Glaedr now understood the depth of the young man's suffering.
But even so, part of him could not grasp how so much could happen to a single soul.
For centuries, Glaedr had believed that Alagaësia was a cruel world—unforgiving, full of loss and hardship. But what he had seen within Sunny's mind… made the tyranny of Galbatorix seem like a child's tantrum in comparison.
What Sunny had endured went beyond cruelty. It was a form of torment so layered, so insidious, that it would first need to be invented in Alagaësia before it could ever be inflicted upon someone here.
And yet, despite it all, Sunny remained intact. Scarred, yes. But unbroken.
A soul like tempered shadow. A shadow of his world.
In response to the young man's openness, Glaedr did something no dragon had done in centuries. He opened himself in return.
He poured his own memories—of five centuries of wisdom, war, companionship, and solitude—into Sunny's mind. The lessons of Oromis. The fall of the Riders. The agony of watching Vrael die. The peace he had once felt flying over Ilirea in the years before darkness returned.
It should have overwhelmed a human.
Any human.
But Sunny's mind… was not that of a mortal man.
It was layered like a labyrinth. Structured. Worn through countless battles, reborn in countless flames. His soul had not only witnessed death—it had relived it. Again and again.
He absorbed Glaedr's memories without strain, his mind weaving the knowledge into itself with quiet, terrifying efficiency. And as he did, something changed. What Sunny had once called "mind-weave" now deepened. Strengthened.
And in those moments of shared memory, Sunny began to truly understand the nature of magic in this world. Not just as words and power—but as intent, as balance, as willl, as the reflection of one's soul.
He did not have time to think deeply on it.
Because before he could speak—before Glaedr could pull fully away—Queen Islanzadí arrived.
⸻
She stepped into the glade with the silence of wind between leaves. But when her eyes fell upon the golden dragon, her stride faltered.
Glaedr's massive head was pressed gently against Sunny's forehead.
Not in threat. Not in examination.
But in kinship.
A dragon's mark of bonding. Rare. Sacred.
Islanzadí stopped, stunned.
Her sharp gaze moved from Glaedr to the human—and then to Oromis.
Oromis met her eyes, but said nothing.
There was no need.
In his silence, she found all the confirmation she needed: something profound had taken place.
Two beings, separated by species and age and origin, had recognized in each other a shared pain.
A shared purpose.
They stood there a moment longer, Glaedr and Sunny, their foreheads touching in stillness.
And then, slowly, they stepped apart.
A breath of wind passed through the trees, brushing the queen's cloak and Glaedr's scales.
No one spoke.
There was nothing to say—yet.
Sunny, who had once stepped into Alagaësia as a stranger with no stake in its wars, began—quietly—to hate Galbatorix.
Not with fiery rage. But with the slow, grinding loathing of someone who had seen too much destruction. Who knew exactly what happened when power was given to monsters. Who recognized in Galbatorix the same cruel hunger that had consumed tyrants from his own world.
He saw the same patterns. The same manipulation. The same disregard for life. And with every word Oromis and Glaedr shared about the fallen Rider's treachery, the more certain Sunny became:
He would not let this one win.
⸻
Meanwhile, Glaedr—still reeling from the flood of memory he had shared—found himself reflecting on something far more personal.
Nephis.
The name echoed inside him like a cracked bell. The woman Sunny had loved. The name he had whispered between memories of battle, through rivers of shadow and blood.
Glaedr wished—fiercely, achingly—that things had been different.
That Nephis had never turned her gaze toward another.
That she had never taken another's hand.
He knew, logically, that it wasn't her fault. That what had happened was the result of a cruel world—not a cruel heart.
But dragons are creatures of emotion as much as wisdom, and Glaedr could not stop himself from feeling it: the secondhand grief that pressed into his chest like a claw.
Every time he thought of Sunny's memory—of the moment he had seen Nephis smile at another man, the smile he and even Gleadr had once believed was meant only for him—Glaedr felt the echo of that heartbreak ripple through his being.
