Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance, or any of its characters thereof. But I do own Ildruën and the others.

Prologue

Ildruën grasped the apple between his teeth and flex his fingers, prepared to climb. Eyes flashing, he inspected the wall, glancing here and there to find a good handhold. Once he did, Ildruën dug his fingers into the crevice and began to climb, wincing whenever his hands were scraped against the rough sandstone wall. He only wished that the buildings of Dras-Leona were as smooth as the ones he heard in Ilirea. Rumors go that the towers were long and sweeping, and that all its houses were made from the purest marble. The beauty of the city only rivaled those of Ellesméra and the Dwarven kingdoms.

Ildruën scrambled on top of the building, breathing heavily, his arms still burning from the climb. But it was worth it. Today, Queen Nadara II, the descendant of Nasuada the Wise, would visit the city while granting the Governor of Dras-leona the privilege of becoming a city-state, after nearly 200 years of being completely united with the Empire. The Queen and her council had been discussing this for nearly two months, before coming in term with the agreement. This would be the first time Queen Nadara would leave on official business just after her father died.

Ildruën was higher up than he expected. He could see the bright, bustling streets from miles around and, if he squinted, the old ruin stones of the once-Helgrind, where the dragon Atharga, son of Saphira Brightscales, had struck it down. The formation still emanated evil.

Ildruën shivered. He had studied the "dark ages" in school, of what the world had been like when the tyrant Galbatorix still ruled supreme. Gone were the dirty streets. Gone were the heretic priests of Helgrind. Gone was the blasted Cathedral. What replaced it was a clean, new city of bright houses and smiling, content people. The reign in Alagäesia had become a peaceful one, after a century of Galbatorix contaminating it. And the Riders were back.

True to Ildruën's word, there was a roar that sounded in the distance. Ildruën tossed back his head and laughed as a large, formidable grey dragon flew past him. He had to hold on to the slanted shingles to avoid being thrown off by the wind it created. On top of it was an elf with wild, wire-bright hair. On his hip hung a sparkling Rider's blade.

Ildruën watched in awe, and suddenly heard the cheers of the people as they too looked up. Many were clapping, while others whistled. The Rider tilted his head in acknowledgement, whilst his dragon roared in greeting to the queen, its brilliant scales shining like gems in the sun.

In the center of the street, flocked with guards and pedestrians as they fought to have a look of their ruler, sat a woman clothed in white on a proud black stallion. Ildruën noticed it when she threw back her head, and lifted a hand. A silk veil covered her face, so it was difficult to see her appearance.

Ildruën beamed and crossed his legs, chewing on his apple as he did. With so many people congregating around, it would be difficult even with guards for the Queen to pass by quickly. Ildruën still had time.

He ran a hand through his blond hair as he watched the dragon and its rider fly away towards Ilirea. A strange longing overcame him. Ildruën always wanted to be a Rider, but such things were of fading visions and wishful thinking, his father said.

A pang filled his heart. His father had died of being thrown off a horse and tossed down a ravine a year ago. His head was cracked open like an egg, and he soon died from blood loss.

Tears sprang from Ildruën's eyes, and he wiped them away. It was no use to cry. The past was the past, after all.

Holding the apple core in his hand, Ildruën threw back his hand and sent the core flying. There was an odd bonk sound, and Ildruën shriveled around to see what it had hit. He gasped.

A middle-height man, lean and with long legs, lay crumbled on the ground, unconscious. But it wasn't about that that disturbed Ildruën. It was the dark clothes he wore, the mask he held, and the crossbow by his side, still dripping with a purple liquid. He didn't have to look to know it was poison.

Assassins! Ildruën thought, stunned. He spun around and glanced at the buildings on the other sides of the street, just noticing the dark forms as the other assassins hid from sight. His mind reeled, as Ildruën tried to straighten out his thoughts. Quickly, Ildruën dragged the assassin and the weapon behind the roof slope and out of view. The assassins from afar stirred. Panicking, Ildruën hefted the crossbow, ducking behind the slanting slope of the roof. Drawing up the crossbow to eye-level, Ildruën prepared to shoot it on the other assassins. They were after the Queen. He knew it was so . . .

'Twas a good thing, then, that Ildruën's father had taught him how to use a crossbow. (Hey, that rhymes!)

He crouched, waiting as the assassins stirred. The moment one hefted their own crossbow, Ildruën quickly shot him squarely in the chest. The assassin stiffened, and fell forward to tumble off the roof and onto the street below. Screams rose.

The others discovered Ildruën's position, and they began to shoot at him. Ildruën ducked as he fumbled for more bolts, cursing himself for not thinking about it sooner. Beside him, the assassin stirred. "Oh, shut up!" Ildruën bashed him on the head, knocking him unconscious again.

He found the other bolts belted on his waist. Yanking it out, Ildruën strung one and peeked over the side, shooting again. This one caught an assassin through his head. Ildruën proceeded by killing them one by one with a rare accuracy. Each fell dead like sacks of potatoes.

When all were dead, he drew a sigh, then stiffened as he heard sounds of men climbing up the building. Ildruën lifted the crossbow, prepared to shoot. His heart swelled in fear, and his hands became sweaty.

A hand appeared from the edge. Then another hand. Then slowly, a head. A mail-covered head. An Empire soldier.

"You, boy," he growled. "Come with me."

Dropping the crossbow while holding up his hands, Ildruën approached him cautiously and was led away by the guard. Two other ones climbed up and were dragging the remaining assassin down, pulling him like a rag-doll.

A minute later, Ildruën was blindfolded, shackled, and tied to something that smelled and felt like a horse. Then he was led away. Well, Ildruën grumbled. I saved the Queen's life, and this is how I'm treated?