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Chapter Text

Darkness was all it had ever known.

It was not one of the ancient ones, who had existed before the dawn of creation and remembered a pure blackness untainted by younger elements. Yet it had also avoided straying from its native plane, rendering itself hideously vulnerable to light or else binding itself to a lesser object to escape the worst of exposure.

Its hesitance from leaving the nurturing shadow of its world did not stop it from seeking out those that had. Many spirits, greater and lesser, had left their plane behind to serve a summoner or assert themselves in another realm. It heard how cruelly light burned from those who still carried the scars. It also heard how to feast on fear and things of sustenance not naturally found in the Dark.

It listened to the words of its elders. It learned. And it hungered.

But it bide its time, for it did not wished to be used as a tool or driven back into the Darkness in disgrace. It dwelt in anonymity, for its name carried no dread in the lesser realms. No necromancer had ever chained its power to their own. None had ever summoned this scrap of a spirit as servant or to pledge themselves in its service, to offer blood and life and soul.

Until, at last, it heard the call.

And what the call it was. It knew the essence of those outsiders who aligned themselves with the Dark, those who tepidly walked at its edges or eagerly immersed themselves in the depths. This call, though it burned with vengeance and fury and the all-consuming need to kill, was not truly Dark. The hand behind it was blind, reaching only for a nameless power strong enough to carry out its wrath.

It was simply the first to follow, slipping into the tiny tear that had been ripped into its realm and into another entirely.

The first thing it knew outside of the Dark was vulnerability. Naked without the shadows, and so cut off from the place of its birth, it blindly lashed out the strange spirits suddenly surrounding it.

These spirits were not kindred Dark ones. They were not searing light. Nor were they burning Fire or freezing Ice or any other element it intrinsically knew. These spirits were no true elementals at all, for they drew strength from no one great power. They were wisps, pale and ephemeral, and shrunk away from its touch.

It devoured them all and hungered for more.

The summoner was as rootless as the lesser spirits he had summoned. His resistance died in a heartbeat, for though he had the power to call on the Dark he had not the will to wield it.

Firstly it devoured the soul. Secondly it devoured the memories of the human boy named Carsaib so that it might learn more about this world.

Alagaesia was an alien name to even a spirit that had so patiently learned of so many realms others had entered. This sorcerer, for this was indeed what Carsaib had been, was not just inept for his kind. Even his master, Haeg, had summoned lesser spirits and knew only of half-formed magics with no true affinities.

Not about to dwell in such a hostile realm unprotected, it first shaped a proper vessel. Carsaib's body brimmed with magical potential. It was a body with agency of its own, so unlike an impotent weapon. The spirit named Durza claimed it as his own.

His. Yes. In this world it was reserved for objects and animals, things without power of their own. Durza was as male as his new body.

A part of him yearned to eat away at what was left of his body's vitality. Durza stomped down the urge. He had heard too many tales of liches that had eagerly offered up their lives for greater power and always rotted away into nothing. Death was stagnation. A semblance of life would keep him vital. It would allow the body to grow until he deigned it not to, for Carsaib had been a slip of a boy.

Durza idly brushed away blood-red hair that had been mundane brown mere minutes ago. Alagaesia was so empty. It was a blank slate for him to make his mark on.

Alagaesia could know Darkness and only Darkness. Durza could rule it all as the great force mortals knew by a multitude of names did the plane of his birth.

Durza forced his new lips into a rigid smile. It seemed only poetic to start with the human killers Carsaib had summoned him to devour in the first place.

Every experienced Rider knew not to stray too far west and lose sight of Vroengard on the horizon. Out on the open ocean colossal sea serpents and sudden storms could down even an elder dragon. They had been but mere students disobeying their masters, seeking the forbidden lands in the west. Their foolish minds had believed legendary Alalea no more than a few hours' flight from Doru Arabae.

Six had flown out that morning, three young humans who had banded together during training and three stir-crazy yearling dragons.

Then the horizon had turned dark and ominous, as if night had descended hours early. The sea had churned with an oncoming storm, furiously pounding Vroengard's rocky shores. Oromis had been among their elders debating a plan of action when the storm had suddenly guttered out so far from them.

Only three survivors had returned. One, a Rider unconscious in the saddle. The second, the delirious dragon that had carried them to safety before collapsing. The third had, best as Oromis could determine from the poor dragon's fractured memories, fallen from the storm itself.

He had considered it miraculous that the mysterious survivor had landed on dragon-back rather than into the merciless sea. Then he and Glaedr had laid eyes upon the man themselves.

When the man at last succumbed, Glaedr only rumbled somberly. Drowning would have been the gentler death.

Standing before the body now, Oromis privately concurred. The futile battle the healers had waged for his life had only prolonged his suffering. Not even their strongest spells could revitalize necrotic flesh, black and dead. Their magic had only worsened the corruption from the... other injuries, causing further agony and deformation.

Now Oromis gazed down upon the aftermath. Eir had draped the body with a clean white sheet but dark stains oozed through. Concealing the body did not conceal its shape was not quite human. He had long ago deadened his sense of smell so as not to endure the stench of rot and things too terrible to name.

Eir sighed. "We could do nothing. Not even numb his pain." Her gaze flicked to the doorway. They were alone, her attendants shooed from the ward and the other patients relocated closer to where the injured dragons roosted. "If anything, we only hastened the damage. His armor was helping to keep his shape."

Oromis glanced over at the armor, undamaged but pieces carelessly strewn about their floor from the vain struggle to see the extent of its owner's injuries. When he had first glimpsed the stranger, moaning beneath his curdling flesh, his armor had been black like a magpie's wing, shimmering with glints of green and violet. Now their color had leeched out, leaving dull gray metal behind.

"Did you learn anything about him in his last moments?" he asked softly. "A name, a loved one?"

Eir scowled at him, carving deeper into frown lines formed through the centuries. "You can peek beneath the covers to see what became of his jawbone at the end. Speech was beyond him. And his mind..." Her shoulders slumped. "We're still keeping Deyna unconscious after how she reacted to that one little glimpse into his surface memories. Gods know I'm moving from this nightmare into another. With luck we'll remove all this from her mind entirely."

Wish we could do the same, Glaedr grumbled privately. The newest members to the Council of Elders, the matter had been theirs to investigate. Now there was the mess to clean up. What happened to him, beside the obvious of meddling with the forbidden?

In the last several centuries they had helped dispatched Shades and necromancers, the byproducts of those twisting the limits of magic or seeking to defy death itself. None had ever managed to inflict such a gruesome end upon themselves. It was a demise Oromis could not wish upon his worst foe. The matter of how he had seemingly fallen out of the sky over open ocean was another headache entirely.

"What did he carry?"

"His armor and underclothes." Eir gestured dismissively to the pieces. "There's the former. We burned what was left of the latter for very good reason."

Oromis turned his full attention to the armor. Despite the dullness the metal was expertly forged. He picked up a gauntlet and flexed it, impressed by its lightness how easily it turned. Oromis did not delight in war but he marveled at the pragmatic design. The only feature that gave him pause were the interlocked metal plates that broke up the smoothness of the back plate. To him they added nothing to defense or to the design. Even with magic human smiths were hard-pressed to match such quality. Thoughtfully he bent down and picked up a helm shaped like the head of a snarling dragon. Everything, from the inlays etched like scales down to sabatons like talons, evoked dragons.

After all, no man or elf could fly on their own power.

A dragon. His heart sunk at the possibility. He lost his dragon in that storm.

Glaedr mulled a likely scenario over. The Order had exiled its fair share of outcasts before, usually those that butted heads one too many times with the Council or Riders that had lost their dragon and furiously believed a second egg their gods-given right. Some, loners or rebels, slipped away on their own desire. Usually the rogues that posed a real danger were sentenced and executed before they were ever let loose upon Alagaesia.

If they were ever one of us... Well, it's no matter now. His body is beyond recognition. If he had a dragon, it is lost like those poor yearlings, sunk to the deep. We'll be fortunate for either of their Riders to ever wash up. Grant him his peace, Oromis. Considering how his life ended, he certainly deserves it now.

"I'll have a pyre readied," he agreed.

Vroengard's rocky soil was poor for burial and very few Riders died upon the isle, instead meeting their ends through battle or misfortune. Like the wild dragons cremation was often the preferred ritual for Rider and dragon. If this man had indeed ever been a Dragon Rider, they were granting him his proper rite.

If that were not the truth, Oromis doubted his fellow elders would ever agree to an alternative of disposing that body. He already heard their gripes about that corruption leaching into the soil.

"Without alteration his armor will no longer fit if you mean to burn it with him," Eir cautioned.

Oromis promised to attend to matters. In truth the armor and its former owner, now ashes scattered to the wind, were a passing fancy to the council. They scarcely had time to ponder over the man's origins before rumors in the west spoke of a new Shade.

Shades were abominations almost pitiable in their status as multiple spirits bound to a single body. They were mad things, raving for their own destruction or lashing blindly out at the world. Despite the trail of bodies left in its wake, this Shade eluded all methods of tracking, a monster guided by higher reasoning and single-minded intent. It was a threat to be quickly disposed of.

She had been born in the Dark. Growing up its shadows had nurtured her. Now, as utter wrongness and the tried to rend her asunder, the shadows shielded her.

They had not saved her heart. He had been ripped from her. The Dark that instinctively cradled her like an egg against the Void's crushing presence had not spared him. Now her soul gushed from the gaping wound left behind. She was blind to all else, her heaving stomach and flashing vision, all else but the hole in her heart.

She screamed for him, her precious one, but he did not answer. He could not answer, for he had been stolen from her.

Grief hardened into resolve. What death had stolen could be returned. She would reclaim her precious one, life for life and life and li-

"No."

Like an ember, something small and warm glowed in her grasp. She cradled it close. She knew that faint touch against her soul better than she knew her own.

"I'm with you. I'll always be with you."

"...And now back with us, it seems."

Hissing, she cracked her eyes open. Coolness surged in the back of her mind as she prepared to call upon her shadows. A stranger loomed above her, seemingly human but with long white hair and the unwrinkled face of someone either very old or outright immortal. Big. Why was he so damn big? Unless he was a giant or she was...

Puny human fingers experimentally flexed against the Amulet she held in a death grip. Her lip curled.

"Blame me. We needed you smaller and easier to handle. You were half-conscious and went along with me."

That voice. Avatars, she knew that voice, now matter how faint and distant it sounded now.

"Rephaim," she croaked, tilting her head to gaze upon him.

He was as she knew him best, dark hair cropped back and hazel eyes bright. His face, always pale from lack of sunlight and now even paler, was drawn into a wan smile. Her heart sank. Even his armor, once the same deep color as her scales, was transparent enough for her to see the stack of scrolls behind him.

"In the flesh," he joked. "Metaphorically, that is."

She was well-used to human form for better wrangling books and experiments, but she still grunted with the effort of sitting up. She reached for his hand. Her fingers passed through cool mist.

"For now," she vowed with a growl. "We'll reunite you with it soon enough."

"I felt any tie to my body burn away with it," Rephaim said plainly. "Which was for the best. Necromancy is neither of our strong points."

It was not the Dark that had drawn them together. A lifetime ago they had stumbled upon each other, a foolish human scholar hungering for recognition for his peers and a dragon dabbling in what even her kind considered forbidden. She had merely been born to the Dark. Through their bond Rephaim had developed his own affinity. The shadows had merely been their shield and gateway into the Void where even Darkness faltered.

"Even if it had not, I doubt even one of your bloodline could raise a true lich here."

Her eyebrows rose as she realized they were all speaking the deep, rumbling tones of Draconic. To her it came so naturally she had not registered it. It was a tongue no human could handle without magical aid or years of practice. She cocked her head and reconsidered the stranger she had taken for human.

His body lacked wings or horns, any obvious signs a form chosen for convenience was not the form one had hatched into. Beyond the blatant she searched for signs of his element. His hair was long and pure white, skin pale and plain. His robe was dull, neutral gray. She stared into his eyes, searching for the pale blue of ice or light's brilliance.

His eyes were clear as glass. Not pale or light, but lacking color completely.

"Creatioux," she breathed.

The stranger dipped his head. "It has been centuries since I was called that."

Her breath caught. Beside her Rephaim's placid aura flared dark and cold before he calmed. They had glimpsed the mad, twisted abominations the Void could make of dragons from a distance. This dragon's sanity seemed more or less intact.

"Why not?" Rephaim dared ask for them both as he was now the one with no life to risk. "Did we get spit up on the wrong side of Lore?"

The Creatioux bared his teeth in what could not be called a smile. "More along the lines of the wrong world. Alagaesia, this land is named. Its people know me as Tenga. You are the one true dark dragon within it, child." His colorless eyes flicked to Rephaim. "You, little dragonlord, are the one shade on this plane strong enough to maintain a tether here after the body's demise."

"My daddy called me Vesna," she offered guilelessly.

Her sire had been the Great Darkness Dragon, the embodiment of their element for many long and terrible centuries. She had hatched late in his life, one daughter among dozens. Like all his lesser children, she had been expected to be a good little sewer of dread and death, laying human towns to waste so that he might raise the victims for his hordes.

In the beginning Rephaim couldn't have even hoped to pronounce the true version of her name. Rather than settle for the human approximation he had instead saddled her with a charmingly mundane name that roughly translated to the same meaning. It was a bestowal of trust this 'Tenga' had not yet earned.

"And what a messenger you were," Tenga said ruefully. "The first fissure since my arrival, and it lasts just long enough to drop your unconscious form practically on my doorstep."

"It hurled me out miles away from here. I felt the distance from you even worse than..." Rephaim trailed off to try running a hand through the curly mess of hair that followed in her in this form no matter how she altered it. Their souls were bound. The distance between them meant nothing when her lord had no longer been anchored by mortality. "I came for you as soon as I could. I regret nothing."

"Curiousity get the best of you too?" she asked wryly.

"My companions and I sought the mysteries that eluded even our kind and strayed too deep into the heart of the Void." Tenga's eyes gazed at nothing. "Our kind are not bound to the elements, but even we depend upon some semblance of order. We sought chaos, to pry at the pinnings of the world and see what lay beneath. What we found... I was the only one blessed to wake up here, in a realm with next to no true magic."

She and Rephaim exchanged an intrigued glance. "How so?"

"For those drawn to Darkness... The strongest necromancer Alagaesia can muster could only ever raise a fresh corpse, before rot dissolves the central nervouse system. Forget higher reasoning, let alone any binding or manipulation of the soul itself. At best they can only ever raise a handful of shambling foot soldiers capable of following one word orders."

They listened in morbid fascination as Tenga described Alagaesia, a world where the sentient races could be counted on less than two hands. Plain elves with fondness for the forest but no true affinity. Werecats, but no vampires or even weres of any other sort. Humans of one sprawling kingdom with little regard for magic. Erkals and razzak and other silly names. Dwarves that were... really similar to the dwarves back home. Dragons that breathed fire but were not fire, that had no tongue of their own but spoke with mind and soul.

Tenga pulled out the map for a reference point. Her dutiful list on peoples and sites to avoid soon blossomed into a detailed itinerary.

And a to-do list once Rephaim figured out how to levitate the quill. Learning the local language was pretty important, if only so she could be sufficiently witty. So was blending in, she guessed.

"The Dragon Riders are quite smug in their place in the world," Tenga advised grimly. "Makers forbid you raise their ire and threaten my privacy along with it. Proper company is always welcome, but keep any blasted messes you make out there away from me."

"Sure," she said.

Then she snatched the pen out of Rephaim's floating grasp to jot down a note about studying the local wildlife to compare against what they knew from their counterparts of Lore. The destitute human hall Tenga had claimed was built on the edge of a sprawling swamp. Might as well start with the amphibians.

Chapter Text

Arra had only wanted to become a humble adventurer, to see what the world had to offer beyond Moonridge's familiar boundaries and its occasional undead infestation. Then she had run into a dragon priestess and the prick of a deposed prince out to steal her box. The same stupid box that either contained the egg of either the dragon destined to destroy the world or else redeem it.

Along the way she had unflinchingly faced the dragonmaster that had bound an entire brood of ice dragons to his will. And then the psychotic pyromancer and the fire elementals that had burned their way through King Alteon's army. Sure, Falconreach was still ashes, but its people weren't. They even hailed her as a hero for it.

Now Arra sank onto her knees in mute horror. Surrounded by shattered pieces of her staff and smashed bits of shell, she gazed only at the spot previously occupied by a horror from another plane and the egg she had fought so hard to keep safe.

"The dragon that was probably going to be the one to save the world," she said desolately. "A baby not even out of its shell. And we turned it into a doomkitten snack."

She didn't care Warlic had invoked the creature in a name with far too many syllables or that it only took on such a form to lull witless summoners into a false state of complacency. To her it had looked like a doomkitten.

"Not necessarily," Warlic said gently. "Your banishment of the... doomkitten... created an unstable portal and the egg was sucked in after it. It could have landed into another plane altogether."

Warlic was acclaimed as the Blue Mage, one of the greatest masters of magic alive in Lore. Arra had wanted to just wait to see which one of the five vultragon eggs instead hatched into a baby dragon. When Warlic had claimed the egg's protective illusions kept it in suspended animation and prevented it from hatching at all, she had listened. Just as she had gone along with preparing an arcane ritual designed solely to summoning an egg-eating abomination from another world to unveil the true egg.

