Shard of thalon

Prophecy revealed

Draven stumbled into the Elder Chamber. Shadows clung to the crystal walls. His arm throbbed where the warrior’s spear grazed it. Blood stained the cloth he’d tied around the wound. The pendant hung heavy, its light dim after the cliff escape. He leaned against a pillar, catching his breath. Aerithar’s screams still echoed in his ears.

Valthys sat slumped on a stone bench. Blood streaked his gray robe. His staff lay broken beside him. He lifted his head, eyes sharp despite the pain. “Draven. You made it.”

Draven nodded, stepping closer. “Valthys, what’s happening? The Qilin—”

“Zarok’s work,” Valthys cut in. He gripped the bench, pulling himself up. “Freed after five hundred years. His lieutenants, Drin and Qeson, helped. The Qilin’s light holds Aerithar. Without it, we crash.”

Draven’s stomach tightened. He touched the pendant. “Why me? That shield—”

Valthys raised a hand. “Sit.” He pointed to a stool. Draven obeyed, wincing as he sat. Valthys shuffled to a chest, pulling out a rolled parchment. He spread it on the bench. A scale, shimmering like pearl, rested on top.

“This came from the Qilin,” Valthys said. He traced the parchment’s lines. “A prophecy. Listen. ‘Born in mountains, marked by shard, Thalon’s heir binds the realms. Betrayal’s blade forges the path. Fallen anoint the rise.’”

Draven frowned. “Thalon? That’s the man Zyrenna showed me.”

Valthys nodded. “Thalon sealed Zarok long ago. Died when his own turned against him. The shard marks his heir. You.”

Draven stared at the pendant. Its surface pulsed, casting faint light. “Me? I’m just a cleaner.”

“Not anymore,” Valthys said. He pointed to the wound. “That scar. The shield. Signs. You carry Thalon’s blood.”

Before Draven could argue, footsteps pounded outside. The chamber door flew open. Skyfolk burst in, faces twisted with anger. Drin stood among them, gaunt face smug. His glowing eyes fixed on Draven. “This boy caused the attack,” Drin’s voice slithered. “His presence drew Zarok.”

Murmurs rose. A woman stepped forward, staff raised. “He’s no Thalon. Throw him out!”

Draven stood, heart racing. “I didn’t—”

“Quiet!” Drin snapped. His voice dug into Draven’s mind, sharp as a blade. Pain flared behind his eyes. He staggered, clutching his head.

Lirien pushed through the crowd. She shoved Drin aside, standing by Draven. “Stop this. Drin lies. I saw the shield save him.”

Drin sneered. “A trick. He’s weak. Useless.”

Lirien glared. “Prove it then.” She turned to Draven, voice low. “Hold steady.”

Draven nodded, fighting the pain. The pendant warmed. He focused, willing the light to return. A shimmer spread around him, weak but visible. Gasps filled the room. Drin’s eyes narrowed.

“See?” Lirien said to the crowd. “He’s not the enemy.”

The Skyfolk hesitated. Drin stepped back, whispering to a few. They nodded, slipping out. Draven’s head cleared, the pain fading. He lowered his hands, the shield vanishing.

Valthys coughed, drawing attention. “Drin poisons your minds. Draven must go to Pyrovance. Warn them. The prophecy demands it.”

A man stepped up, staff glowing. “Let him try. If he fails, we cast him out.”

Draven swallowed. Pyrovance. Fire and duels. He barely survived Aerithar. But the pendant pulsed, steady and strong. He squared his shoulders. “I’ll go.”

Lirien touched his arm. “I’m with you.” Her eyes held promise.

Valthys handed him the parchment. “Take this. The prophecy guides you.”

Draven tucked it into his shirt. The chamber grew quiet. Skyfolk dispersed, muttering. Drin lingered by the door, eyes glinting. Then he vanished into the mist.

Draven followed Lirien outside. The halls lay in ruins—cracked crystal, broken staffs. Mist hung thick, hiding the bridges. He scanned the sky. The Qilin’s light flickered, far off. His chest ached. Valthys’s words rang in his head. Thalon’s heir.

They reached a stable. A Griffin stood, wings folded. Lirien stroked its beak. “This one’s strong. Take it.”

Draven hesitated. “I’ve never flown.”

“You will,” she said. She handed him a harness. He strapped it on, clumsy but determined.

A shadow moved in the mist. Draven froze. Red eyes glowed, then blinked out. His hand flew to the pendant. It flared, hot against his skin. Visions hit—volcanic land, warriors marching, a Qilin’s cry cut short.

He gasped, stumbling. Lirien caught him. “What’s wrong?”

“Zarok’s coming back,” he said. “For more.”

Lirien’s face hardened. “Then we move fast.” She boosted him onto the Griffin. The beast shifted, wings spreading.

Draven gripped the harness. The pendant’s light steadied. He glanced at the ruined halls. A figure watched from a bridge—Drin, staff raised. Mist swirled around him, thick and dark.

The Griffin leaped. Wind rushed past. Draven held tight, heart pounding. Below, Aerithar shrank, its light fading. Drin’s shadow grew smaller, but his stare burned into Draven’s back.

A roar split the air. The Griffin veered. Draven looked up. Qeson stood on a higher spire, staff crackling. He leaped, aiming for them.

Draven yanked the harness. The Griffin swerved, dodging. Qeson missed, tumbling into the mist. His cry echoed, then stopped.

Draven panted, clinging to the beast. The pendant glowed, guiding them toward Pyrovance. Lirien shouted something, lost in the wind. Ahead, volcanic peaks loomed. Behind, Aerithar burned.