It wasn't just the betrayal. It was the quiet, devastating realization that all he had endured, all he had fought through, had been for her.
Even if he hadn't admitted it then.
Even if he had pretended that strength came from within.
Glaedr saw the truth clearly now:
Sunny had become stronger—for her.
He had survived impossible odds, defied death itself, and carved himself into a weapon not for conquest, not for glory—but for the chance, the hope, of standing beside her.
And in the end… he had been left behind.
Glaedr felt the weight of it. The sacrifice. The love that had asked for nothing in return—but had still been torn away.
And he grieved for it as though it were his own.
The silence in the glade lingered, thick with shared memories and unspoken truths, until Queen Islanzadí finally broke it.
Her voice was clear and composed, yet touched with warmth.
"Good morning, Sunny," she said, offering a gentle nod.
Then, turning to her old mentor, she added, "Atra du evarínya ono varda, Oromis."
Oromis returned the greeting with the grace of one who had said it a thousand times. "Atra du evarínya ono vardo, Islanzadí."
She stepped forward, her crimson robes whispering over the mossy earth, the gold trim catching stray beams of sunlight that filtered through the canopy above.
"I bring good news, Sunny. You may remain here for as long as needed, to learn from Oromis—so long as he is willing to teach."
At that moment, Glaedr shared a flood of quiet emotion with Oromis—an affirmation rich with trust and conviction. Oromis nodded once, his silence speaking for him.
Islanzadí continued, "And in return, we ask only this: that you aid us in the defense of Du Weldenvarden—should the time ever come when our home is threatened."
Sunny inclined his head solemnly. "That is a generous offer," he said, voice steady. "So I will answer in kind."
He turned toward her fully, his dark eyes calm but resolute.
"I'll help you fight the tyrant Galbatorix."
She blinked—startled not just by the words, but by the quiet force behind them. It wasn't just a pledge. It was a vow, deeply personal.
"You offer that so freely?" she asked, her voice touched with disbelief. "He has done nothing to you. Nothing to draw your hatred or attention."
Sunny shook his head slowly, as if clearing fog from his mind. His voice darkened but remained controlled.
"He's done more than enough."
He looked from Glaedr to Oromis.
"I've seen what he did to your friends, Oromis. I felt it through Glaedr. The betrayals. The pain. The loss. How could I not loathe him? How could I not want to repay what he's done to both of you?"
His hand clenched—not out of anger, but as if anchoring something within himself.
"I'll kill that bastard. No matter what it takes."
He exhaled slowly, his gaze lowering—not in shame, but in weariness. In something close to resignation.
"At least now I have something to aim for again… a purpose. Without it, I might've shattered even further. I need a target—something to burn toward. Galbatorix will do."
The silence that followed was not filled with tension, but with understanding.
The kind of silence that passed between warriors. Between broken souls who refused to fall.
Glaedr bowed his massive head slightly.
Oromis, ever watchful, now saw Sunny with new eyes.
And Islanzadí… she smiled—just faintly, but it was there. A shift. A spark of connection.
Until now, she hadn't known exactly what had occurred between the golden dragon and the strange young man. She had only seen Glaedr press his massive head to Sunny's in a gesture of sacred kinship—a gesture she had never witnessed outside the bond between a dragon and their Rider.
That alone had told her it was something profound.
But now, from Sunny's words—and the quiet ripple of emotion in Glaedr's golden eyes—she understood.
They had shared memories.
And something within her softened.
Sunny turned to her once more, offering a steady, almost vulnerable smile.
"I'd like to share the first seventeen years of my life with you today," he said. "They might seem unremarkable if you're looking to understand my strength or accomplishments. But if you want to understand the world I came from… and how I was raised… you'll find them worth seeing."
Islanzadí blinked—genuinely touched.
"Then I would be honored."
⸻
They sat together beneath the boughs of the ancient forest, where the light filtered through the canopy in golden ribbons. The moss beneath them was cool and soft, the silence sacred.
