Shard of thalon

Draven Keal shoved his broom across the Crystal Halls' floor. Dust swirled up, then settled on the gleaming crystal. He paused, wiped sweat from his brow, and glanced upward. Skyfolk twirled in the mist-dance festival, their bodies slicing through veils of fog that shimmered like living silk. Stars pierced the night sky above the floating islands, casting silver light on the dancers' flowing robes. He gripped the broom tighter. At twenty, he knew his place. Cleaner. Orphan. Outsider. Valthys had pulled him from the mountains years ago, half-dead and memory-blank. Aerithar gave him shelter, but never belonging. The halls echoed with music—flutes and drums that pulsed like a heartbeat. Draven's hands ached from scrubbing, but he kept pushing. Clean floors meant one less reason for stares. Footsteps clacked down from the dance platform. Kwevn Drenvar stopped, his tattooed arms crossed. His robe caught the light, silver threads gleaming. He held a staff tipped with glowing mist. "Still scraping dirt, Draven?" Kwevn's voice boomed, drawing eyes from the crowd. "Can't join the dance? Can't even lift a staff?" Laughter erupted. Skyfolk paused their steps, watching. Draven's cheeks burned. He straightened, meeting Kwevn's gaze. "I clean the halls." His words came firm, but his knuckles whitened on the broom. Kwevn stepped closer, staff twirling. Mist coiled from its tip, brushing Draven's face like ice fingers. "Clean? That's your gift? We weave Aetherweave to hold these islands aloft. You scrub. Useless." More chuckles spread. Draven's jaw tightened. He swung the broom, scattering dust at Kwevn's feet. "Someone has to." A sharp voice cut in. "Enough, Kwevn." Lirien Valthys pushed through the group. Her silver hair cascaded over a healer's cloak. She planted herself between them, eyes locked on Kwevn. "He works. You strut." Kwevn's smile faded. "Defending the mountain rat, Lirien? Your father's elder status won't shield you forever." He spun away, staff slicing air, and climbed back to the dance. The crowd dispersed, murmurs fading. Lirien turned to Draven. "Ignore him. You belong here." She squeezed his arm, then slipped back into the dancers, her steps light. Draven exhaled. Her touch lingered. He resumed sweeping, but his mind raced. Belong? The word mocked him. No family. No skills. Just this broom. A rustle sounded nearby. Zyrenna Klyne darted over, clutching a worn book. Her red curls bounced. "Draven, did you see that mist swirl? It reacted to you." He frowned. "Reacted? It was just wind." She shook her head, flipping open the book. A drawing showed a man gripping a glowing shard, facing shadows. "Thalon. He sealed Zarok five hundred years ago. Legends say he'll return when the realms need him." Draven stared at the page. The man looked strong, determined. "What does that have to do with me?" Zyrenna leaned in. "Your pendant. It warmed during Kwevn's taunt. I felt it." She closed the book. "Watch for signs." She hurried off, leaving him alone. Draven touched the pendant under his shirt. It hung heavy, a shard-shaped stone he'd worn since Valthys found him. Dull most days. Now it pulsed warm. He pulled it out. Light flickered inside, faint but steady. His breath caught. Images flashed—jagged mountains, a roaring battle, a Qilin's horn cutting through darkness. Then nothing. His heart pounded. He shoved the pendant back, scanning the halls. No one noticed. The dancers spun faster, mists forming a giant Qilin shape that hovered above. Cheers rose. Draven backed away, broom forgotten. The festival peaked. Drums thundered. Mists thickened, carrying scents of herbs and starlight. Draven slipped to a window, overlooking mist-bridges linking the islands. Far below, clouds hid the ground world. Up here, Aerithar floated free. But freedom mocked him too. He pressed a hand to the crystal wall. The pendant heated again. He yanked it out. Light burst brighter, casting shadows on the wall. Pain shot through his chest. He gasped, dropping to his knees. Visions flooded him—a demon with obsidian skin, red eyes glaring; two figures beside it, one whispering, one flashing like lightning; a Qilin bound in chains, crying out. The visions faded. Draven panted, sweat dripping. What was that? He stood, legs shaky. The pendant dimmed. Outside, a shadow moved on a bridge—too large, too fast. Red eyes gleamed, then vanished. Fear gripped him. He grabbed the broom, holding it like a staff. The halls felt empty now. The dancers' music seemed distant. Something approached. Draven whispered to the pendant, "What are you?" No answer. But the light flickered once more. He knew then—his life as a cleaner ended. The shadow grew closer. He backed away, heart racing, ready to run.