Oromis appeared silently, stepping through the trees with his usual grace.
He had not been alerted by sound or word, but by Glaedr. The golden dragon—his soul-bound companion—had sensed two unfamiliar presences approaching long before their footfalls disturbed the mossy floor of Du Weldenvarden. No one was expected to visit today. And few dared disturb Oromis without cause.
Curious and mildly concerned, he went to investigate.
But when he reached the forest's edge and laid eyes on the figures near the sun-dappled plateau, he nearly stumbled.
Centuries of training, of poise earned through hardship and discipline, faltered for a single breath.
Am I seeing… ghosts?
At first glance, the pair looked like echoes from another time. One was unmistakably Queen Islanzadí, tall and regal in her crimson robes and silver circlet. The other, for a fleeting heartbeat, resembled Evandar—her long-dead mate.
Oromis's heart caught, then steadied.
No—Evandar had been taller, broader of shoulder. This stranger, while striking, was not an elf. His aura was different. Wild. Human. And yet…
Islanzadí was smiling.
Speaking.
Not with formality or detachment, but with warmth. Grace. As if the invisible weight of her crown had been lifted, if only briefly.
And she was speaking to a human.
A human who stood beside her not as a supplicant, but as an equal.
Oromis's steps slowed, his expression carefully blank as his mind raced.
Five centuries had passed since the elves withdrew from the world of men. And Islanzadí—more than any other—had enforced that boundary. Yet here she was, walking beside a human with ease, with comfort.
It made no sense.
Everything Oromis knew warned him that this was no ordinary encounter. Protocol, history, even instinct failed to explain what stood before him.
He did not yet reach out with his mind. He would never intrude without cause. But then—
He felt her.
Islanzadí's presence brushed gently against his consciousness: light, composed, but firm.
"Be polite to him, Oromis. At least as much as you are to me. Forgive the intrusion… but this is important. More important than you know. We may now have the chance we've waited for—five hundred years."
He stopped walking.
She reached into my mind… to ensure I didn't offend this man? Before even greeting me?
Whatever this stranger was, whatever power he held, Islanzadí was treating it with more caution than she had ever shown even the leaders of Du Weldenvarden.
Oromis composed himself.
By the time he approached the two figures, he had retaken the mantle of wisdom and dignity that the years had taught him. But he caught the end of their exchange—something about meeting daily.
He blinked.
Islanzadí had not taken regular time away from her royal duties in over seventy years. Yet she now spoke of seeing this man every day?
He looked at her more closely.
No romantic softness in her gaze—he had feared, for a moment, that perhaps this was a rekindling of longing. But what he saw was far stranger.
Motherly affection.
A queen… treating a stranger like a son?
He finally stood before them, and the man turned to meet his gaze.
What Oromis saw next gave him pause.
Just moments before, the stranger had looked at Islanzadí with calm, even warmth. But now, facing him, his eyes became cold—black and hollow as onyx. Empty. Detached.
Like looking into death.
Even Oromis, a Dragon Rider forged through war and loss, felt a chill settle into his bones.
How many lives must one take… before they look at the living like that?
He composed himself and bowed slightly.
"Atra esterní ono thelduin, Saphira Islanzadí."
(May good fortune rule over you, Queen Islanzadí.)
She responded smoothly.
"Atra du evarínya ono varda, Oromis-elda."
(And may the stars watch over you, Master Oromis.)
Then she added, her tone shifting slightly:
"This man—you may treat him as you would a trusted friend of mine. Do you understand?"
Oromis kept his reaction from showing.
He had never heard Islanzadí speak so casually—so imprecisely. Elves prized clarity, never using words that might be misinterpreted. Only Rhunön had ever spoken with such disregard for formality.
He nodded once.
"May I ask the purpose of your visit, Islanzadí… and who this man is that you've brought with you?"
Islanzadí let out a soft laugh.
"I just realized… I never even asked his name."
She turned to the stranger.
"I apologize. Would you mind telling me, young one?"
Oromis's brows lifted slightly. She hadn't even asked his name—and yet she walked beside him as though they had known each other for years.
The young man turned to her. His eyes, once cold, softened.
"I should be the one apologizing, Your Majesty. My mother named me Sunless. My friends called me Sunny. I've earned many other titles… but that one remains."
Islanzadí tilted her head.
"Why call me 'Your Majesty' now? You haven't done so until now."