With Glaedr shielding their minds from intrusion and interference, the three of them—Sunny, Oromis, and Islanzadí—linked their thoughts in a shared mental space.
The moment the connection formed, both Oromis and Islanzadí flinched.
Oromis staggered slightly, reaching out to steady himself against the rough bark of an ancient tree. He had touched many minds in his life—humans, elves, dragons. He had shared consciousness with Glaedr for centuries. But never this.
The sheer weight of the young man's soul made his knees buckle.
Even Glaedr, proud and ancient, had not felt so vast.
Sunny's spirit was like a chasm—layered and endless, dense with pain, strength, and memory. Controlled, yet not cold. It radiated discipline, but also unfathomable sorrow. And beneath it all… quiet, coiled, immense power.
Islanzadí brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
She had never encountered a soul like this. Elves rarely touched the minds of those outside their race, and when they did, it was done cautiously—always behind a veil of control.
But Sunny had offered his soul openly. Unshielded.
And what she found was not a monster. Not a threat.
But a child. A child shaped by darkness.
A soul forged in grief—and tempered by unimaginable cruelty.
And she knew then, with total certainty, that her decision to treat him not as a stranger, not even as a guest, but as a son… had been the right one.
She had recognized the wound long before she understood its depth.
Now… she understood.
Sunny began at the outskirts—both literally and metaphorically.
The memories unfolded in an orderly stream, shaped not by emotion but by intention. They weren't chaotic flashes of trauma or raw pain. They were sequenced. Curated. Designed not just to be seen—but understood.
Seventeen years of life collapsed into moments.
Compressed, yes—but not diminished.
The light of Islanzadí's eyes dimmed as she watched the scenes drift by. Sunny's childhood was not one of peace. Nor even of mild struggle. It was a gauntlet. An endurance trial. A test of how long a soul could remain intact while being hollowed out from within.
Oromis sat silently beside her, composed as ever—but his fingers were clenched around the edge of the tree's root, white with strain.
He had seen wars. He had killed, watched friends die, watched students fall. He had been hunted and hounded and haunted. But he had never, not once, witnessed a childhood like this.
He had known, of course, in theory, that humans could suffer in their childhood.
But he had not known this.
Not truly.
Sunny's parents had died when he was young. But that had been the least of it.
It was the betrayals that followed—the slow disintegration of everything a child should be able to trust—that scarred most deeply.
The betrayal of caretakers. Of teachers. Of friends. Of institutions.
The slow lesson that nobody was coming to save him.
That he would always be alone.
And then came the survival years.
Living like an animal. Stealing. Lying. Fighting. Killing.
Always calculating. Always hiding some part of himself.
Because if he let the wrong part show—if he showed weakness, or fear, or even hope—it could kill him.
What shocked Oromis most wasn't the cruelty itself.
It was how controlled Sunny had been even then.
No outbursts. No screams.
Only focus.
As if he had already known, somehow, what life was going to demand of him.
As if he had been waiting for it.
⸻
And then—right before the memory of the police station, when the spell that changed his fate had first touched him—Sunny stopped.
The mental space fell quiet.
Both Oromis and Islanzadí sat in silence, stunned.
They weren't sure what had hit them harder—the bleakness of it all, or how calmly Sunny had offered it to them.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence stretched long and deep, like roots through the forest floor.
Only Glaedr and Sunny conversed quietly in their minds—speaking of Galbatorix, of the resistance, of dwarves and borders and threats. Practical matters. Strategy.
While the others sat and tried to process the immensity of what they'd just experienced.
Eventually, the mental link faded.
Islanzadí stood, still visibly affected. She brushed moss from her robes with hands that trembled more than she would admit.
"I must return to Ellesméra," she said quietly. "The Council will be awaiting my report. They will be pleased by your answer"
She placed a hand on Sunny's shoulder—lingering longer than elven custom allowed—then turned and vanished into the trees, the forest parting before her with its usual, wordless reverence.