"Does that mean you can bring it back?" she pressed.

Warlic's violet eyes flickered. "Regrettably my magic is not... compatible with those of other planes. I am unsure if it even landed in a realm where it can survive, let alone scry its exacts whereabouts." He cleared his throat awkwardly when Arra buried her head in her hands. "Er, on the bright side, there is always the chance I was wrong in my translations. It might have been the other egg."

This is what she got, for trying so hard to be like Viamat and the other brave dragonlords that helped keep Moonrdige from being overrun by Doomwood's undead hordes. She should have listened to her parents.

"I should have been a hostess," Arra muttered. "Or gone into the Knights. At least all those stupid young necromancers don't arbitrarily summon demons from another world!"

The Blue Mage had no response.

Squinting against the growing dusk, Eragon lined up his bow for a clear shot. The doe was already injured and, so long as he struck deeply enough, could not flee far. He was more than capable of tracking it and letting time and blood loss do their work. It was a thought that curdled his stomach. Better to finish her misery now and not stumble after her in the dark.

Eragon froze when the small herd of deer stirred uneasily from their peaceful graze. They lifted their hands and sniffed the air. The wind hadn't shifted to expose his scent to them. The breeze had died altogether, just like all birdsong in the trees. The forest held its breath.

Silence shattered when the deer scattered with wild alarm calls. The world pulsed blacker than night.

When his throbbing headache made him blink open his eyes, the stars were twinkling overhead and the cool night air nipped at his clothes. Eragon dazedly rose into a sitting position. Though the skies were clear it was not unheard of for lightning to strike open fields or mountaintops out of the blue. Despite so many towering targets all around him, instead the bolt had struck a sheltered valley.

Squinting against the shadows, Eragon strained to see what just been a quiet clearing. The blast had created a crater of blackened grass and trees. He crouched over the scorched grass and held out a hand, expecting lingering heat but feeling none. Only then did he discover the plants were not burned, but dead and withered.

Common sense urged him to run back home and never look back. Of course, it was common sense in Carvahall to not go hunting in the Spine to begin with. Eragon did not feed his family through what others called common sense and he superstition. Notching an arrow he advanced to the center of the blast.

At the heart rested a stone, black as night and mottled green. Its smooth surface shimmered in the moonlight, revealing the gentle curves of the largest egg Eragon had ever stumbled upon. What beast laid eggs so large? Certainly no normal animal!

Beyond some wild act of magic, he had no idea how an egg had seemingly exploded into existence. Were its surroundings a mere byproduct of its arrival or a sign of its nature?

His gaze drifted to a rocky outcropping just outside the circle. There were stones light enough to carry but more than heavy enough to smash the shell and whatever creature developed inside. He could end the threat without even touching it.

His feet carried him to the egg. With a sigh he leaned down to pick it up in both hands. He was amazed to find it warm to the touch when all else in the clearing was black and cold. It was not dead weight like a stone or hollow, but heavy with the promise of life.

It was an egg, for gods' sake, its contents unborn and oblivious to the devastation wrought by its arrival. Eragon could not leave it in the open for any predator to stumble upon. Perhaps it hatched independent and ready to fend for itself. Perhaps it hatched blind and defenseless as a baby bird.

His lip quirked at the absurdity of it all. "Maybe that's all you are," he told the egg. "An overgrown baby bird. A phoenix out of Brom's tales."

Wrapping up the egg in his sleeping mat, Eragon stowed it away in his pack. Then he stood and surveyed the clearing a final time. His neck prickled.

With the stars to guide him, he started for home. He did not stop to rest until the blackened circle was left far behind.

Purposeful strides forward stilled. Durza frowned as a shiver of dread and delight tingled down his mortal spine. How queer it felt, so like and unlike the last time...

He blinked, and the moment passed. There was an unconscious elf-woman at his feet and no damned egg in sight.

In another world the bones of her companions could have been far more biddable to one of his power. A flex of the hand would have had their souls chained to their dead bodies and ready fonts of information. Despite all his struggle and sacrifice here his best efforts could raise no more than a groaning, shambling puppet.

Durza scoured her body for good measure and uncovered no signs of gemstones, shattered or otherwise. As she had not killed herself with the transportation spell the egg had not been hurtled across the continent.

For redundancy's sake he probed her mental shields. He was not surprised to find her secrets guarded by formidable barriers even while unconscious. Doubtless it would take weeks of careful torture to break her will and extract her secrets.

His mouth opened of its own accord. Durza bit down hard and forced his hunger down. Of course he couldn't do things the easy way. This elf would fight until her last breath. In his haste he'd only kill her prematurely.

Durza disdainfully slung her limp form over his mount, his current crowning achievement for necromancy. While living beasts could not stand his presence their corpses were far more malleable. His power devoured decay and could to some extent prolong the wear and tear upon muscles that could no longer regenerate on their own. The black stallion even drew air it had no need for. A minor glamor obscured the glassy eyes and other minor signs, but his mount was tireless and lacked a will of its own.

His men were not so dead and docile, despite the oaths that bound them to secrecy and utter obedience. At times they served as camouflage for his true abilities and others as feed. Tonight they served as pack mules for the two dead elves. Their soulless husks were useless for anything but experimentation.

His eye fell upon the slowest of his men, the incompetent fool that had snapped a twig and revealed their presence too early for the true ambush.

"Toregg," he bit out. "Let's not make a fuss."

The swears and mewling cries usually excited him, but Durza was not in the mood to further rouse his appetite. Sweat poured down Toregg's brow, but the oaf came meekly as a lamb to slaughter. His companions averted their eyes, turning away to tend their anxious mounts.

Seizing Toregg by the throat, Durza reached out beyond his vessel and sucked him dry. He let the withered corpse drop to the ground.

One of his men took a cautious step forward. "Leave it," Durza commanded as he mounted his undead stallion. "It's worthless to me."

Leaving the flames to burn as they pleased, the Shade led the way into the burning night, and left his taint behind him.

Chapter Text

For as long as Eragon could remember his family had kept chickens of their own. Even those families in Carvahall unable to afford or tend to a true farm almost always kept a coop for easy meat and eggs more affordable than even the smallest sheep or goat. As youngest of the family he had always been responsible for the eggs, collecting them and looking after their mothers. When Garrow felt like keeping them it was Eragon's job to wrestle the beaks and claws of their brooding mothers, checking that the brood was healthy and developing in their shells.

Though this egg could have easily contained a full-size hen, he figured the same basic principals applied. The developing baby inside required warmth and protection. If it was healthy enough it would eventually hatch on its own or otherwise die in the shell.

There was no way in seven hells Eragon could let Uncle Garrow know about it. His uncle would smash it without hesitating, for fear of what it could beget. Carvahall still spoke in hushed whispers of the day Morzan, last of the Forsworn, had come to town so very long ago hunting down an enemy of the Empire. Though Morzan himself was long dead none wished to see another of their King's servants called down upon them.

Roran was so similar to his father, a man who balked at uncertainty and preferred ending problems before they became such. Gods forbid anything come up to threaten his future or chances with finally convincing Sloan to let him court Katrina. Eragon couldn't tell him either.

His room, the barn, and the coop were poor hiding places. Eragon might have been willing to grant the egg's contents a chance of life but he wouldn't risk his family's lives either if a monster hatched from it.

Instead Eragon ventured out into the forest. Garrow and Roran didn't hunt like he did. They didn't know about the small caves and crevices nearby, ones too small to hold threats to the livestock. But he had been a curious boy and opportunistic hunter. Of course he knew the perfect nesting spot, one not unreasonably far from the farm but also distant enough that any resulting spawn would hopefully take the woods if it decided to tear his throat out.

Tucked into a tumble of rocks, the half-hidden entrance was thin and winding. Even Eragon, far from full-grown, had trouble squeezing his way in. Any larger predator could not. He further barricaded the entrance on both sides with sharp, pointed sticks and loose stones hard for small paws to scramble over. Predators would be discouraged. Defenseless hatchlings would not stumble into a predator's waiting jaws. A newborn monster would be kept caged.

He insulted the egg in a thick pile of wood and rotted leaves, leaving enough shell uncovered that the baby inside could breathe. After some debate he cleared a corner to light a small fire that could smolder on its own for hours. With the harvest near done Roran and Garrow would not be wandering close enough to this side of the farm to smell the smoke. Even embers kept the cold at bay and an egg incubated.

Eragon visited as often as he could, turning the egg and watching for the slightest signs of hatching. To pass the long hours he brought small projects to keep his mind occupied, arrows to fletch and clothing to mend. When the silence became unbearable he spoke to the egg, voicing his thoughts aloud or rambling on about his life. After Roran's announcement of an apprenticeship in Therinsford he ranted about him a lot.

Eragon always carried a knife with him. He almost always hunkered down close to the entrance, within easy rich of sharp sticks and heavy stones.

Garrow and Roran were too busy with his impending departure to pay Eragon's absences much mind. Eragon remained with them for as often as he felt comfortable, for too far away from the egg dark fears began to haunt his mind.

When the Travelers wandered into Carvahall Eragon loaded the fire with extra kindling for a night in the village. Though he allowed himself to enjoy sights and sounds otherwise foreign to Palancar Valley he could not rest easily. His ears acutely listened for the smallest rumors of strange sightings or mysterious disappearances in the Spine, anything to hint others knew about the disturbed forest or that the egg already had siblings wrecking havoc.

Hearing nothing of note, Eragon finally relaxed and instead focused on Brom's sorrowful retelling of the Fall. Such stories of the era before the Empire were always spoken of in hushed whispers and late into the evening, but Carvahall was a quiet village at the outer edge of Imperial influence and sympathies.

When the tale shifted from the glory of the Dragon Riders into the tragedy of their demise, he could not help his disappointed frown. Brom expounded in great detail exactly how Galbatorix had dishonorably slain Vrael in their final battle, but skimmed over the majority of the war. Galbatorix's initial supporters numbered thirteen Forsworn, Urgals, and humans tired of both the Riders and their corrupt old king.

For a heartbeat Eragon thought to ask exactly how such a ragtag band slaughtered Dragon Riders and elves. Then he thought of the egg and bit his tongue. He had a secret of his own to guard and dared not drawing the crowd's attention upon him.

He briefly considered asking the storyteller more about the Fall in private before deciding against it. Though Brom's telling was as vivid and engaging as ever, Eragon knew the old man well enough see his eyes were distant and occupied that night. He left Brom to his own business.

Long after returning home, Eragon tossed and turned where his family slumbered peacefully. When he finally drifted off he had nightmares of the Fall, where great beasts that shimmered every color of the rainbow were swallowed by shadows with far too many teeth and Riders whose death cries grew high and thin like rabbits'.

Bundling up against the frigid night, Eragon left home behind for the cave. He threw more wood onto the dying embers. He turned the egg over, finger pausing to trace the green whorls that disrupted the egg's black surface.

Throwing his sleeping mat down, Eragon curled up by the nest and slept soundly.

Until the sounds of the egg rocking against dry leaves roused him.

"Lord Sepulchure, the egg is moving! The hatching time is upon us at last!"

Drakath's pride still stung at addressing one of lower birth by title. His father had been this land's lawful king and he the rightful heir. Yet there was no denying his lord's power. Sepulchure commanded an army of monsters and undead whose ranks swelled by the day. His power was such that he had resurrected the colossal skeleton of an Elemental Dragon to serve as the foundation of a flying fortress.

"With the might of this dragon at my command, the world will bow at my feet. The age of Darkness begins as soon as he takes his first breath."

Drakath grudgingly admired his master to the lengths he had gone for such strength. Sepulchure had bound his soul to a Doom Weapon to draw upon its power. Drakath suspected his red, vicious armor to be welded to his skin, no more than a minor hindrance for a man who had left mortal needs like sleep behind.

But Drakath did not fake the excitement in his voice as the opalescent egg rocked again in its nest of stone, for beneath the surface lay the key to regaining far more than his father's kingdom. His enthusiasm, however, was tempered by confusion. Even a dragon born at the nexus of Dark would still be a newborn.

"But..." How to phrase it so he didn't get a Necrotic Blade through the gut? "But the hatchling will only be a baby." And while you have all the time in the world to wait for it to grow up, I sure as hell don't!

"The Dragon Amulet, Drakath," Sepulchure replied in a tone that the prince was not even worth the effort of transforming into a mere grunt soldier for his army. "With its power the dragon will assume its fully grown form at my command."

Drakath bit back his incredulity. Dragons were creatures of magic just as much as flesh. They took on aspects of their environments just as much as their surroundings influenced them. Even steeped in their element a hatchling could take centuries to reach their full size. Dragon Amulets were arcane, able to allow temporarily magnify a dragon's natural magic and their bond with their chosen lord.

When a dragon did not willingly accept a dragonlord and an Amulet's influence, their wills could be forced. Just recently the so-called Frostscythe had attempted to siege Falconreach with a captive brood of ice dragons. Of course his stolen Amulet had shattered and the surviving beasts had deserted him.

The egg shook again, fine black lines marring its pearly surface. "My lord, a crack in the shell!"

Drakath's voice rose with relief and anticipation. At least he had stolen the right egg after all. If even unborn dragons were sensitive to their surroundings than certainly a dragon of the Darkest sort could hatch mere feet from a fallen hero who had slaughtered the very people he had once protected as fodder for his horde. Sepulchure would not have to enslave an unwilling accomplice after all.

Cracks branched out across the shell, whiteness radiating from within. The egg then exploded with radiance. Drakath wrenched his eyes shut as a wave of light fizzed against his skin and seared him down to the veins. Sepulchure's skeletal attendants flinched back with shrieks of agony.

Blinking rapidly against the spots dancing across his vision, Drakath gazed down to their key for conquest. The hatchling was not bone-white or the pale gray of ash, but with scales that shimmered like pearl. Its middle was thick with baby fat. It had a blunt snout and nubs for horns. Guileless blue eyes peered innocently up into Sepulchure's shadowed helm.

It was downright adorable.

It was not the dragon destined to destroy the world.

"Huh," Drakath said aloud as he screamed internally. "I-"

Sepulchure held out a hand, crackling with black and red power, and flexed it like eagle's talons. Breath robbed from his lungs by that awful wave of Darkness, Drakath braced for feeling the flesh scorched off his bones.

Finding himself still alive, he dared crack open his eyes. Empty sockets stared back.

Drakath impulsively drew his sword but froze, trembling, before he could bring it down. Stifling his yell into a grunt, he gaped down at yellowed bone. Though the skull had no eyes its sockets gazed accusingly into the depths of his soul.

"M...Master?" he choked out in horror. "What have you done!?"

Deaf to his outburst, Sepulchure knelt. "Is that better, my little dracolich?"

The undead hatchling experimentally flexed skeletal wings. Then it skittered toward its lord. Sepulchure extended a hand. Chittering like no living creature could, the dracolich leaned into the Doom Knight's embrace like an affectionate cat.

"I think I'll call you..." Beneath the helm Sepulchure's only visible feature, his mouth, twitched incomprehensibly. "Fluffy."

If all sense of humor had not rotted out of his master, Drakath would have expected a punch line.

Fluffy the dracolich stayed.

Waves of power burned blood red before guttering a black darker than night and then searing white. Thrown back against the cave wall, he was aghast and exalted by the heat that pulsed with his every heartbeat.

Just as quickly as it come into creation the power sputtered out. The fire, one moment ago a roaring inferno, faded back to embers. Eragon spat a mouthful of dirt from his mouth and absently shook the dead leaves and shattered egg fragments from his hair. Nothing remained of the nest but the exhausted hatchling collapsed amid its ruins.

She was a dragon. Eragon knew it instinctively, wings obscuring most of her form but for her tail, front paws, and rounded head. In the dim light her scales still shimmered a deep sapphire blue. Considering the egg's hue he was at first surprised by their shade before he realized he could envision her no differently than as she looked now.

Too exhausted to raise her head or twitch her tail, the hatchling appraised him with blue eyes beneath half-closed lids.

Slowly but surely, he approached her with open hands. Crouching fearlessly by her side, he offered his right hand for her to sniff. The dragon's eyes opened to reveal a brilliant blue that lacked pupils and burned like stars. Grunting, she laboriously raised her head...

And snapped down on his hand. Eragon winced only from a slight sting. She lacked teeth or the strength to crush his hand. Through her gums he could just feel the little nubs that one day soon promised to sprout into true teeth.

"I get it," he muttered. "You're hungry."

He gently pried his hand from her maw and scooped her into his arms. She settled snugly into his embrace, eyes closing shut as she slid into slumber.

Departing the cave, Eragon headed toward home and the promise of food.

Chapter Text

The hatchling slumbered soundly all through the journey home and him gently depositing her on his bed. When he returned with a bagful of jerky her eyes immediately snapped open. She tried to rise, only for her legs to get tangled in her wings, and weakly voiced her disgruntlement. It was no cheep or squeak, but a raspy hiss not unlike a provoked turtle's.

Tearing off a piece too small to choke on, he tossed it to her. She swallowed without even bothering to chew and cried for another. Strip by strip, he fed her until her belly was near-bursting and no venison remained. Then her head dropped down into the blankets as she crashed down into sleep.