"Because we are not alone anymore," he answered simply.
She smiled.
"As long as we're among ourselves, I would prefer you call me by name."
He nodded in silent respect.
Then she turned to Oromis.
"I ask that you take this young man under your care. Let him stay here. Teach him everything about Alagaësia—its peoples, its magic, its history. All of it. Nothing should remain hidden—not even what was once reserved for the Riders."
"If you have questions, ask me tomorrow. Or he may answer them tonight. Give him food and a place to rest. But do not pressure him. Not yet."
Oromis nodded, slow and unsure.
Then she began:
"Alright, Sunless—"
But he gently raised a hand.
"You told Oromis I was your friend. From his reaction, I can see that's rare. So… call me Sunny. Like my friends do. It's the least I can offer, after all you've done."
She smiled again.
"Then go with Oromis, Sunny. We will speak again on the morrow, once I've spoken with the Elders and the Council of the Wise."
⸻
Sunny followed Oromis toward the tree-sung hut in silence.
Oromis was unnerved. The human had said nothing—not a single question. Most mortals he had trained would bombard him with curiosity. But not this one.
His steps were light. Controlled. Watchful.
Oromis led him to a private chamber inside the beech-tree dwelling and offered to prepare food.
But Sunny declined with a shake of the head and returned outside. He sat cross-legged on the edge of the wooden steps, quietly observing the forest.
Strange, Oromis thought. It's dark. There's no light, no torch, and yet he watches the trees as though he sees everything.
He retired briefly, expecting to hear movement or questions. But when he awoke in the morning, Sunny was still seated exactly as before.
Unmoved.
Unchanged.
Unnatural.
He stepped forward.
"Good morning, young one. Did you rest well? Are you hungry?"
Sunny looked up, his voice flat but not unfriendly.
"There's no need to pretend. I know when I'm not welcome. Let me wait here until Islanzadí returns."
"I don't need to eat. I won't need sleep for another six months."
Oromis blinked, unsettled.
Even elves could not go that long without rest.
But more disturbing was how easily Sunny had pierced his mask of politeness—one carefully crafted over centuries.
He reached for Glaedr again.
"What do you make of him, truly?"
"He is not what he seems. No ordinary human could veil himself so thoroughly. There is power in him—more than we understand. He is the wolf among sheep, Oromis. Islanzadí sensed it instantly."
"Dangerous?"
"Only if provoked."
A pause.
"I would like to reach into his mind. But not without permission. If I did it without warning… he might kill me."
Oromis didn't question the risk. He simply asked.
"Sunless, my dragon would like to touch your mind. With your permission."
Sunny's eyes finally flickered with interest.
"Ah. So that was the presence I felt all night. He was watching me."
Oromis looked toward the trees.
"Yes. I hope you didn't mind."
Sunny's lips curled into a faint smile.
"Not at all. Otherwise, he'd have known. He may try. But I won't be responsible for any injury. My soul… protects itself."
With a nod, Oromis relayed the answer.
⸻
A moment later, Sunny felt it.
Glaedr.
Vast. Timeless. His presence pressed against Sunny's mind like a golden tide.
The old dragon was cautious—but not timid.
And Sunny let him in.
Their minds touched.
Glaedr was overwhelmed.
The soul before him was black flame—fractured but whole. Scarred but strong. There was no innocence in it. No purity. Only memory. Pain. Power.
Sunny's voice echoed inside his thoughts.
"Are you alright? My soul sometimes acts… without me."
Glaedr responded with calm reassurance.
Then Sunny extended an offer.
A memory-sharing. Full, unfiltered. The essence of himself.
But with one condition: that Glaedr keep it private.
Glaedr asked Oromis silently.
"Yes," he answered. "If he offers, accept it."
For over an hour, the transfer began. Images, emotions, entire lifetimes passed from Sunny's mind into the ancient dragon's.
By the end, Glaedr was still. And when he emerged from the mental link, he walked forward without a word and lowered his massive head.
Then, reverently, he licked Sunny's cheek.
Oromis paled.
That gesture—only reserved for Riders. And rarely, rarely, to anyone else.
"Glaedr…" he whispered.
Inside their bond, he felt Glaedr's storm of emotions.
Pity. Grief. Sorrow. Respect.
Sympathy.
He didn't understand.
But Glaedr did.
And Sunny… didn't look away.