Hi all, for those who recognise me and my other story, I just want to say there is nothing to worry about. I am not stopping Beliefs of Liars. Just wanted to write something in between cleaning the last chapters.

This here is a short story I had been thinking of for a while, so I decided to finally get it down on paper. I will have most likely written all the other chapters before uploading. I've also decided to write shorter chapters to make it easier to do stuff.

I hope you all enjoy regardless.

WhiteWingedFox

The Day of Heroes

Neither expected to survive the cataclysmic events, so they used the time to unearth regrets and tell final secrets.

But the gods heard their request and gave it to them.

They were alive, brought back to the reformed surface by a power far beyond their own understanding; but more importantly...they were together.

With betrayals forgiven and feelings spoken, all they could do was embrace each other's weary bodies and speak the sacred words. Everything was fine, everything was over...

...Until she vanished into the starry night.

Many searches swept the reforged realms, but turned up empty. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and many had given up on her safe return. But Spyro tried so desperately to find her; he searched the darkest corners and highest peaks, but found no trace of the elusive dragoness. The years passed by and even his valiant determination began falling behind the untiring tides of time. Finally, after seven dark years, his waning soul gave out, and his hope for the one faded. It was time he moved on, lest he risked eternal sadness.

Many female suitors came forth to fill that empty trench over the years, but none ever claimed the purple dragon's claw. But one day, his heart opened up to a new dragoness…

It had been a long decade since the realm was saved by the dark tyranny of Malefor, yet everyone remembered it like it was the day after. How could they forget? Even weeks after those dramatic events, parties celebrating Spyro's triumphant victory still erupted out onto the streets where late-night walkers and watchful guards would get caught up in the drunken antics of wobbly moles.

The feral, heartless orcs had lost their world-ending ways and now trudged the lands in bands looking for destructive past times to quell their rampageous urges. Over time they too fell to the tides of time and claws of dragons until only pockets of them existed.

Ever since then, a celebration was held each year to commemorate the brave actions of Spyro, the hero of Warfang and the world. This event was known as the Day of Heroes, which was ironically named considering the festival would span three days.

But each year the guardians, who had since become noble leaders of the city, would try and outdo the previous years with more booze and a bigger firework display. They tried especially hard this time around since it was celebrating the ten year milestone. They rushed around ordering moles and dragons, trying to finalise preparations for the event.

Friday marked the first day of such a grand event, where the temple centralised in the heart of the city was decorated in beautiful ribbons and fine silk banners of all colours, and was then opened up to all of Warfang. The citizens would gather and flow into the temple's great open hall where they would talk and compete to see who could tell the tallest tale of bravery.

When the afternoon came, the drunken rabble were cleared out so that the hall could be prepared for Warfang's richer and more upstanding citizens to come and dine under the temple's famous marble architecture.

Other junctions or famous landmarks would also become party grounds, often getting pilfered in rubbish and half-eaten food products.

On the second and third day, travelling merchants of all species would travel from far distances to set up shop and sell 'Spyro approved' merchandise in hopes for making a quick coin off the gullible and over-indulged people. Many vivid stalls would open up with shifty shopkeepers holloreing people over and bickering with other merchants like territorial walruses. At the end of the third day a large firework display is held off Warfang coast, where gatherings of creatures would flock onto the cliffs and watch the marvelous, vibrant explosions shoot into the cooling sunset skies like streaking dragonflies.

It is truly a beautiful spectacle to behold, as many travellers would visit warfang just for the sake of the festivities and to see the great city that stood the strains of war. But even more so to see the true jewel of the celebration, the legend himself...Spyro.

It was now the final day of the festival, and Spyro was once more being hounded by his well-dressed agent, drearing over the drake's afternoon agenda. He had been through this process before in the previous years, but he sword each time the deadlines got tighter as his agent tried to cram him into as many different venues he could. This time of the year was always tiring and stressful, even though these days were dedicated to him. He was rushed to one location to say a few words before being dragged off to do the same thing another thirty times; rinse and repeat for the next few days.

Do not get him wrong, he loved seeing the moles and dragons get time off work to celebrate their freedom, to happily party away their inner struggles to gather and party for one united purpose. He loved seeing their beaming smiles directed at him. But most of all he loved seeing the fireworks on the final night from his quiet spot atop the plateau behind Warfang. He would often lie on the soft grass, undisturbed by the mobbing fans and high expectations, and gently listening to the subtle breeze blowing the apple tree leaves; the bright moon bracing him in mellow light. But on these specific nights especially, were among his favourites. He loved to see the glistening colours of fireworks reflect off the ocean's rippling waters, to light up the black, starry skies in their rainbows of shining colours. It was beautiful...and appeasing to his weary soul.

Eventually, the agent's seemingly endless list came to an abrupt stop. The mole started rolling up the long piece of paper dragging on the smooth sandstone floor.

"That's it for tomorrow, please don't forget," the prestigious mole droned. He turned towards the purple dragon.

Spyro was shoved out of his wonderful daydream as he turned down towards his furry agent.

"Did you hear anything I said?" he grumbled.

"Of course," Spyro replied, trying not to sound bored as he stared back at the mole. He hoped the mole's sharp, beady eyes couldn't slash through his lie.

"Why do I even bother," he muttered to himself. "Alright, fine. I see your attention span is short as usual." The mole then tilted his glasses and looked back at his list of times and locations. Finally he grumbled a response, "We'll cancel this one so you can have the hour." The mole took out his pencil from his front, leather pouch and crossed off one specific object on a seemingly monotone list. "Now scram, kid. I got things to organise. Be back before the hour and we'll go through the list once more." The mole then paced ahead.

Spyro could only smile. While his agent could be tense and a little cranky at times, he took good care of him and did little things like this every now and again.