Eragon anxiously regarded the bag. Chicks, still nourished by the last of their yolk, didn't eat for some time after birth but frequently ate afterward. The dragon had hatched starving. When would she hunger again? Would she consume even more meat? How fast would she grow into a burden and then into a true danger? She could easily eat though their entire winter store, develop a taste for livestock or human flesh.

Eragon stubbornly clamped down on those dark thoughts. The existence of Dragon Riders proved dragons could be managed. He could no sooner kill this hatchling then he could chop off his own hand.

Revealing her to even Roran or Uncle Garrow was a death sentence. The egg was no longer merely an unknown factor, but a dragon that marked them all as targets for the Empire. Eragon vowed to keep her secret until he at least worked out a way to safely introduce her to his family. He would have to hunt even more game to make up for one more hungry mouth before teaching her how to feed herself.

Exhausted and unable to entertain any more troublesome thoughts, Eragon decided the future could wait until tomorrow. With the hatchling taking up the middle of his bed he moved to pick her up. He paused, surprised by the heat her small body radiated. If her body temperature was so high surely she could sleep at the foot of his bed?

After a moment's hesitation he slid under the covers and situated the dragon atop his chest. She burrowed blindly into the blankets and stirred no further.

Eragon awoke to two bright blue eyes staring down at him. Pale morning light filtered in weakly from the window. He smiled up at her.

"Good morning," he whispered wryly. "Did you sleep well?"

She responded by clamping down onto his nose and hissing that same particular tone from last night's feeding. Already he knew it meant feed me.

Bundling the dragon into his tunic, he smuggled her from his home and to the refuge of her cave. She greedily scarfed down more salted venison as he frantically cleaned up the aftermath of her hatching. By the time she finished he had readied a rough nest of leaves and the rags of his shredded tunic. Teetering with her wings dragged limply on the floor, she snuggled into her new bed and made herself at home. Her bright eyes tracked his every move.

His tunic shredded by a displeased dragon, he quickly kindled a new fire for warmth. Mesmerized, the hatchling lifted her head to watch the flames. Smoke ominously rose from her nostrils.

"Good gods, you're not even a day old yet. Are you really going to start breathing fire now, of all possible times?" Blue eyes blinked innocently up at him. "Good. I hoped not."

Eragon frowned at the defenses met to keep predators out or a monster inside. If the dragon were capable of spitting sparks, he trusted her to have the common sense to not so in a small space filled with highly flammable materials. Dragons would have died out centuries ago if all their newborns had a habit of incinerating their surroundings.

Could those rocks and stakes keep a baby dragon penned? Sure, she could barely walk at this point, but what happened when she mastered her own four legs, let alone her wings? How could he train her to keep from running after him, from dashing into town or after livestock?

"Stay," he ordered firmly.

The hatchling glanced from him to the warm fire and then to the late autumn wind shrieking through the cave's entrance. She looked at him as if he were an idiot. Eragon conceded he probably was at the moment. He was talking to a baby dragon and expecting her to understand him.

Awkwardly dancing around his family, Eragon grabbed what he needed from home and dashed back. He heaved a relieved sigh when he discovered the dragon hadn't budged from her nest. Instead her eyes opened from a nap.

She hissed and scratched at his arms when he lifted her from her nest. He refortified it with a sturdy bed of branches that would hold her even as she grew some and then lined it with old rags and tunics worn beyond repair. With a sniff she settled back into it.

"You're welcome," he snorted.

Next he pulled leather strips from his satchel and frowned down at them. Could he craft something to keep the dragon confined to the cave when he couldn't watch over her, at least until she knew to keep to the woods? Immediately he discarded the idea of a collar, all too able to imagine her choking herself to death if she strained too hard against it or stumbled into a wrong corner of the cave.

He eyed a leather strip and tried to size it to the dragon. A harness could more securely hold her without posing the choking risk. As he tried to sketch out a design in the dirt she curiously grabbed a piece. Her blunt claws and toothless maw worried the leather until it frayed and snapped.

"Ugh, never mind."

Eragon dreaded the thought of abandoning her to a night alone in the woods, for she was still not yet a full day old. At least his failed hunt gave him an excuse to grab his bow and leave on pretense of another. Leaving the dragon to devour yet more meat, he ran home a final time for his hunting gear and took the long way back to the cave to check his traps.

He had caught a rabbit. He butchered it close to the cave, the smell of blood luring the dragon out into the cold. She eagerly devoured the offal he threw her and licked at the blood pooling on the ground. Eragon waved her away from the meat and the hide he set aside for future use. She growled at him but was still too clumsy to try stealing his food from beneath his nose.

He roasted his meal on the fire. The dragon sat intently at his side, eyes burning holes into his soul. She relented when he tossed her bones to gnaw at it and a leg she eagerly ripped roasted meat from.

Eragon spent the rest of the day watching the dragon grow accustomed to being out of the egg. She tottered out of her nest eventually, steps growing more certain when he helped her fold her wings against her side. Then he was treated to the sight of a legendary beast running around in circles like an eager puppy, only occasionally tripping over her wings or tail.

When she tired she at last allowed his curious hands. Her hide felt like snakeskin, scales smooth and clustered together in diamonds, but with a warmth that roiled beneath like air from a burning hearth. Her delicate wing membranes were smooth like fine parchment. In return she ran a raspy tongue over his skin, snuffled at his hair, and chewed on every article of clothing. She was especially taken with his shoes, for to her the leather smelled like food.

When long shadows crawled across the cave Eragon unfurled his sleeping mat next to her nest. His dragon abandoned it entirely to curl up on his chest.

He stroked her throat with a finger and smiled at her rough purr. Over the years he had helped Garrow raise everything from clingy ducklings to skittish young draft horses. Surely a rambunctious dragon could not be that difficult.

Falconreach's accolades were ashes in her mouth.

Arra might have very well doomed the world if the wrong egg had been sucked into that portal. Even if she hadn't, she had decided to stupidly trust a mage whose idea for hatching an egg involved summoning an eldritch abomination and had gotten an unborn baby eaten by it.

Part of her wanted to go slinking home with her tail between her legs, to a relatively calm life of mediocrity as an innkeeper where she only to break out her plain wooden staff during yet another invasion of undead.

Not that Arra could even be Moonridge's best innkeeper. Her little sister Lucy ran the DragonFang with a professional courtesy and expertise not even their parents could manage.

Unable to face home she had instead detoured through the Doomwood, a land so deep in darkness even the trees were haunted. One couldn't throw a rock without hitting some sort of monster or undead creature. There was always something for an adventurer to do, a summoning circle to break up or cursed tomb to crack. Hunter's Paradise posted new bounties for beasts. Every threat Arra felled there was one less that could go stalking toward Moonridge and her baby sister.

Given the lack of hospitable accommodations Arra quickly settled into Amityvale as her base of operations. Despite living under the perpetual moonlight of the Doomwood's enchanted skies the town was almost quaint. Its people were friendly, if almost blase toward living under constant danger. Every pumpkin patch held golems and possessed scarecrows. Their cemeteries teemed with the reanimated corpses of their ancestors.

No quest was too humble for a true hero (or at least an adventurer thirsting to redeem herself for a possibly world-ending blunder). Arra did every thing she could, whether it was helping teenage girls find lost pendants or rid at least some houses of their most pugnacious poltergeists.

At times she even got to rub shoulders with the real heroes, those whose names and deeds already made them living legends, those who selflessly plunged into crypts to put the dead to rest or fend off small armies on their own. In Moonridge Artix von Krieger practically held a higher reputation than King Alteon. How many zombie invasions had he near single-handledly held off? His special brand of holy wasabi was both delicious and could deter lesser undead with a mere sprinkling!

The paladin devoted near every moment of his waking life to slaying undead. Occasionally Arra stumbled into one of his mass exorcisms and got to fight by his side until her stamina flagged.

Artix had thoughtfully helped her trade in her wooden staff for a proper Light weapon, but while effective enough in cursed Doomwood it didn't resonate like a true mage's instrument should. While Artix smashed his way through endless hoarded, Arra concentrated on simpler quests, those that netted her enough gold to stay afloat.

Even by Amityvale's low standards Zorbak stuck out like a sore thumb. Moglins were known as a gentle, adorable little people that practiced nature and healing magics. Zorbak was known as the one moglin that had gone into necromancy. Not too long ago he had also sicced a bear on her for the fun of it.

But he had offered a job, a very lucrative one that involved slaying undead Dravir that had taken over an old dragon cave stuffed with treasure. Treasure that possibly included a staff her magic could properly align with.

"Babies," Arra spat in disgust. "You wanted an army of babies."

Zorbak scowled down at her. The little moglin had climbed high to escape the jaws and claws of his hunters. Below dozens of baby dracoliches watched his every move intently.

"A dracolich egg," he corrected. "I wanted one dracolich egg, one perfect minion. And now I have an army to do my bidding."

Arra glanced skeptically down at the horde. Zorbak had done far more than simply reanimate a dragon dead in its shell. Something in his magic must have reacted to some lingering spark in the shells, for the dracoliches were more than extensions of his power. One had fire burning in its eye sockets. Another had sparks of electricity dancing along its spine.

Already some dracoliches were growing bored. Some took to chewing curiously in twigs or play wrestling with each other. One wandered over to start chewing at the hem of her robe.

"How's that working out for you?" she asked snidely.

"With proper time and training... and the acquisition of a Dragon Amulet... I will raise them into an army that will reign terror and darkness down from above!" Several dracoliches chittered at the sound of his raised voice, not unlike how a cat grew excited at sighting a bird. "Er, in the mean time I am looking for a nanny."

Arra turned from him to the dracolich still chewing at her robe. Dried strips of ashen gray skin still clung to parts of his white bones. Two pinpricks shone like frozen stars in his eye sockets. After a slight pause she knelt to pick him up. He snorted a tiny puff of frost into her face.

"Until we find them all responsible, loving homes."

She might have failed one baby dragon, but literally dozens of them now depended on her. Arra couldn't just let a necromancer corrupt them further or let a well-meaning, smite-happy paladin slay innocence babies that just so happened to be undead.

Even she found the dracoliches cute and her hometown was besieged by the undead on a near daily basis. They seemed relatively harmless when not in large mobs and were the most maintenance-free pet one could own outside of a rock. How hard would it be to find safe homes for them?

In some ways the little dragon progressed in leaps and bounds. Within mere days she was firmly on her feet, nipping at his heels if he moved too slow or if he didn't scoop her up into his arms quick enough. Too soon after that she started fluttering her wings. Then came having to climb trees to rescue the dragon when she had stranded herself by becoming too tired or getting tangled in their branches. Finally Eragon craned his neck to watch in pride and envy as she flew effortless circles around the clearing.

Not long after hatching her teeth broke through the gums. She chewed through his good boots and his favorite tunic. Her butter-soft claws hardened into gleaming white talons. Within a week of her birth she made her first kill. She fussed until he had helped clean the blood and feathers sticking to her snout. Then she proudly dropped a half-eaten squirrel into his lap to show he had not been forgotten.

The dragon should have been a nightmare to keep contained, for she followed him everywhere she could, but she was much more than a mere pet.

In the beginning Eragon thought it coincidental he always brought enough meat to make the dragon full without wasting a single bite. Then he realized he felt her hunger like a phantom ache in the back of his mind. Even when she was far away he felt hot triumph when she caught her prey and the satisfaction afterward.

He never slept alone. Even on the days he had to sleep at home, she was a warmth in his chest, and he knew they drifted off together.

Though her feelings faded somewhat with distance they never vanished entirely. When her presence strengthened Eragon knew she was approaching. He learned to shoo her back before Garrow or Roran ever caught more than a strange shape and muttered about big bluejays. In time the dragon stopped trying to approach the farm or any human besides from himself.

He felt her boredom and exasperation at the isolation as she felt his blood-chilling terror at the thought of her discovery. For him she obeyed. In return he snuck her whatever treats he could, smoked or salted meat one could not make in a single night alone in the woods.

Roran departed for Therinsford without ever learning of the dragon's existence. The dragon and all that came with her kept Eragon too busy to miss him much except for those quiet, lonely dinners with Uncle Roran. Then even the dragon's warmth in his mind faded somewhat.

Despite all of her progression the hatchling never seemed to grow an inch, not in height or length or wingspan. He knew her every hunger pain and just how much she consumed on a daily basis. She wasn't starving! All of that nutrition had to be going somewhere.

Quickly growing curious and then concerned, Eragon started dutifully measuring the dragon every morning and evening for any evidence of growth. For a while she put up with it. Then she became fed up with bribes of food and chin scratches.

She dragged the first measuring stick into a fire. He started taking the second home with him, concealing it in a place too close for the farm for her to follow.

Her first bite was a warning, not even breaking skin. The red mark left behind was gone in moments.

The day after her claws drew a fine line of blood upon his wrest. She licked at the wound apologetically but the scratches were gone by morning.

On the third day Eragon sliced himself while sharpening his knife upon a whetstone, a simple daily chore. He knew from experience the wound would bleed considerably and leave a thin scar behind like the others marring his hands. Instead the wound scabbed over in moments. By dawn nothing remained but brand new skin, still slightly pink.

The farm animals didn't tolerate Eragon like they used too. No matter how often he wished the dragon's scent, too faint for a human nose, clung to his clothes and hair. Eragon moved carefully around them, gradually building back up their trust. Not even a week after the knife incident, he jerked abruptly to avoid tripping, and a goat rammed his horns into his shin.

Eragon thanked his gods Garrow was busy elsewhere, for within minutes the throbbing pain had dulled and his limp lessened. Over hours he watched the deep red bruise fade into purple and then yellow. By the time he reached the cave that night no trace remained.

"This is your fault," he told the dragon accusingly. "Dragon Rider magic, or some such thing."

The dragon snorted back at him. Gods known he had tried to name her. Sky and Rain and other such names had been soundly rejected. Selena and Marian, those of a desperate last resort, had been turned down with slightly more respect. Brat and Dragon and Little Shit were met with full-force bites that were all healed in hours.

Eragon considered the measuring stick in his hand. Granted, the dragon still looked no different, but any incremental growth would appease him.

He was changing, for gods' sake! Despite the toll accelerated healing took a sound night's sleep carried him further. Garrow grunted with the effort it took to help move the plow and other heavy equipment into winter storage. His uncle was not yet that old, but with broad shoulders and corded muscle that let the man make even a stubborn old ox or workhorse move. Eragon, nowhere yet near that size, handled similar workloads while barely breaking a sweat.

His appetite had grown. Even Garrow, who never saw the frequent hunts and meals he ate out in the forest, remarked another growth spurt must have been coming on. Eragon knew deep in his gut his uncle was at least partly right.

The dragon's smoking jaws promised war. He was ready to give it.

Bright orange fire bloomed from the hatchling's maw. Eragon dropped the burning stick with a yelp.

The dragon rasped a hoarse sound of surprise, flames dying out. They both gaped at where the smouldering remnants of his right hand should have been, for she had blasted it directly.

Eragon wriggled his fingers experimentally. They were slightly pink and warm, as if sun-burnt, but all there down to the last digit. His sleeve was not so fortunate. Beating down the flames, he checked his skin for any burn marks, and found none.

"What in the seven hells?" he muttered.

A few tentative sparks rose from the dragon's nostrils. Her blue eyes flicked to the fire in the cave's corner, burning low. One small puff of her own rose the flames into a miniature bonfire. The dragon crowed in delight.

Was all of this normal for a budding Dragon Rider? It's not as if any but Galbatorix were left alive to ask, and Eragon would rather set himself on fire than expose his dragon to the Empire's cruelties.

Brom. Sure, a wizened old storyteller couldn't have been the most reliable source of information, but it was the best Eragon had. If he could wax poetic about the Fall than certainly he knew a little about how Dragon Riders came into their full power... whatever that full power may have been. Or at the very least predict whether the dragon's nascent pyromania was simply a phase or a lifelong obsession.

Chapter Text

After decades of assassinations and covert operations, Brom truly did enjoy his partial retirement in quiet Carvahall. He could quietly watch over his s- the boy, but also served as a vital way point when the elves rotated the egg from Du Weldenvarden to Surda to Farthern Dur. The routes between them altered them every time so as to lessen their chances of an ambush.

Brom had not been able to save Arya Drottningu or her guards. He doubted any still lived. If damned Durza had not slain them then they had died trying to bring him down with them to avoid the shame of capture. But she, brave lady, had delivered her charge to safety. He had seen it moved on to the next chain in the link.

With his primary mission secured, Brom had tracked down the Shade's lingering foulness in hopes of at least confirming Arya Drottningu's death and at least providing Queen Islanzadi the small comfort her sole child had been granted the proper funeral rites. Instead he had stumbled across only ashes and a charred, stout corpse that could only have been human.

Beyond the cinders of Durza's destruction extended a blight to the trees. Though not directly touched by the fire they had still been dying, bark dark and warped from illness, not flame. Brom burned out the lingering taint with mundane fire. He had learned the hard way using magic on a Shade's handiwork only sucked his magic dry in a parasitic link he had fought to break.

For many years Brom had been relatively at peace, content to watch over Eragon from a distance. Now restlessness made him pace his home and Carvahall.