⸻
Once she had gone, Oromis finally turned to Sunny.
Something in him had changed.
Where once there had been polite caution—or perhaps quiet suspicion—there was now something closer to real, honest respect.
He remembered the moment Glaedr had touched Sunny's head with his own. That gesture, that sacred act, had never been made to any being outside the ancient bond of Rider and dragon.
Not even Oromis's other students.
And now, having witnessed what Sunny had endured, Oromis found himself no longer simply willing to teach him.
He was eager to.
He nodded once, gesturing toward the smooth stone table nearby.
"Come," he said, voice quieter than usual. "We'll begin with the Old Language."
Sunny stood without hesitation and followed.
⸻
That afternoon, while Oromis sat quietly under the boughs of a singing tree, its leaves whispering songs as old as the Riders, his eyes rested on Sunny.
The boy—no, the young man—was deeply focused.
He sat before a flat slab of stone, a scroll unrolled before him.
Earlier, Oromis had demonstrated the first few ancient runes. Their etymology. Their musical roots. Their metaphysical meaning.
Once.
Only once.
And yet, within minutes, Sunny had not only memorized them—he had internalized them.
Now, he was translating a foundational historical text about the birth of Du Weldenvarden into his own native tongue.
Not slowly.
Not awkwardly.
But with elegance. With speed.
His hand moved fluidly across the parchment, the ink flowing as though he were transcribing from memory.
From one quill, then two.
Then, without a word, he raised his second hand—and began writing with it as well.
Two quills, two scripts, two columns of thoughts.
One translating. The other annotating grammar and phonetics.
Oromis blinked.
It had taken even the most gifted Riders weeks to reach this stage.
By the next hour, Sunny had summoned four more shadow arms that hovered and moved with eerie, precise synchronization.
Now six quills danced. Then eight.
Each recording something unique.
Not just accurate.
Perfect.
Oromis had taught Riders. Scribes. Battle mages. Poets.
But he had never seen this.
"He is not merely intelligent," Oromis thought.
"He is designed for this. Forged in a different crucible entirely."
He leaned back, arms folded across his chest, breath leaving him in a slow exhale.
Each page Sunny finished wasn't just readable—it was poetic. The translation didn't just preserve the language. It preserved its soul.
It wasn't talent.
It was instinct.
"He learns as a dragon flies," Oromis mused.
"Effortlessly. Without pause."
And in that moment, he revised every assumption he had ever made about Sunny.
Sunny remained focused, unaware of Oromis's internal reckoning.
Unaware that the Elf no longer saw a student before him.
He saw something else entirely
The days passed—slowly and steadily, like stones falling into place.
Sunny's routine became a rhythm. A calm repetition that had never existed in his past life.
During the day, he studied with Oromis. Ancient magic. The grammar of the Old Language. The long-forgotten poetry of elves and dwarves. Each scroll he devoured. Each page he rewrote—sometimes improving the phrasing as he went.
And at night?
He sat with Glaedr.
The golden dragon, ancient and vast, didn't need much sleep—and Sunny never truly slept at all.
They would rest together in quiet, moonlit groves or atop cliffs overlooking silent forests, exchanging thoughts as the stars wheeled above.
No lessons. No expectations.
Just presence.
And in that silence, something rare was forged between them. A bond not of necessity—but of recognition.
Glaedr, for all his years and all his wounds, saw in Sunny something he had not seen in centuries:
A soul shaped not just by violence—but by choice.
A being who had not broken, even when the world demanded it. Not like Galbatorix. Sunny could have easily become the next tyrant—he had every reason to. But he chose not to.
And Sunny, in turn, began to see Glaedr as something more than a relic of a broken age.
He was wisdom. Memory. Steadfastness.
A survivor—like him.
⸻
One night, after many hours of quiet thought, Glaedr shared a gift.
He began teaching Sunny the way dragons wove magic.
It wasn't like the way elves or Riders did.
