Sunny was angry.
No—he was furious.
But beneath the fury lay something darker. Sadness. Heartbreak. A hollow wound carved open in his chest.
Nephis had told him. She remembered someone. Someone she had loved before him. A love she couldn't place.
And she didn't recognize him in those memories.
Didn't realize he was the one.
And that was the worst part—because the moment those old feelings stirred, she pushed him away. Said she had to find that person. Said she loved someone else. Said goodbye.
It had happened not long after they'd ascended. Supreme. Powerful. Unmatched. Together, they were reshaping the broken remnants of humanity. Nephis, shining like a holy beacon, the figurehead of unity. Sunny, silent and invisible, striking from the shadows, eliminating threats before they even had a chance to blink.
Then something changed.
Maybe her growing power had unlocked old thoughts. Maybe the deeper she reached into herself, the more fragments of her lost past came clawing back.
She'd forgotten who he was. What they had.
And in that twisted irony, she remembered loving someone… just not that it was him.
So she left.
Not with cruelty. Not with anger. But with cold, confused sorrow.
They'd only been together for a year. One fragile year. Not enough to anchor her. Not enough to survive the ghost of someone she didn't even remember.
Sunny hadn't seen it coming.
He'd stepped into her room in the Ivory Tower—no warning, no hesitation. Just shadow, silence, and intention. He wanted to kiss her. Instead, she pulled away.
"I'm sorry," she had whispered.
Her face was pale, her posture tense. She spoke carefully, awkwardly, like the words were knives in her own mouth.
She didn't know who he truly was. She didn't know he was the one she used to love.
Because no one told her.
He and Cassie had failed to explain it to her in a way that she wouldn't forget everything again.
And now she was gone.
Sunny had lingered. Watching.
He saw her search—looking for someone, for a man who existed only in shattered memories and half-dreams. She was even dating, trying to find a face that matched the shadow in her mind.
And when Sunny saw her hand be taken by another man…
He didn't rage.
He didn't scream.
He broke.
Quietly. Fully.
The pain swallowed everything. Too vast, too deep to scream against. So he turned away. Like he had with Rain.
And stepped into the shadows.
He emerged not in the waking world.
The shadows whispered it first: something was wrong. He felt it next—his domain was gone.
And yet, he didn't care either.
He stood in a deep forest. Alone. Breath ragged, heart clenched tight. Panic threatened the edge of his thoughts like a flood behind a thin wall.
⸻
Queen Islanzadí was wandering the sacred groves of Du Weldenvarden, her thoughts drifting toward her daughter. Time alone was rare. Time to grieve was rarer still.
It had been decades since Arya had left, yet the ache in her heart had never dulled.
Much of the distance between them was her doing. That truth she accepted, though it brought no comfort. What mother would willingly send her child into peril, into loneliness, into the foreign for decades?
She was deep in these thoughts — wondering if, given the chance, she would have chosen differently — when a shadow passed through her soul.
Dread.
It struck her like a blade across the spine — cold, precise, and utterly alien. Her feet halted of their own accord. Something was wrong.
She looked up… and froze.
Then she saw him.
There, in the heart of the forest, stood a man.
A human, by the shape of his ears. But no ordinary one.
At first, she thought him an assassin—one sent by Galbatorix.
She almost summoned her guards.
But then…
She felt him.
Not with her eyes. Not with magic. But with something deeper.
Grief—so raw, so terrible in its purity, it suffused the entire forest. Every blade of grass bowed beneath its weight. The birds fell silent. Even the shadows… stirred.
He wasn't just suffering. He was radiating it.
The forest mourned with him.
Islanzadí had known sorrow. But not like this. Not this consuming tide of despair. It was so profound, it had reached her core.
And when he fell to his knees, her breath caught in her throat.
His pain washed over her, dragging her into its undertow. For a moment, she nearly collapsed herself.
She dared not speak. Dared not move.
If she interrupted him now—if she called for her guards or challenged him—she felt certain he would obliterate them all.
Not out of malice.
But because he simply wouldn't care.
She did not call for aid. Instead, she stood with him, in silent solidarity.
An hour passed. Slowly, the storm within him calmed.
Then, at last, she stepped forward and spoke with a clear voice and with grace the formal greeting in the Ancient Language:
"Atra du evarínya ono varda. Un atra mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr."