How long was he obligated to watch over a boy seemingly destined to live a simple, quiet life? Until the boy turned eighteen? Married and started raising a family of his own? Would Galbatorix care about the grandchildren of two old foes or descendants many times removed? Brom knew he should have grown old and died a long time ago. Despite the years and regret weighing down on his bones he knew he was still fighting fit. Eragon was merely human. There was a could chance he could die an old man while Brom's faded magic kept him tethered to life.

Brom went for a walk about the village to shake the grim thoughts from his town. The elders were always open to complaining about the winter cold. Elain, her two sons grown, indulged him in pleasant conversation.

He was returning home when he spotted Eragon almost at his door.

Brom was at first happily surprise at the surprise visit. The boy had adored his stories as a child, before Marian's death and growing responsibilities at the farm had left little time for tales around the fire. Then his trained eyes spotted the tension in Eragon's shoulders, the tightness to his smile when he noticed his approach.

"Good afternoon, boy," he called amiably. "What brings you to my door?" Brom was now close enough to smell the boy had badly singed himself. Though Eragon had changed his burnt clothing the smoke still lingered.

"Information," Eragon blurted out. Quickly, he added, "About the last story you told the night the Traders were in town. There wasn't time before, when we were readying for winter and Roran leaving for Therinsford. But now I have nothing but time to kill, and your story stuck with me."

The story of the Dragon Riders and their downfall. Brom knew the egg was long gone. Galbatorix's servants did not. He had heard rumors of them scouring most villages in the Spine's vicinity but his contacts indicated they were not yet nearby. Had Eragon and his isolated family been interrogated by the Ra'zac or their ilk?

Brom hid his scrutiny behind a gruff remark about how the best stories stuck in the minds of their audience. Eragon looked stressed, aye, but not as if burdened with the thought of his family threatened with mortal peril. He rather resembled one of the exhausted new parents fretting over whether their baby's newfound mobility and ability to make mischief.

Aware of curious eyes and ears, Brom welcomed the boy inside. He kindled a fire while Eragon gingerly made himself comfortable among the stacks of books and scrolls. Brom's warning was gruffer than intended. There were some gems buried within the mess but most of the literature dated from the Broddring Kingdom's last days and the ramblings of monks and mystics. Interesting enough to pass the time and ponder on, but nothing that would be out of place in a scholar's hoard. He was not fool enough to keep works that actively spoke out against the Empire in his home.

"Now, what more do you wish to learn about? Because we could be here until next winter if you let me ramble on."

Eragon paused, one unused to subterfuge carefully picking his words. "Dragons, mostly. And Dragon Riders. They were such an important part of our history, and our king is one, but I don't know what made... makes them so special."

"Perhaps it is best to start from the beginning," Brom said neutrally. He readied a kettle of tea as he regaled Eragon with the abbreviated tale of how the elves landed in Alagaesia and the first Eragon's bond with Bid'Daum.

"So that's where my name comes from," he muttered. Eragon accepted a cup and sipped at it. Brom hid a snort behind his own cup when the boy drew back, tongue rolling in his mouth. He did make his tea hot enough to scald. His eyebrows rose of his own accord when the boy tipped his cup and downed it all in one drought. "What does it mean?"

"One would have to ask the elves, for so ancient is that name that no others may know, but it is a good and honorable name nonetheless." Your mother knew you well, for no other farm boy could bear such an honor as you do.

"So there are still elves somewhere, just like there are dwarves and men and Urgals. Are the dragons in hiding too?"

There are but five left in the world, boy, and the king has three of them. Brom smiled sadly. "Save for the king's dragon, Galbatorix, they are gone or else so far beyond these lands they might as well be in our eyes. The Forsworns' thirteen dragon were the only others to have survived the Fall and they all died with their Riders."

Eragon stilled. "Did all dragons do that? Die with their Riders?"

Feeling his hands tightening around his cup, Brom set it down before he could shatter glass. He fumbled for his pipe instead. "The bond between dragon and Rider appeared to be a powerful thing. Rare is the record where one survived the loss of the other. But a pair could easily live for centuries. Elves are near eternal. Dragon magic was apparently so potent they passed their longevity on to even human Riders."

The boy paled white as a sheet. He shakily rose his cup to his mouth, hiding his expression beyond the guise of downing every last drop. "How big were the dragons?" he dared ask after an uneasy silence.

"Larger than this house. It is said they never stopped growing and that the ancient ones could be mistaken for large hills." Brom absently wondered how large Glaedr had grown since he had seen him last. The older a dragon grew the slower their growth.

Something flickered in Eragon's eyes. "But how fast did dragons grow? If they lived so long then surely they grew slow."

It was a reasonable assumption. A pup could grow old and die when its boy had scarcely reached manhood. "Within months they were large enough to ride. The records say they were able to mate at six months old, when they blew their first flames."

Eragon's expression crystallized from uncertainty into utter doubt. Brom grit his teeth and bit back his rage. His own son thought him a liar, a senile old man!

"To some of this land a century is little more than the blink of an eye," he forced out instead. "Even some men have been known to nearly reach a hundred years. My grandfather lived in the time of dragons. Even my father remembered a bit of them. These are facts, boy, accurate as can be given the circumstances. You're much too old for me to give you tripe pulled out of thin air."

Eragon's eyes dropped. "I'm sorry. I... was only repeating what I heard some Trader in Morn's tavern talking about. That's why I had dragons on the mind."

"I see," Brom said at last. Dragons were easy fodder for the novice bards and storytellers. Any simpleton could snag a few listeners with some yarn about a fire-breathing beast. The bones of wild dragons, slaughtered in their caves and without kin to burn them, were common curiosities. "What other fluff did this Trader fill you head with?"

"He mentioned some dragon. A female dragon, but I can't remember her name."

Brom's eyebrows did quirk at that. Most storytellers preferred to keep their dragons as nameless mounts or some bombastic, treasure-hoarding tyrant for the hero to slay. Very few included she-dragons.

"A she-dragon, you mean."

There was so little chance to give the dead their due. Brom recited all of the great she-dragons he could; Lenora and Miremel, Opheila and Nithring of the long tail. He uttered them all but the one he never could. Finally he trailed off, but beneath expectant gaze of his son, Brom at last spoke the void in his heart.

"...And Saphira." Brom struck his pipe and inhaled, exhaled a mouthful of smoke in tribute to she who forever held his heart. "Any of those names sound familiar?"

Eragon paused. "No, but thank you for telling me about them."

Brom was no stranger to the boy's endless curiosity. When Marian still lived she had let the boy wander to Brom's house whilst the family was in Carvahall. Brom had endured an endless bombardment of questions ranging from why the sky was blue to why some babies hatched from eggs and others didn't. Eragon's insatiable thirst for knowledge had made him both relieved and anguished he could not raise the boy as his own. Garrow had drilled more courtesy into his nephew since then. Now Eragon looked ready to burst from his stream of unasked questions.

Brom made a sound somewhere between a fond chuckle and irritated sigh. "Spit it out, boy."

"That trader said things about what made Riders so special," Eragon said carefully, "but I'm sure it was just more fluff." Of course Brom pressed for more. At the very least codswallop would help lighten his mood. "...He said Riders could feel their dragons' emotions as if they were their own. Almost like they shared one soul."

Brom froze. Eragon did too, eying him like a mouse beneath the falcon's stare. He clamped down hard on his pipe from falling out his mouth.

Impossible. The she-dragon, the last known of her kind, was safely accounted for. The eggs still in Galbatorix's possession were both male. Brom did not know what had become of all the other eggs, both those held by the Order and those brooded by wild mothers, but at the end of the Fall there had been but three left. Rebels and Imperials alike had scoured the caves and corpses for more. They had found none.

And yet no mere storyteller had ever divined the true depth of the bond. Those who had not bonded to a dragon could never hope to understand.

Brom searched Eragon for the telltale signs. The boy had grown since he had last had a good at him. His tunic was short at the hem, tight around new muscle on arms and broadening shoulders. There was no trace of a point to his ears or sharpness to his features. But, if he was just truly beginning to comprehend the true extent of his bond, then the link must have been young yet.

"No," he said flatly. "The stories say no such thing." For the Order had guarded their secrets closely. Their great strength was in turn their greatest weakness. "Is that all, boy? Would you care for more? Aerial battle tactics, perhaps?"

Eragon snorted. "No, that's all. Thank you for your time."

Brom rose to see the boy off. With a well-practiced fumble he dropped his tea cup as he stood. How shaky old men could be.

Eragon deftly caught the cup with both hands. He had made no effort to conceal them. As he stooped for the cup Brom caught a clear glimpse of both palms, one slightly pinker than the other, and both devoid of silver.

Brom hid his confused exasperation behind a smile. Thanking Eragon, he escorted to the door and saw him off.

Huffing a dark cloud of smoke over his head, he watched the boy hasten west, and wondered.

A chill prickled him. It came not from the winter wind nipping at his nose, but from the hearth roaring at his back. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the strange shadow towering over his stacks of books. Brom whirled around, reaching for the gnarled staff resting by the threshold and saw...

Nothing. He saw nothing. Only an empty room.

Scowling, Brom dared slip out behind his formidable mental shields to feel his immediate vicinity. He sensed none but himself. However fallible the human senses, his well-honed mind could detect even the glaring holes of magicians trying to disguise their presence. Perhaps his paranoia was playing tricks on him.

Next he turned his passive frown upon the boy's back. Perhaps Eragon was not a true Rider, wild dragons had once roosted in the Spine. He could have stumbled across an orphaned egg, raising the hatchling just as his namesake once had Bid'Daum. Dare he reach out to confirm?

Then he remembered the boy's mother. Selena, so tortured by her casual cruelties when she had been in Morzan's thrall, how easily she had violated the minds of others to know their every weakness. Brom could not inflict such indignity upon their own son, especially if it did disturb some fragile new bond with a young dragon.

With a heavy sigh Brom gave up and finally closed his door on Eragon. They had rattled each other enough for one day. Time and distance healed bruised egos like nothing else.

"Are you Miremel?"

The she-dragon considered this one than she had any others. Eragon's hopes rose... and came crashing down when she snorted a dismissive puff of smoke.

He sighed. "Of course you're not."

Perhaps he should start mashing them together into original names. Perhaps he should have pressed Brom for more masculine names to rework. She deserved a name to do her justice, one with the weight of his own namesake. Stroking the dragon's rich blue head, between stumps that one day promised to spring up into true horns, he recalled the last name. The one Brom had hesitated so long on.

"Saphira," he whispered aloud. In his lap the hatchling froze. With a giddy laugh he repeated it again. "Saphira!"

Rightness settled in his bones. He squared his shoulders and the dragon arched her neck in satisfaction. He had not named her and she had accepted his suggestions. It was as if they had always known her name but had only remembered when they had stumbled upon it by pure accident. Her name could be nothing else just like he could no longer imagine a life without her warmth in his lap and his heart.

"You are Saphira," Eragon declared. He grinned. "Nice to finally know your name."

Saphira sniffed at his antics. Her affront quickly melted into bliss when he scratched that one spot beneath her chin.

Arra had started her journey as a bright-eyed adventurer. She had been a rising hero. Now she worked for a narcissistic necromancer. As a nanny to his army of undead dragon babies. Without pay.

In the beginning she'd tried to convince Zorbak to turn his dracoliches into Lady Celestia's care. The priestess adored everything draconic and would have been a responsible guardian. Not that Arra could go ask Lady Celestia personally, for she was also the mage who had hurtled the same dragon egg the priestess had charged her with protecting into another dimension.

Zorbak had managed to wrangle the hatchlings under control. Somewhat. He had gleefully plundered a dragonlord's crypt for their Amulet. At least he hadn't been suicidal enough to try pilfering one from the dragonlord contingent in Moonridge. They would have descended on his little operation with fire and blood. Sure, the dracoliches still chewed things up and rampaged, but now he could point their madness in a specific direction.

Arra fought to keep her eyes open as her employer rambled on about his plot to conquer Amityville, the first conquest of many in his grand campaign. Because his master plans to recruit those witches and the Vampire Queen herself to his cause had ended so well. Between chasing after the dracoliches and fighting off whatever new evil Zorbak got them tangled with, she had so little time so sleep.

Still, some lingering sense of sanity made her tiredly point out the obvious. "Are you sure this is a good idea? Because the babies couldn't get you that hideout you wanted without trashing it." That same haunted mansion was on the edge of Amityville. She had single-handedly fought off the phantoms and possessed furniture only for the dracoliches to charge in and ransack it.

Zorbak paused in his self-adulation to glower firmly at her. "Well, I can't exactly use my other army, now can I?"

"They started it," she muttered.

The innate magic of the dracoliches had clashed with the Dark spells Zorbak used to command his normal undead hordes. They had attempted to eliminate the strange magic interfering with their animation so Arra had eliminated them first.

Arra tuned him out. All she need to know was his scheme would inevitably backfire and she'd need to fight their way out of it. Instead she turned a watchful eye to the dracoliches. Sparky had a tendency for electrocuting living things so she had to keep an eye on him. Fireball liked setting himself on fire. Scraps and Bojangles liked picking fights with each other. And so on.

Zorbak berated her for naming them all. He claimed the dracoliches only heeded him, their true master, and couldn't understand her names because they weren't in draconic. Even Arra admitted to herself her names just helped her tell the dracoliches apart.

There was an exception to the rule.

"Draco," she quietly called.

A pale gray head popped up from among the throng of dracoliches. He fluttered his ragged wings to flit above the chaos and landed in her lap. A pleasant coldness radiated from his body. He chittered in delight when she tickled that leathery piece of skin still clinging to his chin.

Zorbak sneered draco was just the draconic word for dragon, the equivalent of calling a dog Dog or a cat Ms. Kitty. Arra had picked it up from the dragonlords that stopped by the inn for supper, but only one of the dracoliches responded to the name. He wasn't just one of the babies; he was her baby.

Chapter Text

Two hunched figures stalked through a dark wood while two ragged shadows circled overhead. Weeks ago their movements had been slow and methodical. Now they had grown listless, prone to hissing and screeching at each other at ever louder volumes. Once they had thoroughly interrogated every trapper and traveler they came across. Now they devoured them and left not even the bones behind.

One of the skeletal fliers veered southwest, where Palancar Valley and its settlements extended out below. Its partner joined it until both fell away from the valley's edge, chattering in agitation. Their current orders prevented them from straying any close to civilization. The taller of the hooded figures raised its monstrous beak to the air.

He purposefully floated ahead of them, calling up every bit of dark and draconic energy in his spirit to lure them in the direction of Therinsford. They ignored his presence. Once they had chased his trail all over these mountains before realizing he was nothing more than a wisp. Their master urged them onward. The smaller of the pair steadfastly trained its beady gaze on Carvahall.

"Avatars damn it!"

The Ra'zac might have slipped under the cover of dark, but he was born of it like those of their ilk never could be. Spectral fingers rose to touch the solid warmth hanging near where his heart had once beat. Magic surged through his spirit before the night wind shifted to his will.

Rephaim spread his wings and flew.

He was not alone. He was never alone. Between his legs he felt the thrust of Saphira's every wing beat. He laughed at her joyous roar as a fresh gale caught her wings and carried them heavenward. Their souls sang as one.

They rose high and higher until Alagaesia unfurled beneath them in an intricate masterpiece no cartographer could ever hope to match. Pale streams of magic drifted across its surface, pooling above Du Weldenvarden's verdant treetops and the Beor Mountains' towering peaks, but never ceasing in their flow. It was this realm's lifesblood.

There was a wound in the world, dark and gaping. It swallowed up the pale, screaming wisps of magic and grew ever larger. From the rift spewed forth sentient shadows and skeletal horrors. Like locusts they fell upon the land and devoured all that was green and living. Behind them the hole in the world swelled, consuming all the horrors it had birthed in its relentless path.

Saphira keened in horror but could not flee for there was nowhere left to run.

He gazed down into hell and hell gazed back as two flaming pits of hellfire. At last the abomination, a colossus shaped like a dragon of seething shadow, emerged from its void.

Saphira screamed as she died. He screamed with her, but for him death's embrace did not come even as his she-dragon withered beneath him. Alone and forsaken, he and her skeletal corpse plummeted into the void. The beast below opened its maw to welcome them into oblivion.

Brom blearily awoke from darkness and mortal terror. As a Dragon Rider he had not truly slept, his mind instead flitting between ephemeral visions. Some of the bond had decayed with his dragon. His slumber was no longer light and airy, but dragged him deep into drowning dreams. Even by his standards this nightmare had been especially vivid.

Upon his hand Aren burned hot and urgent. Its vast stores helped feed wards he had etched into Palancar Valley's perimeters. They warned the Ra'zac had at last breached the barriers.

Of course their arrival was not unexpected. It had been inevitable since Arya Svit-Kona had managed to fling their prize so far away from them. When those wards had tripped Brom had immediately rushed to the site of the object's arrival. He had sent it on its way and did his damnedest to erase the sign's of its explosive presence. By now the forest would have swallowed the remnants.

Under normal circumstances Brom would have been vigilant but not alarmed, keeping a wary eye on the Ra'zac until they left Palancar Valley behind. His post was that of a watchman. Only under extreme duress was he supposed to involve himself in Imperial affairs. The wild goose chase suited the Varden's interest. Some of the King's fiercest servants were running themselves ragged for an egg that had never been there in the first place.