There were no precise words. No spells. No syntax.
It was will.
It was intention made manifest.
Magic born not from speaking—but from knowing.
And it was hard. Excruciatingly hard.
But Sunny could do it—because of the Shadow Dance.
His will was already honed, already trained through years of impossible battles.
The dragon way of magic didn't replace his understanding of spells.
It deepened it.
Strengthened it.
⸻
When morning came, Oromis would take over.
He had grown used to seeing Sunny seated before his table at first light, already surrounded by scrolls and ink, runes halfway written before Oromis had even spoken.
His demeanor toward the young man had shifted completely.
He was no longer a suspicious teacher, quietly testing a strange soul.
Now, he was something closer to a guardian.
Not quite a mentor. Not quite a father. But something between both.
He began preparing harder texts. More complex riddles. More dangerous theory.
And every time Sunny surpassed it with ease.
Still, Oromis never praised him outright.
It wasn't in his nature.
But his silence grew warmer. Softer. He no longer simply taught Sunny.
He trusted him.
⸻
Memories Resurface
Then came the day Sunny decided to show them more.
He arrived earlier than usual. Oromis sensed the shift immediately—something in his posture was different. Tighter. Quieter.
Islanzadí joined them, dressed in light green silks, her presence both royal and maternal.
She had come to enjoy these visits more than she admitted.
She didn't say it aloud—not yet—but Sunny had become something more than a guest in her eyes.
Something… familial.
And Sunny, for his part, saw her the same.
Not as a queen.
Not even as a friend.
But something close to a mother.
She was not Nephis—not passionate, not fierce.
Even though both could be just as cold.
But strong in another way.
Distant yet warm. Regal, but real.
She didn't try to heal him.
She just made space.
And it was in that space that Sunny chose to open the next door.
⸻
They linked minds—again.
But this time, he took them deeper.
He showed them the Chained Island.
The Crimson Spire.
He showed them how he had been enslaved.
By the first people he ever begun to trust.
How he had bled, how he had died—not metaphorically, but literally. Beheaded. Heart torn out. Rebuilt.
They saw him awaken, again and again, in the middle of nightmares not his own.
They saw him live through the traumas of others.
Live through death again and again.
They saw how he made friends during that time. Real ones. Bonds stronger than iron.
They saw him argue, fall apart, be betrayed—and forgive.
They saw him love.
And they saw him hurt.
Every memory unfolded like a blade being drawn.
One after another.
And each one cut a little deeper.
They watched him walk side by side with the one who had once enslaved him—knowing full well the horror she had caused.
And love her anyway.
Not because he had forgotten.
But because he had understood.
⸻
When he finally turned on his friends in the third nightmare for a chance at freedom.
They didn't judge him.
Because they had seen the reason and later learnd with him the cost.
The cost of true freedom
They had felt it.
Even Oromis, who rarely showed emotion, couldn't hide the quiet weight behind his eyes.
He saw something he never expected: the kind of strength that didn't roar.
The kind that endured.
⸻
The Crack
And then, one day—it cracked.
He showed them the end of it.
Not the worst battle. Not the hardest moment.
But the final one.
When she left him.
The woman he had loved. The one he had endured everything for.
The one who had been the reason he fought. The reason he lived.
She left.
Not in cruelty.
But in confusion.
Because she had forgotten who he truly was.
Because she didn't know that the man before her was the one she had always loved.
And Islanzadí, watching that final moment—watching Sunny's silence, his stillness, his breaking—
She understood.
Truly.
More than all the violence.
More than all the death.
This was what had shattered him.
He hadn't lost a war.
He had lost her.
Not because she turned away.
But because she never knew it was him to begin with.
She had searched for another. Not knowing the one she searched for… had been right beside her all along.
⸻
Sunny's voice was soft when the memory ended.
He didn't cry.
He didn't speak.
He simply waited.
And Islanzadí… she just stared at him.
Until finally, she whispered:
"This time you showed us more than usual.