Spyro was relieved. He rarely got time to actually go explore the city on his own, and there were a selection of stalls he wanted to visit before the event ended. Ahead of him stood the gapping entrance leading out of the temple. Thick, round, chiselled pillars supported the curved arches above, leading out to the beautiful blue skies of the open world. The afternoon sun burned bright and glorious, high above the city and casting its warming light to those lucky enough to embrace it.

Without hesitation he walked out into the clean, crisp air. The smell of freshly cut grass lingered on the shallow wind as moles with cutting knives tended the pristine lawns that stretched to either sides of the courtyard. Rows of squarely sliced hedges hugged the edge of the silver fences that kept the noisy population out. Many flowers ranging from sunshine yellow to crimson red and amethyst purple sheltered themselves underneath the two giant oak trees' canopies that made their presence known in the centre of the two lawns. A straight checkered path of cleanly grinded slabs sprawled out to the large arched gateways that led out to the grand city that was Warfang.

Spyro walked down the three steps and towards the open exit. There was one particular place a little off the beaten path he liked to visit; he rarely was pestered there and visited often enough to be seen as a regular. The locals treated him as one of them and that gave Spyro some much needed time away from his high-profile life. While he could have flown there, there was something special about just walking from time to time, to be able to appreciate the surroundings without having the need to rush; that and he wouldn't stand out like a beacon to the fanatics below.

He marched out the front gate. Ahead of him lay Warfang's biggest and busiest street. It in itself was a hullabaloo every day, but throw in all the jam-packed stands and you've got yourself a tedious, slow obstacle course and a bad time. Luckily Spyro had become familiar with the back-alleys, allowing him an easier opportunity to traverse the bustling city. He turned left and walked on. Shortly after, a small opening in the buildings appeared, to which he entered. The clean pavement came to swift end and instead replaced with cracked uneven concrete. A collection of pots was huddled up against one of the towering walls and stacks of boxes filled with grain and other baking ingredients were planted next to a battered back door.

A couple of brown rats made themselves scarce as the large purple dragon made his way through with his wings tucked in close to his body. He wondered how long it would be before he no longer could fit down this path meant for moles. He was nowhere near the size of the guardians, but he was certainly much bigger than he was ten years ago. He was taller and his muscles had considerably grown to support his new size. His wing span has broadened as well, allowing him to fly for longer distances and more swiftly through the endless skies. His purple scales had never lost their famous purple shine, giving the dragon a lustrous violet colouring to match the deep gold of his underbelly and chest. His back spines had also grown and curved backwards like shark fins. His horns stretched to new heights, straight like a sword and only angled at certain points.

To call him handsome was an understatement, but that wasn't why Spyro kept himself in such good condition. For him the pride lay with the knowledge that he was clean and well-maintained.

He navigated the back alley labyrinth like the back of his talon, traversing the narrow, shadowed corridors.

Then he stopped.

He could feel a pair of burning eyes staring at the back of his skull, not that of a friend...but of a stalker. He twisted his head behind him and looked towards the roofs...nothing. He knew he was being followed, by who though didn't concern him; he had been shadowed before and it usually never came to harm. He continued on, trying to forget the piercing eyes drilling into his cranium.

Unfortunately, this was one of the downsides of being this famous: constant super-fans following your every move, paperazzi looking to pry into your private life for tasty stories. All was almost guaranteed each time he stepped outside the temple, which he regrettably had to do often. Going to parties and junctions wasn't just a rare occurrence. It was a job. His agent would organise events such as grand openings, parties and more for Spyro to go to. For the first couple of months Spyro enjoyed it, but after that it became a mundane chore, and Spyro only did it to keep people happy at the expense of his own being and satisfaction.

It didn't help that these events would have at least one dragoness trying to woo him, even though he had found someone at last to fill the dark abyss created when she left. It constantly frustrated him that these other high-profile dragonesses would still try to use their titles and position as a way to see themselves as worthy enough to be with him. He had lost count how many times he had turned them down, sometimes the same dragoness many times.

On top of this job, he would often attend guardian meetings to discuss plans for the city and also continue honing his skills in the unlikely event of another invasion. This left Spyro very little time to do what he actually wanted to do; he was controlled like a puppet. But any free time he did have would often be dedicated to relaxing and finding peace in the solace of his home. His place of refuge consisted of an extension of the glorious temple on the side. Two stories of mansion-like quality with a large balcony suited to fitting several dragons. All including a perfect overview of the city and the ocean reaching out towards the horizon. To the right, the Burnt Lands still lit up like a colossal bonfire, though from this distance it looked more like a gentle crackling fireplace.

Outside of this, Spyro's life was a routine, and while it certainly did have its ups, it could never compare to the normalish home he once had at the swamp. Even though Spyro's life was full and looked to be set, he couldn't help but feel something was missing. It wasn't friends, because even if he had plenty of fake friends, he did also a close group of true friends. He wasn't sure what this new sensation inside him was, but hoped in due time this unknown feeling would either fade or reveal itself.

The alleyway was coming to an end; light seeped around the corner as Spyro approached. Again, he sensed the unwavering glare behind him, more intense than any before. He twisted his head around rapidly, this time catching sight of a fleeting long, black tail disappearing around the corner.

Black tail…

That one detail struck a chord with him yet he wasn't sure why. There weren't any wind dragons left in Warfang, unless they travelled in for the festival. Despite this potential conclusion, this tiny detail was still gnawing at him. He tried picturing the tail more clearly in his mind. He vaguely remembered catching a glimpse of a shiny, rounded shape with a nasty edge vanish behind the corner as well.

Was it mugger dressed in black with long spaghetti arms wielding a knife that fled when it realised it was spotted? Spyro shook his head clear of that ridiculous thought. The more he thought, the more it resembled…

"Cynder?"