fly very well and mostly rode around on Spyro's shoulder, but his longevity was staggering. Nestor wondered if the roles had reversed – Sparx's role once was to keep Spyro alive and kicking using his magic to shield him from harm, but perhaps Spyro's own vast magic reserves was now doing the same for his friend. The two had described themselves as inseparable and Nestor didn't doubt them did one second.

The duo would bring stacks and stacks of notebooks and loose paper with them every time they returned, sometimes required two or more Balloonists to make the journey home to carry the avalanche of documents. Nestor would read over the paper while Spyro redrew his sketches, recording them in almost lifelike detail in charcoal as if the monsters could reach out of the page and attack at any moment. The purple dragon had once attempted that exact feat using a spell he had Crafted, finally finding an equilibrium between the use of Sigils and his own natural talent, which had allowed him to draw pictures that actually moved as if they were real. This ended when some of the Gnorcs he drew for his volume on Gnorc Gnexus escaped the pages of the book and attempted to wage a war against the stationary illustrations in Darius's copy of Pride and Prejudice. Spyro might be an adult now, but he never grew out of his tendency for getting himself into trouble.

Once the mounds of paper had been looked over they were passed into the eager hands of Oswin, who had found no shortage of work since Spyro had started his quest. The pages were collated, bound and sealed within each tome and somehow squeezed into the bulging confines of Spyro's dedicated bookshelf. Together with the numerous copies that had been distributed throughout the other Dragon Realms there were likely enough books written by the purple dragon to outnumber the entire population of the Realms and then some. Nestor had always promised he would dig out his old hammer and chisel, long disused since his hands had become too shaky to reliably craft anything of value, and would one day get around to making a second bookshelf. The amethyst dragon would always playfully tease the elder about this, but his duties as leader always kept his hands full.

Shaking his head at the thought, Nestor began his slow shuffle back to Stone Hill. His body became weaker every day and sometimes it took him a moment to get going if he stood still for too long, but his mind was as sharp as ever and clung to every piece of information it could grasp. Years worth of carpentry techniques still sung in his brain, desperate for one more chance to express themselves in a piece that the emerald dragon could call his final magnum opus, but he knew such delicate work was beyond his capabilities now. Instead, he fed his prowess into his apprentice, a sprightly dragon with horns curled like a ram, who could at least hold a chisel without the worry of taking someone's eye out.

Every visit from Spyro ended the same way.

For all the purple dragon now stood over a head taller than Nestor these days, a fact which Spyro was more than happy to bring up at any opportunity, the Artisan elder still felt a great deal of responsibility for his well-being. Spyro's abilities far outweighed his own in almost every way but Nestor couldn't help but wish he was able to assist in their ventures in a more direct manner. After his latest book was completed, Spyro had inevitably left the Realm looking towards the horizon for his next adventure. Nestor offered the proposition again, requesting that he replace him as leader of the Artisans, and Spyro would refuse again. He would throw his signature carefree smirk over one shoulder, offer a wave, and always left with the same advice.

"Aim high in life, but watch out for flying boxes!"

Nestor still had no idea what he was talking about.

Upon reaching his home he set his cane down by his desk, slipping it into the wooden basket alongside the dozen others. When Nestor had finally admitted that his age was starting to catch up with him he decided to use it to his advantage rather than allow it to hold him back, which manifested in his teachings. Invariably the first task he assigned to any prospective students was to craft a cane using any materials or techniques they liked. Not every cane had turned out to be... functional, some not even resembling canes at all in their design, but every tool was a reflection of the personality of its creator. He was sure some of his former students would die of embarrassed if they knew he kept a hold of their failed implements, but a dragon's first crafted tool was just as valuable as their last and Nestor still felt joy looking back at where they had started their journeys and swung how far they had come.

Besides, it was always fun to break them out at birthday parties. They made good blackmail material.

Removing his jacket, he moved to hang it on it's usual hook as he did every night, but hesitated for the first time in years. His old tool belt still hung on the hook, the tan leather slightly dusty and ill-fitting after years of disuse, but still in its rightful place where it had resided since he picked up the chisel for the first time. Nestor couldn't remember the last time he had donned his gadgets and carved something that he could call his own. He had resigned himself to the limitations caused by his old age, but his heart still yearned to express itself in the only way it knew how.

Even after all these years, Spyro couldn't give him a moment of peace. Maybe it was about time that he made that bookshelf he kept putting off.

Unknown to the elder, the pastel blue dragon was huddled under his bed sheets in his dorm, his face daintily illuminated by the soft pink glow of his slumbering dragonfly. Even while she slept, exhausted after a day of listening to Kage ramble on about the unbelievable exploits of the purple dragon, she still gave off enough of a subtle glow to light up his surroundings, and Kage was far too excited to sleep. He kept running his hands over the cover of the book, feeling the soft velvet caress the skin between his claws and giggling quietly. The book claimed to detail Peace Keeper strategies, covering formations and attack patterns that Kage hoped he could memorise. When Nestor finally caved in and gave him what he wanted the Peace Keepers would be so impressed!

Careful not to disturb his snoozing friend he flipped the book to read the blurb on the back. The words were sewn into the fabric of the book cover with the same golden thread that lined the edges, illuminated just barely enough by the gleam emitting from his dragonfly to be legible.

This book is dedicated to anyone who felt like they didn't belong. May the strength of your spirit guide you to your final destination, however long your journey may be.

This book is also dedicated to Nestor. Thank you for putting up with me all these years.

Snorting in an attempt to hold in a giggle, he turned the book back over. He still couldn't believe that he was in possession of a piece of work created by the legendary purple dragon, the Chronicler himself! He was a little star struck. His mind filled with thoughts of prancing across the endless plains of Dry Canyon and climbing the dunes of Cliff Town, he licked his lips in anticipation, braced himself, and finally opened to the first page.

And began to read.