You wanted to get it done… right?"
He nodded.
Just once.
And then, Islanzadí did something completely unlike herself.
She reached out—and took his hand.
Her voice trembled as she said:
"I hope… for both of us…
that things will become right again.
Not as they are now, young one—
But as they should be."
And in that moment, something quiet passed between them.
Not pity.
Not affection.
But kinship.
The unspoken, unseen bond between two people who have lost something that can never be regained—and continue on anyway.
For Oromis, it was different; he didn't feel that kind of kinship.
But he realised that Sunny could have acted like Galbatorix; he had enough reasons to do so.
But he didn't; it was an active choice.
Not to act like Galbatorix. Not to break, despite everything.
And this made him respect the young man even more.
Because he had felt how much he was hurting and how desperate he was.
But he would never have made other people suffer because of that.
It took three whole months to see all of Sunny's memories.
But Islanzadí never grew tired.
Oromis never rushed him.
And Glaedr never once questioned the pace.
Because they knew: this wasn't just a recounting of history.
This was healing—if such a thing could even be hoped for.
Sunny had chosen to show his memories in short, deliberate fragments.
Not because he was hesitant to share—but because doing so gave her a reason to keep returning.
To hear Islanzadí's voice.
To feel Glaedr's mind brush against his in silent understanding.
And each day, as more pieces of his past fell into place before them, a strange balance began to emerge.
They weren't just watching Sunny's story anymore.
They were living inside it.
⸻
At first, Oromis did not understand the necessity of this pacing.
But as time passed, he began to notice the rhythm for what it truly was.
It gave Islanzadí the space she didn't know she needed.
It gave her an excuse to keep seeing him—to sit with him, to tend to him, even in the smallest ways.
An offered cup of water.
A quiet question.
A shared silence.
None of it was spoken aloud—but it was clear.
At least to Sunny.
There was something missing in her.
Something she had long buried.
A role she had abandoned—not by choice, but by circumstance.
And Sunny had slipped into that space without either of them realizing.
He didn't ask to be cared for.
He didn't even notice it.
But she noticed it.
And she liked it.
⸻
The Strength in His Fragility
What surprised her the most wasn't his power.
It wasn't the impossible things he had survived.
It wasn't even the memories.
It was his core.
Still gentle.
Still tender.
Still open to kindness.
After everything—after all the betrayals, the deaths, the resurrections, the wars—
Sunny still reacted to affection like a child who had never been loved enough.
He didn't expect warmth.
So when it came—when Islanzadí touched his shoulder or offered a smile—his response was never calculated.
It was honest.
Raw. Unfiltered.
The way a baby might smile at a hand it's never learned to fear.
And Islanzadí… she had ruled a kingdom, walked with dragons, and outlived empires—
But she had never seen that kind of vulnerability before.
Not in any elf.
Not in any Rider.
Not even in her own daughter.
She'd never expected it from someone like him.
Someone with that kind of cruel history.
⸻
She didn't pity him.
She respected him.
Because only someone truly strong could remain soft after everything Sunny had endured.
Only someone with a will stronger than iron could still want to trust again.
She came to look forward to every moment with him.
And though she never said it aloud, the truth grew clearer each day:
He had become something like a son.
⸻
Oromis: From Guarded to Friendly
Oromis, too, had changed.
He still wasn't fully comfortable around Sunny—perhaps he never would be.
But the respect was there now.
Not just for Sunny's power or intellect.
But for his restraint.
The young man never flaunted his abilities.
Never sought praise.
Never pushed.
He just learned.
Relentlessly.
Quietly.
Without complaint.
And Oromis, who had once viewed him as a possible threat, now found himself watching him with a cautious admiration.
He had taught many students—warriors, Riders, kings in the making.
But Sunny was… something else entirely.
Not better.
Just different.
He didn't absorb knowledge.
He claimed it.
As if it already belonged to him and was simply waiting to be remembered.
And like this the months passed.