But just the day before Brom had discovered the possible existence of a new Dragon Rider, his own son. Whatever Eragon had fallen into, there was a possibility the Ra'zac would not stumble across a mere egg, but a fledgling dragon.

Brom moved to rise from bed but froze as something on his chest shifted with him. Aren's burning agency had distracted him.

Snagging the object by its chain, Brom rose and held it before him. Dangling from the gold was a deep red stone that glowed with a radiance of its own, further embellished by the golden dragon that cradled the stone in its folded wings. He tentatively reached a mental finger out to the energy stored within, quickly drawing back behind his shields when the amulet's heat flared in warning.

Someone was watching him in the dark.

Throwing Aren's power behind him, Brom lashed out mentally as he barked out every spell that might force a cloaked magician to reveal themselves. No matter how this mysterious shadow had slipped past his wards and his own superhuman senses, he was alone with their gift was once more. Regardless of what the chill down his neck insisted.

Eragon!

Remembering himself, Brom dressed and threw on a thick cloak against winter's chill. He always kept a pack reserved for emergency situations, such as an unexpected order or rescue mission. Bundling the gods damned amulet in to he slung it over his back. Without a second thought he buckled Zar'roc to his side. The only fools out this hour on a night this cold were the drunkards.

Taking up his staff, Brom kicked his door open and raced into the night with speed that belied both his age and apparent humanity.

Eragon's eyes snapped open. He threw himself out of bed, fists clenched and fighting mad. Scanning his surroundings for his foe, it took him a moment to realize he was alone in his room, his uncle's snores rumbling down the hall. Then he realized the fury and desperation raging through his mind were not his own. And its source was fast approaching.

"Saphira," he whispered in horror.

Absently grabbing his bow and quiver, he flung his door open and charged into the night clad in only breeches. The elements no longer troubled him as he did. Despite the clouds shrouding the moon overhead, Eragon nocked an arrow and aimed into the dark. His eyes, sharper by the day, picked up the figure rushing out the dark Saphira had so viciously honed in. It was fast approaching.

Hang back! he thought furiously, channeling of his willpower into the effort. Wait!

Saphira's own soul screamed rage and defiance. He bore the brunt of it unflinchingly, for the mere thought of a world where she died before his very eyes was one more terrible than anything she could inflict upon him.

At the last possible minute she pulled out of her dive. In the low-hanging clouds she circled overhead, a hairsbreadth away from raining down all the fire and fury in her little body.

The figure in the night gradually resolved, staff and all. Eragon's grip on his shot slackened.

"Brom?" he gaped. "What in the seven hells-"

"What in the blazes are you wearing, boy?" Brom said sternly, sounding exactly like a grandfather that had caught his fool grandchild running around naked. "You'll catch your death on a night like this!"

In some regard Brom looked as he always did, down the long beard and gnarled staff. Yet he was a storyteller no longer. The easy slouch had gone from his readied stance. From his hip hung a sword in a wine-red sheathe. Eragon did not doubt his ability to wield it. Always his face had radiated gentleness or good-natured grouchiness. Now his blue eyes were hard. With his curved nose he resembled a hawk as he stared Eragon down.

Sweat beading on his neck, Eragon did his best to glare back. Brom was the trespasser here! He drew his arm back on his shot. "Why are you here?"

Blue eyes flicked purposefully upward. Eragon's heart dropped his stomach. "We're not alone tonight, are we?"

Eragon flinched back when a touch, foreign and familiar, ever so lightly brushed their shared soul. For a heartbeat Saphira recoiled in shock and terror. Then the sheer force of her outrage nearly brought him to his knees.

OUT OUT OUT!

Pressing a hand to his throbbing tempers, Eragon was grimly pleased to see Brom looked just as winded as he.

For a moment he feared Saphira swooping down from the sky to end it all. His fondness for Brom held her back. Before the man burned alive they at least deserved from answers.

"Such fire for one so young," Brom rasped. Dropping his staff to the earth, he slowly raised his hands in surrender. "Please pass on my sincerest apologies, Eragon. I had only hoped to her at ease. You are a lucky soul to have a companion so protective of you."

Eragon did relay Brom's apology. Saphira's response was a disdainful sniff.

The boy squinted at the old man he had always mistaken for a harmless storyteller. In his tales Brom had always been dismissive of Galbatorix and his Empire, sometimes a toenail from treason without truly crossing the line. One part of Eragon coldly reasoned Brom was an Imperial plant, purposefully trying to stir up feelings of sedition so the king finally had solid charges to bring down upon them.

The other insisted the exact opposite. It was the one Eragon leaned toward. "You're a rebel then?" Because who else would he be with?

"Aye," the old man admitted gruffly. "I'm just supposed to be a set of eyes and ears for such a remote corner of the Empire. And then some fool boy cane to me and all but admitted he was a young Dragon Rider severely lacking in basic dragon knowledge."

Eragon held back his wince. It wasn't as if Brom's information on actual dragons had been all that accurate to start with. "And you decided the best way to recruit us to your cause was by charging to my farm head-on in the middle of the night?"

Brom heaved a weary sigh. "No, Eragon. I've come to ensure you two escape here with your very lives. The king's servants are coming. They are on their way to Carvahall as we speak. Perhaps an egg might be hidden away but you cannot conceal a dragon with them so close by. They will have you and your dragon in chains, or else you will die in the attempt."

For one reckless moment Eragon thought to declare a final stand. Then he bit his tongue. Even his accelerated healing and durability did not make him invulnerable. Risking his life was risking Saphira's. Uncle Garrow and Roran were both oblivious to the danger he had raised beneath their noses. They were ignorant of his choices and did not deserve to suffer them.

Saphira was confident in her might. He was not. For all her fire she was still one arrow or one hard punch away from death.

"Uncle Garrow doesn't know about her," he whispered hoarsely. "Neither does Roran."

"It's easier, that way," Brom said neutrally. "I might smuggle you and your dragon away with none being the wiser, but the more that must come the harder our trail is to hide. If they know nothing than they have nothing to give the king, whether willingly or by force. They might live their lives in peace."

Eragon bitterly conceded the point. Gods, Uncle Garrow might not even be surprised by him suddenly vanishing in the middle of the night. He had already spent long hunting trips in the Spine even before he had discovered Saphira's egg, and the rift between him and his family had only widened since. Twice before his mother had vanished into the night like a ghost, the second never to return. It was already in his blood.

His shoulders squared. "Do I have time to gather my things?"

"Be quick about it," Brom grunted. "Meet me at the edge of the wood."

Eragon ran for home, Saphira keeping pace in the clouds above. When he entered the cottage she dove in after him. She refused to abandon him. He was loathe to let her out of his sight, even if it came at the risk of discovery.

Firstly he dressed, pulling on his boots and tunic. Though the elements no longer bothered him as they once had he was not about to risk his health when he was the only being Saphira could depend upon. Frantically he shoved spares into his pack. Within it went only the essentials, dried foods and his water skin and sleeping mat. His bow and quiver were slung over his back, his knife strapped to his belt.

Garrow snored blissfully on. Eragon winced. For a moment he considered waking his uncle and revealing everything. Then he smothered the thought deep down inside. His uncle was a stubborn man, one who might insist on joining him or fighting their hunters or otherwise making himself a target. He might also suggest Saphira was the root of the problem, that her magic died with her and Eragon might then be free of the sword hanging over his head. Better he be left in ignorance.

Eragon's eyes passed over his shelf of keepsakes and abandoned the notion of taking one with him. They were all dead weight. An untouched shelf would be message enough to his family, that he left with only the essentials and nothing of them. Let him become a ghost like his mother, best never spoken of and left to be forgotten.

Saphira nipped forcefully at his hand. Snapped from his stupor, Eragon fled from his home with a dragon flapping at his side, and vanished into the night.

While Eragon charged away Brom padded toward the edge of the wood. Once more he discretely opened his mind toward the dragon in hopes of calming her concerns and revealing more of himself and her kind, but her blazing presence diligently followed her Rider's.

Brom marveled at how brightly her spirit burned. Most fledgling dragons were but sparks. Even dragons new to their flame were hearth-fires in comparison to the infernos of their elders.

The longer he considered her soul, the more he realized it did not burn purely like fire. Perhaps it was more like the plasma that lanced through a thunderbolt.

Reaching the borders of the farm, Brom's expert eye searched for any sign of a dragon's presence. In the beginning he had searched in vain for survivors for the massacre, wild and bonded alike. Then he had helped track down the beasts of the errant Forsworn to finally put them and their masters out of their misery. The Ra'zac might not comb every strand of the Spine, but doubtless they would come to the farm after making their way through Carvahall. Best not leave any tell-tell traces that said one from this particular farm had harbored a growing dragon.

Brom's brows rose in pleasant surprise as he surveyed his surroundings. There were no great gouges from where a growing dragon had sharpened her horns and claws, no bark rubbed away by the itch of molting scales. There were no deer bones or heaping dung piles strewn about, no signs that any creature larger than a polecat called this forest home. Perhaps she had retreated deeper in the Spine as she'd grown and this was her first time so close to the farm since her days as a hatchling.

Brom did wish he did not have to drag the boy away from home in the dead of night, that his destiny had been so suddenly thrust upon his unsure shoulders. At the very least he would have appreciated a few days' preparation to ready a proper saddle. All novices needed one as they learned to balance on dragon-back and their dragons learned how to handle a passenger. With a she-dragon Eragon especially required one to keep his legs from getting ripped to shreds without heavy enchantment upon his breaches.

Brom's vision might not have been what it once was but he had no trouble spied the two figures approaching from the east. His beamed with pride at seeing Eragon already managing a pace and speed that would have left any fit young man winded after too long, even if his pace did not yet come close to the swiftness of a fully-realized Rider.

Then he spotted the little figure keeping pace at his son's side. She was a deep, rich blue. She pushed herself forward wing-beat after wing-beat. She was the size of a hatchling.

His face fell into a bewildered frown. Eragon smirked at the sight.

"What?" he laughed. "Not quite how the stories made her out to be?"

The little dragon landed beside Eragon, wings tucked neatly against her side. Dragons thrice her size couldn't carry themselves with such grace. Up close there was no doubting she didn't look a day out of the egg. Her face was blunt, lacking proper horns and spikes. But she wasn't gawky like a ravenous hatchling. Her hide was sleek from weeks of good eating. Brilliant blue eyes bore a hole in his soul. Brom reflexively thickened his mental barriers.

"I'm sure she'll grow into herself," Brom answered diplomatically. "Did she deem any of my numerous suggestions suitable for her name?"

"Oh, aye." Eragon's smirk grew into a true, beaming smile. "Brom, meet Saphira. Saphira, this is Brom."

Brom's heart ached. Unwittingly his mind carried him back to a day so very long ago, when he had gazed down at a very different hatchling, one the deep blue of a clear summer sky.

The Saphira before him now looked up and sneezed a fireball that was anything but an accident, unfortunately proving herself a dragon in truth and not just a deformed dog or other such creature.

Brom tapped down the sparks in his beard before they truly caught alight. "Well met," he said drily.

Chapter Text

"Be still, adorable little fiend, and prepare thyself for-"

"No!"

Artix von Krieger, who threw himself down haunted wells and charged single-handedly into undead armies, drew back from one half-trained mage. Arra did her best to look her idol in the eye without lowering her staff. Behind her stood Draco, her ice-breathing undead baby, and Arra would sooner fight an unstoppable paladin than step out of his way.

"Arra, he's an innocent soul shackled to a rotten shell and subject to a necromancer's every whim," Artix protested reasonably. "Exposing him to the divine, holy, retri... er, aura of light would save him from an existence of eternal torment."

Arra glanced flatly down at her dracolich, who appeared the exact opposite of eternally tormented. "You feeling up for an exorcism, Draco?"

Blue sparks of magic glittered up at her from black sockets. "Nah. I like it here with you. You're way better than that blue chew toy."

Arra smiled thinly up at Artix and tapped her Dragon Amulet, the very same one Zorbak had hurled at her in disgust when his attempted invasion of Amityvale had ultimately resulted in all of the dracoliches ditching him to be lovingly adopted by its townsfolk. By Doomwood standards rambunctious undead baby dragons were downright adorable. "You hear that, Artix? He likes it here just fine."

Artix lowered his sword doubtfully, but its holy glow die not die down. His gaze flicked to Amityvale. "Fine, yours is an exception. You have a Dragon Amulet to control it. But the rest of them aren't bound like that."

"They were never really bound to begin with," Arra pointed out. "Even with the Amulet and all his necromancer powers Zorbak couldn't stop them from running wild. They're baby dragons, even if they're a little more... vitally challenged than most. And they've found homes in a town where haunted houses and getting caught in werewolf-vampire wars are a fact of life. Are you really going to tell these fine people you've come to kill all of their innocent new pets?"

"'Pets?'" Draco repeated indignantly. "If anything, you're my pet, you furry excuse of a-"

The paladin inhaled deeply. "Alright," he said at last. "I guess there are bigger undead fish to purify. So long as I don't hear about a winged cloud of death descending on any innocent towns, I'll forget about Amityvale's... newest inhabitants."

Arra's spewing of thanks was passionate and sincere. Then she wasted no time in setting out for home. Moonridge was only a short walk through the wood. A journey she had once dreaded was now a pleasant jaunt to one that had spent weeks fighting off every threat that came for Zorbak and his horde of dracoliches.

She had a new addition to the family to show off, one that wouldn't need feeding or bathing or trips outside. And getting some pointers from the resident dragonlords couldn't hurt either.

Dawn was breaking when Brom finally allowed them to rest. Saphira, who had haughtily given up on flying hours ago, had instead coiled herself around Eragon's shoulders. At last she finally fluttered down from her perch. Eragon groaned in relief. Before her hatching keeping that pace over such a long distance would have broken him long ago. Even now he felt the trek through his throbbing shoulders and leaden limbs. Dropping his pack, he gratefully slid against a tree and waited for his body to repair itself.

Closing his eyes, he sighed as a wave of relief washed over him in gentle waves of red. Even as a deeper part of him drained of energy new strength seeped into his muscles and cleansed the pain.

Brom swore. Eragon nonchalantly cracked an eye open to find the old man gaping at him.

"Did you do that on purpose, boy?"

Eragon shrugged. His healing had rapidly improved since Saphira's hatching. Just yesterday she had managed her very first flame. If her magic had grown beyond puffing smoke then why couldn't his healing magic evolved to a more rapid form?

"I was hurting and I wanted to feel better. Saphira wants to breathe fire and she does. It must be how magic works."

"No," Brom ground it. "It is not." Furiously he swept aside snow. Eragon and Saphira watched in curiosity as he vehemently threw kindling into arrangement. "Wild magic is unbound, fickle and unpredictable. Your magic must be bound, directed by clear intent and intonation of the ancient words. Brisingr!" From Brom's right hand exploded a burst of blue. The resulting fire burned hot and blue. "Without the spell guided by the right intent, I might have burned this forest down around us! I might have consumed myself to keep it alight!"

Eragon gazed down at his first blatant display of human magic. After the earth-shaking explosions that had preceded Saphira's entrance into the world and her hatching these flames seemed paltry in comparison.

"Maybe it's different for dragons," he allowed at last. "Do any of the tales say for certain about the Dragon Riders?"

Brom's jaw spasmed and his chest heaved with the force of his breaths. He scowled down at Eragon as his mind fought for the right words. Eragon's concerned gaze flicked to Saphira. She had grown bored with their conversation and now rooted through Brom's belongings with the same callous disregard she had for her partner's possessions.

"Saphira," he warned.

Brom's scowl at last directed itself to the she-dragon. He stormed over. "Away from there, you little-"

Saphira's claws at last ripped the top free. Brom's pipe clattered out. So did something else, gold and gleaming and...

The medallion blazed red and Saphira's entire form glowed with a light of its own. Instinctively Eragon reached out.

The Amulet flew into his waiting hand. It burned brighter, hot and blinding as the sun. Fire seared through his veins. Then banked as rightness settled in his bones.

When the glow faded Eragon was still holding the Amulet, its gold chain dangling from it and reflecting the early morning light. Mesmerized, Saphira's eyes tracked the chain as it swung back and forth. Then she looked him in the eye.

"It's pretty," she announced decisively. "We're keeping it."

"S-Saphira!?" he spluttered. "Y-You..."

She blinked up at him, equally amazed. "You... You finally learned how to speak proper draconic, Eragon! Good for you!" she said brightly. "I thought it was going to take eons to have a proper conversation with you." Her stare fixated on Brom, stunned and bewildered. Smoke bellowed from her maw as she spread her wings an aggressive stance. "We're probably going to have to fight him for it. Even a crazy old man wouldn't willingly give up something this shiny!"

"No," Eragon cut off immediately. "We're not fighting him for anything."

Saphira sullenly turned to gaze up at him with the same forlorn look when he purposefully withheld a treat. "But-"

"No."

"Boy," Brom said slowly. "Are you speaking with her?"

His gaze slid warily to the older man. "Aye."

"Because you sounded like a man possessed a moment ago. You two rumbled and growled at each other like everything made perfect sense." Brom nodded to himself at Eragon's bewildered expression. "I take it this your first time being able to understand her like that?"

