Shard of thalon

Zarok's attack

Drums boomed across Aerithar. Dancers spun faster, their mists weaving a giant Qilin shape. Draven clutched his broom, heart still racing from the pendant’s visions. The Crystal Halls buzzed with joy. He edged toward a window, the shard warm against his chest. Mist-bridges glowed under starlight, linking the floating islands. For a moment, he forgot the shadow.

A scream shattered the night. Draven spun. Mists tore apart. Dark shapes crashed through the bridges. Obsidian-skinned warriors poured in, led by a towering figure—Zarok. His red eyes burned. Two others flanked him. One, gaunt with glowing eyes, whispered to the crowd. The other, wiry, moved like lightning, shattering crystal with a crackling staff.

Panic erupted. Dancers scattered. Lirien shouted, pulling people back. Kwevn swung his staff, sending mist at the invaders. It dissolved against their armor. Draven froze, broom slipping from his hands. The pendant flared, heat spreading through him.

Zarok raised a clawed hand. Shadows coiled around the Qilin shape, yanking it from the air. The real Qilin—radiant, horned—roared from the central spire. Chains wrapped its legs. It thrashed, light dimming. Skyfolk cried out, rushing to help.

Draven stumbled forward. The gaunt figure—Drin—turned, eyes locking on him. A voice hissed in Draven’s mind. Run, weak one. He shook his head, pain stabbing his skull. The wiry one—Qeson—darted past, staff sparking. He smashed a dancer aside, then charged at the Qilin.

Lirien grabbed a staff from a fallen dancer. She swung, blocking Qeson’s strike. “Get help!” she yelled to Draven. He nodded, legs moving before his brain caught up.

He darted through the chaos. Warriors clashed with Skyfolk. Mist swirled, thick with screams. Draven’s breath came short. The pendant pulsed, guiding him toward the mountains. He climbed a spiral stair, crystal walls trembling under the attack.

Outside, wind whipped his face. Mist-bridges buckled. Warriors chased fleeing Skyfolk. Draven reached a ledge, heart pounding. Below, the ground world vanished in clouds. Above, the Qilin’s light faded as chains dragged it toward Zarok.

A warrior spotted Draven. He lunged, spear aimed. Draven ducked, tripping over a rock. The spear grazed his arm, drawing blood. He scrambled up, panic fueling his steps. The pendant glowed brighter. A shield of light burst from it, knocking the warrior back. Draven stared, shocked. The shield held, shimmering around him.

More warriors closed in. Drin’s voice echoed in Draven’s head. You can’t hide. Pain flared again. Draven gritted his teeth, clutching the pendant. The shield pulsed, pushing the attackers away. He ran, shield flickering, toward a cave in the mountains.

Inside, darkness swallowed him. The shield faded. Draven pressed against the cave wall, panting. The pendant’s light dimmed. Outside, shouts grew faint. He peeked out. Warriors dragged the Qilin, its cries piercing the air. Zarok stood tall, chains in hand. Drin whispered to Skyfolk, turning them against each other. Qeson moved like a blur, securing the spire.

Draven’s hands shook. The Qilin’s capture meant trouble for all realms. His arm stung, blood dripping. He tore a strip from his shirt, binding the wound. The pendant warmed again. Visions hit—Zarok laughing, Drin and Qeson bowing, a volcanic land burning. Then silence.

He sank to the cave floor. The attack made no sense. Why the Qilin? Why him? The shield’s power stunned him. He touched the pendant, its surface smooth. A weapon? A curse? He didn’t know.

Footsteps crunched outside. Draven tensed. A figure emerged—Valthys, bloodied but alive. “Draven,” he rasped. “You’re alive.”

Draven rushed to help. “What’s happening?”

“Zarok’s back,” Valthys said, leaning on a staff. “Freed after five hundred years. The Qilin’s light holds Aerithar. Without it, we fall.”

Draven’s stomach dropped. “Why me?”

Valthys eyed the pendant. “That shard chose you. Thalon’s blood runs in you. Run to Pyrovance. Warn them.”

Before Draven could answer, a roar shook the cave. Warriors stormed in. Valthys shoved Draven deeper. “Go!” he shouted, facing them.

Draven stumbled into the dark. The pendant flared, lighting his path. Behind, metal clashed. Valthys’s staff glowed, then went out. Silence followed. Draven’s chest tightened. He kept moving, the cave narrowing. The Qilin’s faint cry echoed, pulling him forward.

He emerged on a cliff. Below, Aerithar burned. Mist-bridges collapsed. The Qilin hung limp in chains, its light nearly gone. Zarok’s laughter rolled through the air. Draven gripped the pendant, its heat steady. He had to move. Pyrovance waited. But Valthys’s fate haunted him.

A shadow loomed above. Qeson stood on the cliff edge, staff crackling. “Found you,” he said, leaping down.

Draven dodged, rolling aside. The staff missed, striking rock. Sparks flew. He scrambled up, pendant glowing. The shield flared again, blocking Qeson’s next swing. The warrior grinned, advancing.

Draven backed toward the cliff’s edge. No escape. Qeson raised his staff. Draven raised the pendant, light blinding them both. A c***k split the air. The cliff trembled. Rocks slid, pulling Qeson with them. He vanished into the mist.

Draven clung to the edge, panting. The shield faded. Below, Qeson’s cry cut off. Draven pulled himself up, heart hammering. The pendant pulsed, warm and steady. He stared at the burning islands, the Qilin’s fading light. Valthys was gone. Qeson was down. But Zarok still ruled.

He stood, bloodied but alive. Pyrovance called. The shard’s power surged. Draven took a breath and ran into the night.