He didn't respond.
She moved forward again—but halted.
A vision flashed in her mind—herself, beheaded.
She froze mid-step.
Then the young man turned.
His eyes…
Dark. Hollow. Onyx orbs without a flicker of light.
He looked at her the same way one might regard a tree. Or a squirrel. A non-entity to be assessed—nothing more.
She realized then: she had placed herself in grave danger.
Then, he spoke. His voice was flat. Distant.
"I doubt you brought me here. But I'll ask anyway. Who are you? And where am I?"
His words bore no warmth. Only the need for information.
She met his gaze without flinching.
"I am Queen Islanzadí of the elven kingdom. You stand in the forest of Du Weldenvarden, near Ellesméra."
Sunny blinked once, then said:
"Never heard of any of that. Is this the waking world? Or the Dream Realm?"
Islanzadí's brow furrowed.
"I know only this world. We do not refer to it as the waking realm. This continent is known as Alagaësia."
He nodded, once.
"Interesting. Then tell me this… why couldn't I sense your presence until you spoke?"
A faint smile touched her lips.
"Because I was here the moment you arrived. I felt your grief… it spilled out into the trees."
Another nod.
"Then why did you wait? Why approach me only now?"
Her expression turned sorrowful.
"Because your aura was terrifying. Your pain overwhelmed the forest itself. It would've been foolish to disturb you before you could speak."
Sunny narrowed his eyes.
"If I was that dangerous, why didn't you call your guards? I'm clearly an intruder. Why risk talking to me alone?"
She straightened slightly, then answered:
"Because I've known loss. And because something in your grief… called to mine."
The way she spoke was strange, Sunny thought.
Measured. Cautious.
As if she only voiced the things she was absolutely certain of—like she despised lies, or feared being misunderstood in a way that could be used against her.
It wasn't a weakness.
It was strategy.
Still, he needed more information. This place—this world—was unfamiliar. The grief over Nephis could wait.
…Or could it?
Did he even want to survive in a world where she might be happy with someone else? Where she might already be smiling, laughing…
Raising children?
The thought struck like a blade to the heart. His face contorted, and again, grief spilled out from within him—unbidden and raw.
Islanzadí felt it instantly. The sorrow, the depthless weight of it—it pulsed from him like a wave.
But it passed. Just a second.
When he saw her frown, he spoke quietly.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to unsettle you again. Probably not the most pleasant person to be around right now."
She gave a soft smile, voice gentle and wise.
"Worry not, young one. I am old. I have seen much, and endured more. Though I've never felt anything quite so… intense, I would not say I was unprepared. I've carried my own grief for the past seventy years."
His mind caught on the number.
Seventy years?
He stared at her. She looked youthful. Graceful. Regal. Dressed in crimson, with a delicate circlet resting on her brow. Her raven-black hair cascaded down her back—almost like Rain's… almost like Nephis'.
And those ears…
Pointed. Like the elves from those old fantasy novels.
She was beautiful. Nearly as much as Nephis.
But not quite. No one was.
She caught the look on his face and gave a small smile.
"You noticed my ears."
⸻
🍃 Inheritance Cycle Style – Islanzadí's Perspective
Despite her natural aloofness, Islanzadí found herself smiling.
It was rare for her to show warmth—rare for her to feel it. For so long, she had worn the mantle of the Queen, kept herself distant, even from Arya.
Even with her daughter, she had been forced to uphold the rigidity of elven tradition. A mother, caged by centuries of etiquette and duty.
But now, standing before this stranger—a human radiating both strength and suffering—something stirred.
She saw Arya in him.
Not in his face or form, but in the aura he carried. In the way his pain clung to him like shadow.
He was no elf. He wouldn't know their rules, their customs. And so, for once, she could set them aside.
A small, warm chuckle escaped her lips—startling even herself.
He spoke softly, yet his words were direct.
"Yes. But I'm more interested in what you've lost… that it made you stay. Made you witness my grief."
Her smile faded slightly, only to return—smaller now, more subdued.
"I lost my daughter. Or perhaps not lost… I hope she still lives. But we have been estranged. Long ago, we argued. She wished to take on a grave responsibility—one that required her to travel between the humans, the dwarves, and our people. I disagreed."