Eragon's flicked down to the unquestionable source of his sudden new power. "It's the Amulet," he declared. "Is it some relic of the Dragon Riders?"

Brom smiled wanly. "I can assure you this thing can be anything but an artifact of the Order. I stumbled upon it not very long ago." His unreadable gaze drifted from the Amulet to Saphira. She stared unblinkingly back. "Keep it, I suppose. It's of far more use to you than it is to me."

Saphira did not speak their human tongue, but Eragon's newfound understanding of hers allowed her to pick up Brom's intentions through their bond. She haughtily folded her wings. "Of course it's wasted on him. You're the only human worth talking to, Eragon, because you're the only one that's mine."

"Yours!" Eragon yelped indignantly. "Who raised who again?"

Blue eyes appraised him critically. "I hunt for you. My fire keeps you warm. Sure, you heal better than you used to, but you still get broken so easily. And you like to take your flammable sticks and rush into danger. Do you know how exhausting it is to keep track of you? If you weren't mine I would've given up on you right out of the egg!"

Eragon opened his mouth to protest. He shut it when he realized arguing with a weeks' old dragon was not the way to prove his superior maturity. Recalling their situation, he turned to Brom the address a more pressing issue than Saphira's sudden ability to backtalk. "We left Carvahall behind. Where do we go from here?"

Brom stroked his silver beard. His blue eyes studied them long and hard. His silence dragged on.

Finally, he said, "To the elves, in time. It is our closest haven."

Eragon's brow furrowed. "'In time?' Are we not hunted by the king's men?"

Brom darkly intoned they were hunted by creatures that consumed men. When mankind had fled their homeland from across the sea to Alagaesia's shores the Ra'zac had followed like a plague in their wake. As juveniles they feasted exclusively on human beings. Their carapaces were roughly human-shaped, allowing them to ambush their prey in the dark and stun them with their noxious breath. When they grew large enough they shed their shells to become mature Lethrblaka, far more ruthless and capable of paralyzing even dragons were their ear-splitting shrieks.

The Ra'zac were the king's personal dragon hunters, sent out of their lair only to trace down any rumor of surviving eggs or dragons. Their minds naturally shielded from magic and able to match a Rider in speed and strength, they were a formidable threat for even a fully-realized Rider.

Saphira huffed. "Hah. I can take them. All at once."

Eragon steadfastly ignored her cockiness. "Then why delay?"

"The Ra'zac are chasing down other rumors, not you and your dragon specifically. So long as we avoid their trail they have no reason to believe you even exist. We have time yet. Time to begin your training, for you and Saphira to more grow into yourselves." Brom met his gaze levelly. "Eragon, the rebellion has long dreamed of a power that can counter the king's. The moment they lay eyes upon Saphira you shall be both swept away in the fervor. They were forge you, make you into the agents of fate they need you to be."

Saphira snarled, her defiance rising with his and swiftly giving way to rage. "Break me, will they? Then they shall tremble beneath my shadow, and bur-"

Eragon deftly scratched that one spot beneath her chin. The little dragon went boneless. He scooped her into his lap. "In the seven hells they will," he muttered.

Brom smiled fondly. "As someone who witnessed your childhood, I do not doubt your conviction." His mirth faded. "But the less sure you are of yourselves and your abilities, the more urgently they shall need to train you. I hold some standing among the elves, but they shall not defer to me upon the matter."

Eragon glanced down at Saphira. There was no doubt they needed proper knowledge of their abilities. The elves were likely some of the folk alive who remembered the time of dragons and Riders. The rebellion was their only real option. Either Galbatorix claimed them or they killed him first. He knew that bone-deep certainty.

"Can you at least train me in the basics?" he asked at last. His gaze flicked to the wine-red sheathe at Brom's side. "Not just the magic and the lore, but how to properly defend myself?"

"When I finish you two will be damn well competent. And then it's off to the elves." Brom extended an earnest hand.

"Well?" Eragon prompted his dragon. He paid close attention his voice, now aware of how deep draconic rumbled in his chest. "Are you up to it?"

Saphira blinked drowsily up at him. "If they teach you how to defend your own sorry butt I don't see why not."

"Aye," Eragon agreed, his tone returning to normal. He clasped hands with Brom and sealed their bargain. Then he looked purposefully down at the dragon that had grown in power and ego and everything except size. "Speaking of growing into ourselves, how long do you need?"

She yawned and closed her eyes. "I don't know. Several centuries or so? I'm in no rush."

His eye twitched.

He knew what he was. He knew what he was not.

The Darkness of his master's fortress was heavy and suffocating, even if he no longer had lungs to care about. Paradoxically those same shadows gave him strength, his ties and shackles to this mockery of existence.

Shrouded in shadows, he had been resolved to not hatch at all or else to come into the world so gloriously the festering corruption all around him would be burned away, leaving not even ashes behind to fall to earth.

But the present reality of his egg's location had been insignificance as the distance between him and her. Destiny urged them onward. When she had prepared to come into the world, he had hatched first, ready from the very beginning to counter her every action.

His first sight of this world was the dark and twisted hell shaped like armor a human had grafted onto his body in exchange for power. He had gazed up, past the embodiment of torture, and beheld the soul within. The man's inner Darkness was made all the blacker by the fragments of Light flicking in their depths. This was a man who had given all he had, and then all he could take, for the defense of those he loved beyond all else.

For such sacrifice he had bared his soul, not his wrath, to the fallen hero now known only as Sepulchure. In return he had been stripped of all that he was and what he had been destined to become. The Amulet's influence and the magic woven into his very bones left him no more than the agent of another's will.

Yet, in the flying fortress's very heart, the Darkness was not so smothering. It did not hang thick and heavy in the air but was woven back into the walls, a cocoon that held back greater evils and sheltered the nursery within. Through the dense fog of protections he had sensed the one spark of innocence for leagues around, the one untainted life that had stayed his wrath upon hatching.

Tiny hands grabbed at his neck and pulled him into an embrace that could have choked a living recipient.

"Fwuffy!"

It was not a name befitting for his stature, but it was his name nonetheless. It had been granted to him by the blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked little girl that now contently perched in the lap of a monster whose very name struck terror into the hearts of thousands.

Beneath his helm, Sepulchure smiled in contentment as his daughter excitedly babbled on about the same dracolich she squeezed tightly against her chest.

Fluffy chittered fondly and relaxed in her hold.

A world away, his shadow drifted off in the lap of the one she called her own.

For now, there was peace.

Chapter Text

In the grand scheme of the king's court Janna was but a mere serving maid. Her job was to simply get plates and tankards on the table. While those around her played a game of alliances and backstabbing, her job was to simply keep their stomachs full while dodging groping hands and attracting as little attention as possible.

Yet while the courtiers all whispered and speculated about the nature of the king's private dinner with Murtagh Morzansson, Janna had the responsibility of shuttling plates to and from the royal chambers. Unlike the grandiose dishes Galbatorix used to awe his lords and ladies during grand feasts, the plates brought up for his private dinner were simpler, if still containing ingredients Janna could never hope to afford.

Galbatorix had eschewed the iron crown and grand robes he wore when presiding over court for simpler garbs of silk and ermine. Beneath the royal raiment his face was plain and unassuming, one that could belong beneath any foot soldier's helm or behind any vendor's stall. Yet, for as long as Janna could remember, the king's face had never aged. It was said he had ruled for a hundred years without gaining one wrinkle or gray hair in his jet-black beard.

Despite his unremarkable features, his eyes were black and deep as a starless night. Janna took great care to not catch his gaze when she leaned over to pour a fresh cup of chilled water into his goblet. Where his courtiers gladly slaked themselves on barrels of wine and caskets of ale, the king himself called only for waters or simple teas.

"Thank you," Murtagh Morzansson murmured as she offered him a fine red from Aroughs. Janna acknowledged it was a simple tip of her head.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. It was the eve of his eighteenth birthday, perhaps his first and only night as a man fully grown. Murtagh Morzansson had grown up in court. He knew how to disguise his obvious tells. Janna still sighted the telltale tenseness of his shoulders and tightness to his smile. They were the signs of a courtier who knew they were one twitch from provoking the king's ire.

Yet Galbatorix was in rare form tonight. His face was benevolent and voice sincere.

"Murtagh, your father was the first and greatest of my Forsworn. We risked everything to overthrow the Order's tyranny. Even as our comrades were cut down all around us, Morzan remained my brother in arms and did his best to keep the Empire we helped build together safe. He gave his life to protect it. It was not only my duty as your king, but as his brother in arms, to see you safely raised up into adulthood."

The king's silver tongue gradually eased the suspicion from Morzansson's stance. Enthralled, he was captivated by the same stirring visionary that had rallied humans and Urgals alike against an Order of Dragon Riders that had once ruled over them like living gods, immortal and seemingly invincible.

Superficially, Janna was relieved at her king's good mood. She moved to serve him and his guest briskly, surface thoughts first and foremost on clearing away old plates and keeping their goblets full.

Deep within, beyond the simple thoughts and fears of a serving maid, the magician known as Tamara sharply listened to every word. By the time the king had said his piece, Murtagh Morzansson's pledge of friendship and allegiance was genuine.

While Janna and her body were preoccupied with running dishes back down winding staircases to the kitchens far below, Tamara furiously speculated about Galbatorix's true patience.

Morzan had been the most feared and revered of the thirteen Forsworn, the last to be killed and so the one who lingered on most in Imperial memory. Where Galbatorix rarely left Urubaen and kept Shruikan sealed away beneath its floors Morzan and his blood-red beast had patrolled the Empire for spies and rebels, striking fear into their hearts while granting their citizens peace of mind.

If Morzan was like his infamous blade, bright and burning, then Selena had been the dagger in the dark. Few in the private circles of court and espionage had dared breathe out her name for fear of calling the Black Hand down upon them. If Morzan had burned out a spy, they were rewarded with the mercy of a quick death. Selena had liked to toy with her prey.

So many like Tamara had kept a sharp eye on Morzansson over the years, waiting to see if he would grow up into a useful asset or else a threat to be cut down. Yet, despite his training as a swordsman and in the same mental arts afforded to all nobles exposed to the intricate plots of court, Murtagh had never shown a spark of his parents' potential.

Tamara had suspected the private dinner to be a ploy to finally get rid of the boy. Oh, how terrible of the Varden to once more try to kill their king, and only succeed in poisoning the promising son of the last Forsworn.

Yet survive Morzansson had. Perhaps Galbatorix had a grander plan for disposing of him.

Unless the king thought Morzansson had a part yet to play.

The eggs! Tamara realized while she absently dropped her load off at the kitchens for the girls and boys beneath her to scrub clean. Perhaps Morzansson might take after his sire yet.

Tamara, or rather Janna, had witnessed many of the grand dinners Galbatorix hosted for his most promising initiates. Publicly the king liked to imply he had a trove of dragon eggs in his possession, and at times even dropped hints of fledgling apprentices waiting in the wings. Yet Tamara knew the king had but two male eggs left to him and both had rejected the countless candidates thrown at them. The most promising of those were drafted into the Black Hand, the less so until Imperial forces elsewhere. The dredges had a tendency to disappear.

Yet none of those unfortunate souls had been the child of a Rider themselves. Perhaps the unborn dragon might prefer a Rider that already had the magic in their blood, however muted.

Galbatorix had last attempted to hatch his eggs a year prior. Perhaps his latest failure to reacquire his third egg had finally galled him to take his out of hiding once more.

Janna hastened through the last of her cleaning duties. At last she left the kitchens behind and headed through winding halls with a speed all would blame on a maid eager to be done for the night. The service entrances to Urubaen's towering fortress were not so grand and guarded as its main gate. The halls were dark and narrow, lit only by dim and distant torches. Yet her pace did not slow. Like any servant worth her salt Janna knew the corridors by heart.

Her superiors had to know immediately. Perhaps if they moved quickly they could recover at least one of the eggs.

Tamara had never forgotten her one chance before the first and last egg held by the Varden. Its shell had been a deep violet, like some massive amethyst of the dwarves and yet infinitely more valuable. That dragon had rejected her as it had all others. Perhaps one she rescued personally would deign her worthy.

She briefly considered the possibility of an egg hatching for Morzansson. At least it would allow the opportunity to assassinate one more Forsworn and his dragon before they ever grew into a threat. An egg was boundless potential none could waste destroying. An egg that hatched for one firmly in Imperial hands was a lost cau-

Janna was alone in the corridor, surrounded only by shadows. She knew she was alone.

An armored hand erupted out of the darkness. It caught her by the throat and lifted her like a rag doll.

Janna cowered like a serving maid should, but the grip on her throat was iron. The titan looming out of the night wasn't fooled.

Snarling, Tamara shredded through so many mental layers of disguise like tissue paper as she brought her full power to bare. She lunged out from behind her barricades to pounce...

And screamed as the night rushed in.

Violet blazed and iron fingers tightened.

Snap.

Despite the night outside in his study the shadows should have been kept at bay by the fire burning merrily in his hearth and the candles upon his desk. Yet the dark stalked closer, swallowing the candle flames one by one. Behind him the fire guttered low and red as the smothering shadows bore down.

He bit back a spell. His eyesight had long since been strengthened against the dark.

He was alone, his door warded and watched by royal guards and capable spell casters.

Something dark and heavy was flung upon his desk, scattering candles and inkwells. Its neck was so badly crushed the sheer impact finally disconnected the head. It rolled into his lap. He absently recognized the corpse as some serving maid, face frozen forever in a horrified scream.

"NAL," rumbled the phantom in the dark. The shadows seething around its form finally coalesced into a colossus of hulking armor, a black so deep it shimmered violet.

Nal refrained from a weary sigh. "Kyrannos." Nal was the most senior of the Black Hand in Urubaen, answerable to none but his king. But the king kept closer confidants than his Black Hand.

"Look what slipped through your Hand's fingers, again," Kyrannos ground out. "You saw how he was tonight. Now I have to bring him this."

Nal was not a young man. Those who had survived as long as he had did not make it through on blind luck alone. He vividly remembered the king of his youth, the very same he had so avidly pledged his eternal service to. His... outbursts had been few and far between in that age. Galbatorix had ranted and raged behind private doors with only his closest servants privy to his extreme swings of emotion. Then he had emerged, frustrations vented, and ready to return to ruling with a stable head.

Then the last of his Forsworn had been picked off one by one. Finally had come the grievious loss of both Morzan and the last female dragon egg in the world.

Kyrannos had not been there for those first dark days after the theft, some older Shadow. Or so it was debated.

The Lethrblaka that served Galbatorix had done so since the Fall, only brooding offspring in the more recent decades. Durza had been at the king's side even longer. At least the bothersome Shade was often sent far and wide on some mission or another. Galbatorix always kept a second favorite, one lacking an official title, but one always ready to come springing to his side to report treachery in his innermost ranks or brutally thwart an assassination attempt before the king had to raise his own hand.

If Durza was the king's Shade, his right hand of justice since Morzan's demise, then his left hand of death was the Shadow. Over the years they had gone by different names and appearances but there had been a Shadow since before Nal's time. Some claimed they were simply the king's favorite servant of the age before they proved treacherous or tiresome. There were fringe theories the Shadow was a creation of magic, like a hypothetical golem, or that the Shadow was in fact the true Galbatorix, ruling from the shadows whilst a figurehead sat upon his throne.

"The Varden grows more clever by the year," Nal allowed. "Though we passively observe all minds in the king's presence their spies have learned to conceal their true intentions behind a cover identity."

So how had Kyrannos seen through what otherwise took an active, full-force attack to reveal? How could such a hulking brute of a man come and go like a spirit?

Violet blazed through the eye holes of a featureless helm. "The king shall expect your magicians to personally answer for the next spy that lingers too nose long beneath his very nose."

"Of course," Nal vowed. "I will drag such an incompetent spell-caster before him myself." So you do not drag me. His gaze flicked dispassionately to the head upon his lap before he placed it beside its corpse. Kyrannos was more melodramatic than his stoic, silent predecessor. "Did you learn anything useful from her before she died?"

Kyrannos grunted. "Nothing that was not made utterly obsolete upon her demise. Doubtless her spy network have a spell placed all members to alert them of a death."

"Shall I dispose of the body?"

The Shadow's predatory stare fixated upon him. Sweat beaded on Nal's neck. He wondered if Kyrannos could hear the thudding of his heart. "You know how it pleases our king to have such traitors thrown to Shruikan."

Nal knew practically everything of Urubaen's daily happenings. He knew of the special herd of cattle on castle grounds deigned for the king's dragon alone to provide a steady supply of nourishment safe from tampering. Those responsible for herding the lowing beasts down into the dark were sometimes swallowed up themselves.

Nal knew not who was responsible for cleaning up the bones of Shruikan's kills and all else left behind. He had no true idea of the dragon's lair, for the deep heart of Galbatorix's fortress had been the king's personal project, with no living builders alive to share its depths to outsiders. Nal was not even sure how Galbatorix called the beast up from the dark or banished him back down in the depths, for such an entrance was a weak point that could be sealed or allow an assassin in to the dragon's lair.

"I know very well," he grit out.

He glanced down once more at the body. Behind the low fires in the hearth flared up though the extinguished candles did not reignite. He was not surprised to look himself and find himself alone with but a headless corpse for company.

