The Five Realms

Chapter 35: Chyna VIII

Chapter 35: Fractured Inheritance

Twilight draped the glade like a velvet hush, softening the edges of every breath and blade of grass. The elder dragons slept like slumbering gods, their colossal forms curled in stillness around the clearing's edge. Lavendel nestled close to the mossy stone where Chyna sat, her scaled hide pulsing with quiet light. One of her wings was folded protectively around Chyna's back, like the drape of a twilight shroud.

And then Eragon stepped into view.

He moved like an echo—robes whispering, eyes ancient but alert. He looked too young to be their grandfather, too mythic to be real. For a moment, Chyna couldn't reconcile the stories with the man before her. The realization hit like ice across her ribs.

Grandfather.

The word itself refused to settle. Her pulse kicked up. Her mother—Maria, warm and fierce and maddening—was the daughter of him. And of Arya. The storybook names. The old legends. And all this time, they'd known.

Joey sat nearby, legs tucked beneath him, elbows on his knees. His gaze locked on Eragon with something between worship and horror.

A whisper crossed their twin-link, light as breath:
"You okay?"

She flinched. His voice in her mind sounded louder somehow now that everything felt so exposed. So... heavy.

"No," she answered, without speaking. The word rang back into her own thoughts like a cracked bell.

It wasn't just the truth of their bloodline. It was the lie of omission.

Chyna stared across the glade at her mother. Maria hadn't looked at them since the reveal. Her shoulders were too straight, her jaw too tight. She wasn't hiding shame—she was bracing for judgment.

Betrayal curled under Chyna's skin like a second spine.

She wanted to shout, Why didn't you tell us?
But something in her throat had locked.

Joey shifted beside her. She could feel his thoughts spinning through their link—rage, awe, pride, fear. All tangled. All too big.

A branch snapped softly in the distance. The glade seemed to breathe.

They had descended into legend. And all it cost was the story they thought they knew about themselves.

Arya stepped forward from the shadows behind Eragon, her posture fluid and precise. She wore the same stoicism Chyna had grown used to—but now, that poise struck differently. Not just the Queen of the Elves, not merely a warrior-guide, but... her grandmother. Chyna's stomach turned at the thought. It felt intrusive, almost blasphemous, to name her so.

Murtagh approached from Eragon's opposite side, expression neutral, but eyes soft. "Nephew and niece," he said dryly, dipping his head. "Strange words to say after so many battles."

Chyna stared. Uncle. The word didn't fit in her mouth either.

Lavendel stirred behind her, lifting her long, elegant neck and issuing a slow exhale. Chyna felt the vibration hum up her spine—resonance, recognition, something unspoken but deeply shared. Lavendel's wing brushed her shoulder gently, like a mother easing the weight off her child.

A gust of wind swept over the glade, and the dragons descended.

Saphira landed first, wings spread like a cathedral's canopy—blue scales glittering like mountain sapphires, her eyes impossibly old. Thorn followed, his deep red armor blazing with the memory of fire and war, posture proud, but at ease. Firnen circled once before settling, his green bulk camouflaging instantly with the grove. And then came Rosavyn—Rose—Maria's dragon, young but vast, her soft-pink sheen iridescent under the glade's fading light.