"Since then… I've seen her only once. In seventy years. And even then, we spoke no more than a greeting."
She did not know why she spoke so freely. She, who kept so much behind layers of formality.
But something in him—his presence, his honesty—made her feel unburdened. Made her feel… young again.
Not a queen. Not a mother weighed by half a millennium of loss and silence.
Just a woman. Curious. Awake.
A side of herself she hadn't allowed to surface in centuries was beginning to rise.
Her true self.
"I'm sorry for what you've gone through," Sunny said quietly. "I can't imagine how that must weigh on you. But… I hope you'll be able to reunite with her someday. Because as long as she's alive, and if she still loves you—no matter how strained your bond may be—if both of you are willing, it can always be repaired."
He hesitated for a moment, then continued, his voice level but respectful.
"I know you're a queen, and I assume your time is valuable. But… would you be willing to explain this world to me? Even though I already owe you—because you stood there and let me go through that moment without interfering. That means more than I can say."
He knew what he was asking.
It was a lot.
She was royalty. Bound by duties he couldn't even begin to guess.
And he was a stranger. A powerful one, yes—but a dangerous unknown.
He didn't want to make an enemy out of her, or this realm.
He'd read enough stories—elves were always strong, always deadly. And now that his Domain was gone…
He wasn't invincible anymore.
⸻
Islanzadí studied him with a gaze that had watched centuries pass. She had heard many words in her life—pleas, declarations, threats—but his were different.
There was something raw about them. Honest. Measured.
And his respect… it was not born of fear.
But of understanding.
She offered him a faint, genuine smile.
"You ask humbly, and with sincerity. And that is rare."
She looked up at the green canopy of Du Weldenvarden, as if seeking counsel from the ancient trees themselves.
"Yes, I am a queen. And yes, my duties are many. But I have long wished to see the world anew—through eyes that have not yet been dulled by centuries of tradition. So… I shall stay. And I shall tell you what I can."
Her voice was soft, but unwavering.
"Let us walk. The forest is listening."
"In truth," she said, pausing for a moment as if weighing her words carefully, "I could not let you leave without explaining things properly."
Her voice took on a firmer, more solemn tone.
"You must understand—since the fall of the Riders and the rise of Galbatorix, we elves have kept ourselves apart from the world of human. Our borders are closed. Our presence, hidden."
"If you were to appear within one of our cities without warning… things could turn dire very quickly. Not only because you are human—but because of what you are."
She gave him a measured look, her expression unreadable.
"We are a people attuned to power. Sensitive to its presence, to its weight. And yours…" she exhaled slowly, "…is immense. That alone would cause alarm."
Sunny studied her with calm, curious eyes.
"Who is Galbatorix? And what are Riders? Why did you close your borders?"
He wasn't trying to provoke her—just understand. The name sounded important. Heavy. The kind that shaped worlds.
The queen gave a soft, distant smile.
"That is a long tale, young one. I hope you have the patience to hear it."
And so she told him.
Of the ancient pact between elves and dragons. Of the first Rider, Eragon, and the age of peace that followed.
Of betrayal.
Of the fall of the Riders and their stronghold, Vroengard. Of how Galbatorix—once a Rider himself—rose from grief and vengeance to become a tyrant.
Of how he stole a dragon and twisted its mind. How he hunted the others. How he shattered the old order and crushed it beneath his will.
"Now," she said, "only three dragon eggs remain. Two are in Galbatorix's hands. One travels with my daughter, Arya, hidden from his reach. It is our last hope. If it hatches for one who is worthy… perhaps we can still resist him."
Her voice had grown quieter as she spoke, heavy with centuries of weight.
Sunny kept asking questions—about the Old Language, the nature of sorcery in this world, and the Dragon Riders.
He didn't ask out of politeness. He asked because he needed to understand the rules of this place—its structure, its power dynamics, its weaknesses.
He was also genuinely curious about new magic, history, and the lives of people from different worlds.
Eventually, once he'd formed a rough outline in his mind, he narrowed his eyes slightly and asked:
"So let me get this straight. There are no abominations here roaming the wilds? Dragons are more intelligent than humans? And this world's been… relatively peaceful for over five hundred years?"