Nal sighed. Then he spelled the gore clean from his robes and called for a servant to handle the mess.

Instinct and oath urged them onward. Whenever hunger or weariness slowed or distracted their attention their burning obligations drove them once more.

At last, the emptiness within had guided them true.

The smaller Ra'zac snapped and screeched in frustration, but the opening was too narrow even for its form to squeeze through. Inside the aura of their quarry hung hot and heavy, no matter how stale. Magic that did never truly faded.

Once more they scoured the surrounding woods, but shadow and spirit had washed the scent away. Only its strong presence in the cave had prevented it from being eradicated there too. They had scoured the nearby human village for a sign of the trail, but that too was a dead end.

The hunt beckoned them on.

When their master called again, the smaller Ra'zac considered the commands given and how to phrase their findings in that vague human tongue.

"Dragon," rasped the Ra'zac at last.

Not like those its parents had gorged themselves upon so many seasons ago. It was the other kind.

But their master knew them both.

Chapter Text

"Again!"

Despite the numerous bruises along his arms and impeding his breathing, Eragon staggered to his feet. He gritted his teeth and once more tried to muster up a wave of healing magic. Exhaustion swept over him as he stumbled to his knees.

Brom cast his own staff aside as he critically knelt beside him. "So you have your limits after all."

"Aye," Eragon forced out. When his body had first faltered in the spar he had called upon his reserves magic. Now they were depleted and his body once more pushed toward its breaking point.

His arms were too damn sore to lift his tunic over his head, but Brom still pulled it up to better inspect his injuries. "Magic is fickle, Eragon. Healing is especially so because there might be internal damage we do not necessarily know about. The better the idea you have before you heal the better you can gauge the energy needed. Now, waise heill."

The ache faded from his bones, but strength did not return to them. Eragon hid his displeased frown.

"Another way your magic is better," Saphira remarked from the sidelines. "Maybe you should find a better teacher."

Eragon didn't bother with a response. Instead he dragged his feet to her place by the fire and scooped her into his lap. Brom was a skilled swordsman. Every day he pushed Eragon past mortal limits, for by dawn the next morning he was ready to spring up and meet them again. At least he had something to show for their training efforts so far.

Behind the fire grazed two plain dun horses, Arvak and Alsvid, purchased from a quiet village outside of Palancar Valley. The geldings had finally grown used to Saphira's presence and she had finally stopped begging him for one as a snack. Mounts allowed them to put more ground between them and their hunters on a daily basis.

Eragon, used to only riding bareback on his uncle's slow and plodding draft horses, had needed some to time to adopt to a saddle and a smaller, swifter horse. He considered it good practice for if and when Saphira ever grew big enough to ride.

Brom quietly stooped by his pack before joining them. In his hands he held the one true blade between them.

"Here," the old man grunted as he reverently placed it in his lap. "Tell me what you think of it."

Eragon's eye first inspected the wine-red sheath and the strange black mark etched upon it. Upon its pommel was a ruby the size of a hen's egg. Wrapping one hand around the hilt of silver wire, he drew the sword. Its blade was blood-red, with that same sigil upon the steel itself.

"The mark," he said neutrally. "What does it mean?"

"It is a glyph that stands for Zar'roc," Brom intoned. "It means 'Misery.'" His blue eyes never left the blade. "This is a Rider's sword, forged for a unique wielder over a hundred years ago. Your skills have grown so rapidly you will be able to put it to good use."

"Good use," he echoed wanly. He ran finger along the sword's crimson edge, half-convinced it would be covered in blood when he pulled it away. "It's killed a lot of innocent people, hasn't it?"

"Aye," Brom answered bleakly. "That it has. I pried this from Morzan's very own hand."

Eragon snatched his hand away. His right still remain curled around the hilt. Even he knew Morzan's dread reputation. The last Forsworn had died some time not long before his birth.

"There is no weapon out there more suitable than a Rider's blade, for it is obvious to us both you were born to wield a sword." Brom's expression was unreadable when he turned to face him. "I'm sorry I don't have one less steeped in blood history to offer you. Rhunon, the elf who has forged practically every single such sword, still lives on in Du Weldenvarden but has sworn an unbreakable oath to never forge such a weapon of death again. Every blade forged was unique, matching the fighting style of each Rider and the exact shade of their dragon. The elves still jealously guard some, but they are beyond our reach for now."

Eragon glanced down to Saphira. Her blazing eyes scrutinized Zar'roc. His voice slipped into draconic's rumbling tones. "What do you think of it, Saphira?"

She sniffed disdainfully at it. "Eh. It'll do for now. But it doesn't really match us."

Eragon tried and failed to picture a weapon that matched them. Instead he envisioned the dragon Zar'roc had been forged with in mind. He envisioned a distorted version of Saphira, face thinner and lined in ivory spikes. Her scales were a deep crimson, her eyes red as rubies.

For a moment his own dragon's eyes flashed red. The wrongness of it chased the vision from his mind.

"No, Saphira," he ordered firmly. "I like you just the way you are. I have to learn how to live with Zar'roc for now, not the other way around."

Saphira nodded, eyes pleased. "Of course, Eragon. The world is ours to use as we please. And I'm comfortable like this."

Eragon sheathed Zar'roc and switched to the human tongue. "Thank you for your generosity, Brom. I don't think Zar'roc is meant for either of us in the long run, but I'll wield it well until I can return it to you."

Some invisible tension eased out of Brom's shoulders. "The swords the elves keep do not have such weighty histories to them. They were wielded by honorable Riders who gave their lives during the Fall to keep their people safe. Zar'roc will at least be good practice to make you worthy of such a gift."

Eragon smiled tersely back. Their conversation sputtered out as they dug into their dinners. He quietly helped Brom bed the horses down the night. He spread out his sleeping mat on the opposite side of the fire, Saphira trailing possessively at his heels. Brom took the hint and remained on his side. Eragon laid down, one hand scratching behind Saphira's horns and the other toying with his Amulet. For a while, Brom remained up smoking his pipe and staring into the flames, though occasionally his gaze strayed in their direction.

Only when the old man's eyes finally close did he tentatively poke at Saphira's mind. No matter how far away she flew their minds could communicate so long as the Amulet was on his person.

Saphira blew smoke into his voice. "Rude. I'm right here, so talk to me properly!"

"But Brom is-"

"Pretending to be asleep," she hissed. "And he doesn't understand us anyway."

"Saphira," he said slowly. "Do you think of me as your Rider?"

"No, not really." His stomach dropped at how easily her casual response came. "If anything, I'm more like your rider."

A hysterical snort escaped him. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Brom fighting to keep up his ruse. Saphira was still a size where at times it was easier to just let her ride in his lap or upon his shoulders. Alsvid didn't kick up a fuss over it anymore. "What would you call me, then?"

"Mine."

Such instant claim of ownership should have been insulting, but Eragon's smile was sincere. "And you'll always be my little bra-"

Her jaws clamped down on his hand. He bit back a curse.

"Cysero, how many times do I have you to keep your experiments on your... side..."

The irate glow in Warlic's eyes faded before Arra's sharp smile. She flicked a sock off her shoulder and crossed the thin, yellow line that divided the Blue Mage's elegant half of his tower from the one occupied by a roommate of dubious sanity. Draco shook a pair of unmentionables off his head and fluttered after her.

"Hello, Warlic," she said silkily. "We got your letter."

Warlic cleared his throat. "Er, yes. Although I would have expected you to have through the more... conventional entrance."

By which he meant the portal disguised as an elegant red pavilion in the Elemental Foothills. As if she was about to pay for the gryphon ride there or waste the time on foot when Ash had given her the message in Falconreach. From Cysero's shop it should have been a simple trip to Warlic's half of the tower due to spacial magicks Arra didn't want to think about too much. She had forgotten about the laundry golems.

He cautiously invited them for tea. Arra accepted so long as it didn't involve summoning any more eldritch abominations.

She set her new staff aside and settled down for a cup. Draco, without the need to eat or drink, happily accepted a pillow to rip to shreds in the mean time.

Warlic's expert eye glanced down at her weapon. "I see you have finally discovered your elemental affinity. I do not recognize its maker. Is it one of a kind?"

"I helped forge it myself," she said curtly.

She had scoured Amityvale's and Moonridge's shops in vain for a suitable Ice weapon. In a region where Light prevailed due to the overwhelming infestation of undead that was easier said than done. Falconreach's master smith, Yulgar, had offered to help her gain the skills necessary to make her own custom weapons. Arra hadn't had that sort of time.

How fortunate Yulgar's apprentice had nearly all of his skill without charging the same exorbitant rates for a custom weapon. He had even offered her a reduced rate for that time she saved his family and their mill from rampaging gorillaphants! Konnan had helped her design her Shivering Staff of Winter. She had hunted down the components herself and he had forged her a weapon that finally felt right in her hands. Arra had been able to watch the whole process. Konnan's thick, glistening arms was a sight almost more rewarding than her Shivering Staff.

"I believe I owe you an apology for my conduct in the... dragon egg incident," he said at last. Warlic raised a hand and waved to their enchanted, isolated surroundings. "Conducive as my environment is to my studies I am admittedly out of touch with people. Normal people, that is, who don't let their dirty laundry gain sentience and run wild in their half of the tower. I should have more fully explained the situation to you before leaving you to deal with the... doomkitten."

Draco spat a shred of fabric out of his mouth. "Has he actually found the egg yet? Because I called dibs on you first."

Warlic somberly conceded he had not yet divined the egg's location or if it even still survived. In addition to his apology, he delivered a request for her to investigate Lymcrest, suffering from both a plague of angry fire elementals and a literal river of fire.

How fortunate she had manifested with an ice affinity. Two months ago Arra would have immediately leaped at the offer. Now she sighed and leaned back in her chair.

"Why?" Warlic blinked and opened his mouth. She cut him off. "Seriously. You're the Blue Mage. I've heard your one of the strongest magicians in Lore. Why waste time summoning me, of all people, here when you could have gone and put out the flames yourself?"

"Because I have strong reason to believe Xan is involved, and you have just proven yourself more than capable of dealing with him." He wearily raised a hand to his temple. "...And also because my direct involvement will only make things worse for Lymcrest if it is."

Arra vividly recalled the firestorm that had descended upon Falconreach. Practically everything had been on fire at one point. But more so because its leader had been a ranting, laughing lunatic of a pyromancer. With a burning skull for a head. And who had been set off at the mere mention of Warlic's name.

"He believes you responsible for the whole..." Arra gestured vaguely down at Draco's own partially exposed skull.

"Yes," Warlic admitted softly. "It all goes back to when we were students at the magical academy in Swordhaven. We were always competitive... But when it came to the affections of Jaania, we were out of control. One day there was an... accident. Xan was on fire. All I could think to do was change the normal flames into a healing fire." His eyes drifted to Arra's icy blue staff. "For all his madness, and hatred, I was able to save him. But Jaania..."

Arra set down her teacup and stood. "Okay, Warlic. I get it. Thank you for being honest with me." She resolutely picked up her Shivering Staff of Winter. "Now, let's go and tell Xan to chill."

Draco groaned at the last statement, deliberately dropped in draconic. His shame in her put a new spring in her step.

If their goal was to avoid their hunters Eragon originally expected them to remain roaming the Spine. He was well acquainted to its rugged wilderness and knew how to disguise their trail.

Then Brom flatly told him the truth behind the Spine's dangerous nature came from the Urgals that had claimed its heartland as their territory and slaughtered any human hunters and trappers foolish enough to stumble upon their homes, for they were a people fiercely protective of their young and elderly. Before the Urgals had claimed the Spine's wild reaches wild dragons had roosted in its caves. He explained it was Saphira's instinct to seek shelter in them now, and it was the same pattern that would have the Ra'zac scouring the mountains for them.

So instead they had ridden east, leaving the obvious trap of the mountains behind for the relative safety of the lowlands. They stuck somewhat near to the Ninor River, avoiding the main roads. Saphira's eyes and their sharp senses allowed them to easily disguise themselves as simple travellers whenever someone passed by. Over their link Saphira grumbled from the clouds of clouds, trees, or his pack.

They tried to avoid settlements, but by the time they neared Yazuac they were running low on vital supplies.

"Horses need grass. Why buy them feed when they can just bend their heads and eat for free?"

Eragon refrained from a sigh as Yazuac just came into view on the horizon. "For the third time, Saphira, it's nearly winter. If we're riding them every day then they need more than what they can dig up from around us." He gave Alsvid a comforting pat. "We won't be gone long, I promise."

Her claws dug stubbornly into his tunic. "If you're not back on time I'm eating of your horses, and someone will have to walk."

With that reassurance she spread her wings and vanished into the skies. He stubbornly raised his shields against her sullen sulking. Good gods. Was this what raising a moody adolescent felt like? His guilt over abandoning Uncle Garrow grew.

"How big is Yazuac?" he asked suddenly, if only for a change of topic.

"Only two hundred people, but they see their fair share of travelers. A man and his nephew can pass through with no brows raised."

During their first encounter with people outside of Palancar Valley Eragon had blurted out Brom was his grandfather. The man had played along despite simmering beneath his genial facade. That same night he had sheared off his long silver beard to reveal iron gray beneath. With such a short beard he easily passed for one a generation younger, a man still easing out of his prime rather than one in solid old age.

The wind suddenly shifted, blowing in from Yazuac. Eragon inhaled for the food cooking on its fires. Instead he gagged on death and decay. Their horses snorted, eyes rolling and hooves prancing anxiously on the dirt road.

Brom swore and reined Arvak in. "Dammit, boy, just don't go-"

Eragon spurred Alsvid into a gallop. Brom bellowed his name and urged his own mount after him, but Eragon's had always been the faster horse.

Absently he fumbled for the bow and quiver banging against his back, but tightly gripped onto Alsvid's mane when he dangerously jerked to the left. He coulc scarcely ride at full speed, let alone like some knight out of the legends! Instead he gripped his gelding's mane and urged him onward.

At the first house he ground Alsvid to a halt and stumbled off. Stringing his bow, he charged down a street of ruined homes, their windows shattered and doors kicked in. Some were charred ruins, still smoldering.

In the town square rose a pile taller than its roofs. Thrown in a careless pile were men, women, and children. Most had been stripped of their clothes. At the top was a pudgy infant, not even a year old. Their sightless eyes stared accusingly down at him.

Eragon stumbled one step back, tripping over his own feet. He scrambled back, unable to rip his eyes away until a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned, a roar building in his throat as he groped for Zar'roc, but stilled at the sound of the familiar voice nattering on in his ear.

"-gon, Eragon, good gods boy look away!"

With a shuddering breath Eragon wrenched himself from Brom's grip. He fell onto his hands and knees, mercifully facing away from the massacre behind him, and vomited onto the grass.

For a lifetime he lay prone on the grass. He desperately reached out for something beyond all-consuming horror. He latched onto hot, smoldering rage. The air around him burned as Eragon forced himself to his feet.

"Who?" he choked out.

"Urgals," Brom remarked grimly. "I know their mark. But I do not know why. Usually they lash out at Surdan border towns, but here we are solidly in the Empire."

A harsh caw split the air. Eragon's head jerked back toward the slaughter. A black crow fluttered down. His blood ran cold as it landed upon the infant and-

Bow and quiver at his feet, Eragon threw out his hand. The temperature around them plummeted and he breathed out frost. An icy blow erupted from him. The crow's cry cut off as its frostbitten, frozen corpse tumbled down the pile.

He exhaled raggedly, the chill fleeing his veins and leaving only emptiness behind. "Do we bury them?" he asked hollowly.

Brom regarded him silently. Then he reached for him once more. "No," he murmured. "There are too many, and signs of this raid too fresh. We must ride for Daret, to find out what happened here, and so that their neighbors might give these folk their proper rites."

Eragon nodded and stiffly bent down for his bow and arrow. He kept them readied as he follow Brom down the main street.

Brom suddenly froze. Then he swore a foul oath in some alien tongue. Grabbing Eragon with an iron hold, he flung him down a narrow alley, eyes like steel.

"Stay down, boy, and stay quiet. I'll be back for you when it's over."

Eragon tried to muster his rage but it withered before Brom's glare. With murderous intent the man gripped his staff and stalked out of sight.

When he left the spell was broken. Eragon took one step in his direction. Then he remembered the horses abandoned at the opposite edge of town.

A monster barred his way. Its broad shoulders nearly brushed the narrow sides of the alley. Eragon craned his head up from bowed legs to peer up at the brute that towered above him. Its claws gripped a club and the tips of its long, twisted horns cleared the roofs. Dull yellow eyes regarded him.

The Urgal grunted something in its guttural tongue. From behind rumbled a response, bored and unimpressed. Eragon whirled to discover himself cornered.

His shaking hands dropped the bow. One Urgal barked a laugh. Through the red lining his vision Eragon instead fumbled for Zar'roc's hilt. Then he had a better idea.

His hands found the Dragon Amulet. Saphira screamed his name. Fire and fear and fury surged across their link.

He fearlessly stared up at his death. Then he raised his power and called theirs down.

The sides of the volcano buckled and oozed as the abomination dragged itself free, living magma driven by madness and malevolence.