He paused, skeptical.
"Only short bursts of war, a few power struggles, and that's it?"
His tone wasn't mocking. Just incredulous.
She gave him a strange look—curious, unnerved, almost disbelieving—though her face was otherwise composed.
Her regal mask, which had been slipping away during their earlier conversation, had begun to reform now that they were speaking of matters concerning her kingdom.
Still, a faint crease formed between her brows as she replied, voice edged with incredulity:
"Did you not hear me? I spoke of a tyrant. Of thousands who perished beneath his rise to power."
⸻
He met her gaze calmly, his tone flat, measured.
"I heard you. But that still sounds peaceful."
He paused for a moment, letting the silence hang. Then continued, voice growing colder:
"Where I come from, there were eight billion humans. We managed to cut that number in half in less than a century—slaughtering each other through war, greed, desperation."
""Then came the Nightmare Spell," he said, voice low. "The Gates opened… and with them, the end began."
"Hordes of beasts poured through—abominations, corrupted and ancient. They didn't come from outside the cities. They appeared inside. In our homes. Our streets. Our strongholds."
"And they slaughtered everything."
"Creatures stronger than any human—some of them dragon-like, others… worse. They attacked constantly. We barely had time to regroup before the next wave came or another Gate apeared."
"And with each attack, we lost more. More people. More ground. More hope. But those wo survive gained powers, powers like mine."
"Humanity dwindled. Again."
"We lost two entire continents. A third is falling as we speak. We're around two billion now… and even that number's fragile."
"And during those decades, two tyrants rose. Not to protect, but to conquer. While monsters destroyed cities, they fought over thrones. They suppressed anyone who could grow strong enough to stand up to the real enemy. All they cared about was power. But thought about it like it was in the name of humanity"
He looked away for a moment, voice quieting.
"So yes. Compared to that… what you've described is peaceful."
⸻
Her composure fractured again. The invisible mask she wore—refined through centuries of duty and protocol—cracked under the weight of his words.
She stared at him, eyes wide, stunned.
Eight billion… and more than half dead in less than a fifth of my lifespan…
The thought struck her like ice.
A world so vast. So devastated.
What kind of place did he come from?
What kind of horrors had shaped him?
And yet he stands here. Not broken. Or at least, he'd managed to pull himself back together.
Her thoughts raced. His life must have been unlike anything she had ever imagined. A world of ruin. Of endless war. Of survival at the edge of annihilation.
And here he was—measured, composed, not begging for pity. Just stating facts.
That, more than anything, unsettled her.
She had always thought of herself as strong. Composed. Forged through centuries of hardship and trials.
But after hearing his story—his world of blood, ruin, and endless grief—something inside her stirred.
Something young.
It was as if her inner child, buried long ago beneath duty and crown, stirred awake. She wanted to know him. To truly understand him. His story, his scars.
And perhaps… to use him.
At least, that's what the queen in her thought.
Yes—surely, it would be wise to use him against Galbatorix.
She had planned, at first, to send him away. That had seemed the prudent choice. But now… had that ever really been an option?
He was like a hidden ace—one who could become either their salvation, or their undoing.
Would it be right to let him leave, ignorant of this world, only for Galbatorix to find him first?
He knew nothing of magic. That much was clear, from the way he questioned her—like a curious, fascinated child. And she, without realizing it, had answered him like a proud mother explaining the world to her son.
In their silence, they had soothed one another—damaged souls seeking warmth in another's presence.
She had played the mother he never had. He had become the child she never got to raise. One who did not see her as a queen, but as a person.
And for a time, she could simply be.
They both knew it. Neither dared to speak of it.
Instead, they hid behind cold masks, feigning indifference. But their voices, their gestures—the gentleness in them—told a different story. A story of grief. Of longing.
Still… he was vulnerable. And if left to wander freely, he could easily be enslaved by Galbatorix—turned into a weapon against her people.
No. That risk was too great.
So she formed a plan as they walked. A path forward.
She would take him to Oromis.
The old master could teach him the laws of this world—its magic, its truth, its weight. And perhaps, once he understood, he would choose to stand with them.
She did not want to demand it. She would not ask him to fight in exchange for knowledge.
But she would give him the chance to understand.
And from there, he would decide.
It was already evening when they finally arrived at the secluded plateau where Oromis lived.
He had chosen to dwell apart from the other elves—quiet, hidden. Which, all things considered, made it the ideal place to shelter a human.
Though… he didn't look much like a human.
In truth, with his ethereal features and calm presence, he resembled an elf more than many of her own kind.
Even Islanzadí had to admit—he was beautiful.
Beautiful in a way that unsettled her. Because it was nearly unnatural even sublime.
On their way, he had begun suppressing his presence almost entirely. The air around him had gone still, silent, as though the forest itself had forgotten he was there.
And she was astonished by how effortlessly he did it.
Every aspect of him, she had to admit, surprised her. Fascinated her. Even… excited her, though she'd never say it aloud.
In five hundred years, since the death of her beloved Evandar, she had never once considered someone her equal. Not Oromis. Not Rhunön. Not any other elf.
She was their queen. Their symbol. Their stillpoint in an ever-turning world.
But this young man… from another world entirely…
If he could still be called "man" at all.
He was the first being she'd looked upon without that invisible divide between royalty and subject. The first she had respected unconditionally, regardless of his thoughts, words, or behavior.
And it humbled her.
Perhaps I've grown arrogant, she thought. Perhaps I needed to be reminded that strength is not the sole domain of the elves.
Just before they reached the clearing, she turned to him and spoke softly:
"May I ask you something? I've been wondering… what was it that caused you such grief? Would you be willing to share it?"
The faint smile he had worn for the last few hours—since their unspoken agreement to treat one another a little like mother and son—dimmed.
They had walked for hours, but neither of them was tired. Not physically. Still, they both came to a halt when Oromis's hut came into view across the plateau.
Sunny turned to her, his voice low, but clear.
"Let's make a deal," he said. "I'll tell you my story. In exchange for everything you've told me—and for how you've treated me."
He paused, his eyes steady.
"I know it's not how you usually speak. Elves seem… different. But you made an effort. And I saw it. I appreciated it."
A faint breath escaped him.
"I want to learn more about this world. But I don't have much to give. Just my story… and this."
He looked her in the eye.
"I'll protect you. And your people. For as long as I'm here—as long as you keep treating me like this. I don't like owing people."
His voice grew quieter, yet somehow colder.
"As for why I grieved that way… it was because the person I loved turned away from me. She's still alive—like your daughter."
"At first, I thought I could live with it. But then I saw her take another man's hand. And something inside me…"
"Snapped."
"And in that moment—I appeared here."
⸻
Her expression softened into something almost mournful. A sad smile touched her lips as she replied:
"Now I understand."
"We elves are like that too. We bond rarely—but when we do, our emotions run deep. Far deeper than most humans realize."
"You are not so different from us, even if your tale is… far more tragic, because in your eyes i can see that there is more."
She hesitated, then added:
"There's a tree in this forest. The Menao Tree. Long ago, an elven woman named Linea suffered a sorrow much like yours."
And so, she told him Linea's story—of love lost, of grief so strong it transformed her into living wood.
When she finished, she tried to offer him something light, something to break the heaviness that hung between them.
"I hope you won't sing yourself into a tree. Or, in your case… turn into a shadow."
⸻
His smile faded further—but then twisted into something wry.
"I hate to disappoint you," he said, his voice dry.
A smirk touched his lips.
"But I'm already just a shadow. A lonely shadow… who lost its master."
And then, without warning, he vanished.
Melted into shadow, drifting across the grass before reappearing, waving at her with a faint flick of his hand.
Her mask—the centuries-old veil of indifference and regal decorum—shattered.
A soft chuckle escaped her lips, light and melodic.
And for the first time in many decades, she smiled.
Not the smile of a queen.
But a real smile.
One that reached her eyes.
He reappeared fully and looked at her.
"I'll tell you more of my story. Just a little at a time—each day. If that's alright with you. If you've got the time."
She didn't hesitate.
"Yes," she said simply. "I'd like that."
"Perfect." She thought.
He had made the offer himself.
Which meant she could tell the others that this arrangement—daily visits, private conversations—was by his request.
After all, he could be a powerful ally in the fight against Galbatorix.
And in the meantime…
She would finally get the moments of peace she hadn't known in seventy years.