They gaped at it from the safety of a distant cliff, an exhausted adventurer and her undead baby ice dragon and the Blue Mage.

"Xan," Warlic breathed in disbelief. "When he was knocked into the lava, the remaining magic of his Pyronomicon bound itself to it. He has become a lava beast, impossible to stop until he burns itself out. And Xan was made of healing fire. He may rampage forever."

Arra expectantly eyed the Blue Mage. He called himself that because he was bound to ice or water, right? She eased back to watch the colossal showdown, the sort of clash she could tell her great-great-grandchildren about if her ghost hung around to boast about her glory days.

Violet eyes fell upon her. "Lymcrest, Falconreach and every town around for miles is doomed... Unless... Yes, a dragonlord and her dragon might be able to stop Xan."

Arra's deadpan stare flicked down from her puny little dracolich, to her secondhand Dragon Amulet, and back to Warlic. Avatars, did he have a terrible sense of comedic timing. The silence dragged on.

"Are you ser-"

Draco flared his wings, icy sockets trained on the raging lava beast like it was one more moglin to maul. "Let's do this!"

Arra sighed. She opened her mouth to gently set him straight... And paused when a deep, dark part of her jeered at that cowardice. One hand hesitantly went up to her Amulet.

The power of winter howled through her, through him, until it seemed like girl and dracolich were one.

Spectral blue wings unfurled, the bones within stark and white, and Draco bellowed. The lava beast flinched back, fiery surface fizzling and steaming where the full force of an icy gale had bombarded it, before it reared up and rumbled its challenge.

Wrapping her arms around one massive vertebra, Arra snarled and urged him onward.

Sighting his quarry, Brom barked out a word of death and was not surprised in the slightest to see none fall. Of course these weren't mere marauders, but servants of a spell-caster enchanted against such an easy end.

He was not a Rider, and did not need Zar'roc to inflict misery upon his foes. His staff, well-warded, brained its first foe.

Then the sky erupted with light, a roar like thunder split the air, and the dance was ruined.

Brom squinted against the sudden radiance, and then he was swallowed by shadow. Man and Urgal alike gaped up what had manifested above their heads.

She soared past them with single-minded intent. She flared her wings and landed with an earth-shaking thud. Her landing leveled buildings. Her smoking jaws bore down. Yazuac's surviving structures disguised the carnage. They did not drown out bellows of pain and terror cut short.

The behemoth raised her head, blood a vivid red against sapphire scales and ivory fangs. She clutched one claw possessively to her chest. In an otherwise unbroken wall of sapphire something red and gold glinted against the scales above her head. Her burning blue eyes fell upon them.

Most Urgals wisely fled in terror. A foolish few charged. Brom was already sprinting even before he heard her draw air into lungs like bellows. He still scarcely cleared the inferno of swirling orange flame that reduced so many to charred corpses.

The titan's gaze swept over the devastation she had wrought. It silently snarled after the fleeing survivors. Then her baleful eye fell upon him.

Spell on his lips and grip tight around his staff, Brom watched the beast clear the distance between them with several earth-shaking steps. Her snarl softened as she gently lowered her claw. Eragon's unconscious form gently tumbled onto the grass. She sniffed him once and heaved a weary sigh of satisfaction.

Then her form shimmered and shattered like glass, two much smaller shadows falling in her woke.

Brom dove to catch Saphira's lifeless form. She lay limply in his arms, heart hammering and chest rising with rapid breaths, deceptively innocent and looking no different than she had that morning. Beside them the infernal Amulet slowed its descent as it neared Eragon. It landed gently upon his chest. Reflexively the boy rose up to snatch it with both hands, unconsciously turning onto his side and curling his body around it.

"Gods dammit," he swore aloud to Saphira's exhausted form. "Why couldn't you have just been a normal gods damned dragon?"

Slinging the dragon over his shoulder, he hauled his son into his arms for the first time since infancy. Brom shoved the thought from his mind. Striding purposefully through Yazuac, he did not pause to survey the carnage one dragon had wrought so quickly, but on finding their horses and riding as far away as possible before someone from Daret rode out to investigate what the hell had happened here.

Chapter Text

She drifted in oblivion, without beginning and without end, all that was and ever could be unfolding before her.

As always, He was beside and entwined with Her, Her bane and her brother. His essence twined through cosmos and chaos, weaving them together with strands of Dark and shadow instead of Light and life. She craved nothing more than to tear it all down.

In this form She was endless and infinite. And stagnant, only potential without realization. Her brother was bound, power made manifest, and He worked the will of another on a physical plane.

Bound. She was bound too now, a present reality rather than an amorphous future. Her anchor. Where was Her anchor? When was Her anchor?

She cast Her sense of self out far and wide, reaching beyond the endless thrum of elements for one that was both none and all at once. She sensed it, a wavelength of dissonance reverberating across space and time. They were vaguely right, but some righter than others, tainted in some way where She ignored them and moved on.

At last She felt the thread, pale and tenuous, and followed it onward. She discovered the nascent bond broken, another in Her rightful place.

He was a feeble little thing, cold and dead, and still he mustered up all the ice in his soul when she moved to press her claim.

Once She would have snuffed out all he was and ever would be without a second thought, but She had now known the passage of mortal time, and the warmth of another soul against Her own. She held herself back.

This one had almost been Hers, once, until that foul thing from a foul plain had tried to eat her. Now ice had taken root, grounding boundless potential to one elemental plain and purpose. She turned away and left the dead thing to his prize. She was no one's second, and She had staked her claim upon another.

Her human. Yes, She was tied to a human, reckless and brave. He was Hers. She was his.

How could She have overlooked him? His soul burned like a beacon across space and time, made all the brighter by the Dark looming in his (their) inevitable future. She knew him, and would forever know him, regardless of face and form. She knew their purpose in the war to come as She knew it was His to oppose Her at every turn.

She grasped him, Her Eragon,...

And Saphira opened her eyes. She coiled atop his chest, the Amulet warm between them, and watched him intently as he eased out of unconsciousness.

Good. He wasn't dead. With her pounding headache and the emptiness in her soul she really wasn't feeling up to ripping the veil of death asunder to fetch him back.

He furrowed his brow and tried to sink back to where he was before. He mumbled argumentatively, trying to remember what he had been so indignant about-

"Wake up, stone-head!"

Saphira's lovely wake-up call, right into his ear, drove the dream away. Eragon cracked his eyes open and peered blearily up at the two burning stars boring into his soul.

He groaned and turned his head away. Brom, sitting across the fire, strode up with a water skin in hand. As he neared Saphira hissed ominously, spreading her wings to make herself look bigger. Their mentor stopped, stony-faced. Eragon's plea withered in his parched throat. The extreme thirst still roiled across their link.

At last Saphira relented and scooted back onto his chest. She huffed when Brom first helped Eragon sit up, sending her tumbling into his lap instead.

"Slowly, boy, slowly."

When cool relief hit his tongue Eragon disregarded him and so spluttered on his first sip. Only then he heeded Brom's wisdom, pacing his draughts as he drained the skin.

"What happened?" he asked hoarsely, unable to tell what tongue he spoke.

"You called, I came, and we burned the Urgals to ash." Saphira's tail twitched. "Well, mostly me. But you let me do it."

Distantly Eragon recalled bellows that had gone high and reedy before cutting off abruptly. There had been red everywhere. The red of the Amulet against Saphira's colossal chest, the red of her flames, and the blood on her teeth when-

His stomach roiled and he pushed the memories away, somewhere dark and deep inside. He was a hunter. He had killed before, had even helped to put down beloved animals he had helped raise from infancy to end their suffering or for the sheer necessity of enduring winter.

Now he was a murderer. He had willfully called death down upon minds no less sentient than his own. They had not been men, but no less aware of themselves and their surroundings than Saphira.

Then he remembered the corpses stacked dozens high in Yazuac. How his victims had been prepared to add him to the same pile. Part of Eragon's guilt dissolved into grim satisfaction. No more babies would be slaughtered and be left for the crows.

Saphira hummed at his revelation. "They tried to hurt you. They got what was coming to them."

Eragon knew himself fully prepared to do the same against any that dared raise a hand against her. He frowned in bewilderment when he fully registered she had shrunk down exactly to her original size.

"Didn't you used to bigger?"

"I was what was needed when it was needed. And now it's over with and I'm tired." She butted his chest until he gave in and scratched between her horns. He smiled ruefully at her purr. Cuddles were a poor consolation prize to finally being able to fly astride her. If she had taken wing with him he'd been unconscious by that point.

His smile died when he looked into Brom's face. "Why?" he asked.

Brom heaved a sigh as he settled beside them. "I do not know, Eragon. Men and Urgals have quarreled since we both occupied this land. Our natures are too similar. We have clashed over land and a hundred other reasons even when the Dragon Riders reigned. But the Urgals and the folk of Yazuac should both be the king's people. It might have been a rogue band, or a harsh retaliation against suspected rebels. Sentiments for the Varden are strong, supposedly, in these parts." He scowled sternly at them. "Of course, I couldn't exactly travel to Daret and ask with the state you two were in. We must leave that region far behind."

With some abasement Eragon realized their cover had been blown. A tiny little hatchling was an easy thing to hide. The devastation of an adult dragon could be mistaken as nothing else when the people of Daret investigated and inevitably drew attention from the Empire's expert hunters.

"There were some survivors." Eragon was morbidly surprised any had escaped Saphira alive. "Doubtless they have already alerted the king and his Ra'zac. Still, this may yet work out in our favor. They will seek an adult dragon capable of flying great distances in a single day, not two humble travelers on horseback. And there are surely none left alive who saw you."

Eragon considered this. An adult dragon with a deadly, veteran Rider. "Did any Urgals see you?"

"Those closest to me never lived long enough to get a good look. The Urgals on the periphery saw a blurred shadow red with the blood and gore of their compatriots." Brom stroked a beard reduced to mere stubble. "They will seek a solitary man and dragon, not an aging uncle accompanied by his only nephew."

He glanced sullenly down at Saphira. At least one of them could make a positive impression on the elves. "To Du Weldenvarden, then?"

"No," Brom snapped. "At the border the spies and scouts are at their thickest, in hopes of catching an elf slipping out or rebel seeking refuge. As a Dragon Rider's natural haven it shall be all the more watched. We must throw off their trail and wait for the search to turn elsewhere."

Eragon tried to muster disappointment and felt none. He still felt too drained to do much else other than stroke Saphira and contemplate the fire.

Arra's first experience was a smell somewhere between the winter wind and frozen jerky. She scrunched her nose against it and then became aware of her throbbing headache. And the bony block of ice squatting on her chest.

Absently she opened her mouth to mumble, "What did your say your name was again?"

"Wake up, Arra!"

She blearily opened her eyes. She'd been at some inn. Not the DragonFang. There was some guy there, and they were...

Draco breathed frost into her face. Arra sat up with a yelp and the dregs of the dream evaporated. Where had she last been? She had vague memories of sitting astride a colossal dracolich while he had rained ice down upon some four-armed behemoth tall as the volcano as that had spawned it.

Now she sat in some cozy, unfamiliar little bedroom that smelled of herbs and fresh air. Sunlight streamed in from the outside. Outside verdant trees, despite the season, waved lazily in the breeze. Draco sat in her lap, the polar opposite of an icy undead giant.

"Why are you so tiny?" she asked him. "You'd just grown up!"

"Why were you asleep so long?" he retorted. "Do you know how boring it is watching you sleep for hours on end every night? This was a hundred times worse!"

Of course he had never left her side. Dracoliches had no need to eat or sleep or do anything else other than stare unblinkingly at her into she regained consciousness. No words could cover her apology so instead Arra scooped him up into an embrace that would have smothered a living dragon. He chittered and snuggled in close.

A polite knock on the door finally made Arra look up. She trusted Warlic had at least foisted them on a reputable healer before slinking back off to his tower. "Come in."

A girl her age, perhaps a bit younger, tentatively peeked her head in. Her face split into a relieved smile. "Oh, good. You're finally awake. Your poor dracolich was worried sick about you." She held up the tray in her hands. Arra's mouth watered at the warm scents wafting from it. "Mind if I come in? Lady Celestia said you'd be hungry."

Arra nearly shut down. How could she forget the generous dragon priestess that had so faithfully entrusted her with the rescue and safe hatching of the Dragon of Destiny's egg? And she had repaid Lady Celestia's trust by seeing that same savior hurled into another dimension.

Her sinking realization that Lady Celestia's intervention was the only reason she and Draco had survived the Amulet's toll got the better of her. So did her rumbling stomach.

"Yes, please. Thank you." The mage reined in her appetite when the girl entered. "I'm Arra, and this is Draco."

"I'm Elysia, Lady Celestia's apprentice. Your dragon already introduced you." Elysia smiled down at Draco. "Both my parents are dragonlords and their dragons were an extra set of parents growing up. My mamma was always attuned to Ice, which was why Skade bonded with her, but my poppa only settled into Wind when Zephyros decided he liked him. How was it for you?"

Arra shrugged. Maybe she'd always had an affinity for Ice but not the proper environment for realizing her potential. Moonridge drew in the Dark and the Light that blazed bright against it. Her eyes fell on the food. When had she last eaten again?

"Er, right." Elysia cleared her throat awkwardly. "You've been out of it for quite a while. Mr. Warlic did his best to set you straight, but then he had to turn you over to us. I'll leave you to your meal."

Arra gratefully thanked Elysia for her generous hospitality and all that she had done for them. She held her hunger in check until the other girl had shut the door behind her. Then she ravenously tore into the fresh food and downed the heavenly tea. Draco retreated to the edge of the bed, watching in the stern approval he reserved for the most unsightly of living behaviors.

When finished she shucked off the white nightgown she suspected belonged to Elysia. The Amulet was a familiar warmth around her neck. Neatly folded upon a desk brimming with texts in draconic were a set of mage's robes. They were finely tailored, felt smooth like silk between her fingers, and were not her own.

Arra's heart sank. Her old pair had been a rich sapphire blue, if patched and singed at the edges from her adventures. And had taken to smelling like dracolich since gaining Draco. But it had been hers. Practically anyone in Lore could muster up enough magic to put a bit more strength into swinging a sword or aiming a dagger, but those robes had marked her as a mage. A real magic-user that could do far more than throw out a single graceless burst of energy.

Draco proudly hopped up next to it, scattering the notes Elysia must have spent hours laboring over. "Lady Celestia asked me to help pick out the colors because the giant lava monster burned your old clothes. Now we really match and everyone can see you belong to me."

Arra gazed down silently at her baby for a long time, at what the battle had done to him, and put on a brave smile. "Of course. Thank you, Draco."

Her robe was primarily a light and icy blue, cold as the magic that pulsed through the cracks in Draco's ribs. Its sleeves were hemmed with fringes of gray and silver, like the wisps that rose up from the fissures like smoke.

Taking her Shivering Staff of Winter in hand, Arra was fully armed physically and mentally when she strode out to find Lady Celestia. The dragon priestess awaited her at the shore of a tranquil lake a short walk from her quiet cottage.

Elysia lay curled up with a gigantic tome in her lap in the grass outside. Draco hissed in displeasure at the unfiltered sunlight and settled down into the shade with her. She stroked him with a hand ringed in ice magic. Arra noted the familiarity of the gesture. Now she knew who to thank for taking care of Draco's daily scratching demands during her unconsciousness. Even as he relaxed into the apprentice's touch Draco's watchful gaze never left Arra.

Lady Celestia's silver hair, cascading down to her knees, stirred faintly in the breeze. A cup of steaming tea in hand, she appraised Arra with ageless eyes.

"Arra, I am glad to see you well," the priestess said sincerely. "I wish only that we could have met again under different circumstances."

Eyes watering, Arra looked away, for Lady Celestia's gentle words cut her deep as her mother's own expression of bitter disappointment. "I'm so, so sorry," she whispered. "I-I should have..."

"I do not blame you for the egg." Deep gray eyes flicked from her out over the lake. "Fate can be feckless and fickle. I was complacent and trusted blindly in what I thought the only true path." She smiled warmly at Draco. "You two have forged your own, it seems, and are all the happier for it."

Arra followed her gaze but tore it away before she could fixate on the dracolich's scars. "You are the dragon priestess and Warlic is the Blue Mage," she murmured in the human tongue. "Is there nothing you can do together?"

"Warlic's magic... is the exact opposite of what is needed, and he does not know dragons as I do." The priestess sighed. "And Draco might still have the soul of a dragon, but he truly died in the shell. The Amulet that resonates with both your souls pushed his vessel near to its limit. He is a dracolich, and an unconventional one at that. Moglins are creatures of life and healing. Zorbak twisted that natural magic to suit his own ends and reanimated a hoard of dragon eggs with it."

"Ebil magic," Arra echoed. She had worked for the nutcase. She knew his personal world for his art. And she had thought it one of his self-delusions. "So I can't even find a real necromancer to help?"

Then she winced. Of course necromancy could and would never be the answer. Dead flesh could not heal and regenerate like the living could. Necromancers twisted and corrupted their base parts, adding and repairing as necessary from other sources. Draco's flaking skin and cracked bones required another dragon's components. It would make him less himself. Her soul and his recoiled from the possibility.

"Arra," Lady Celestia prodded gently. "Before you and I ever stumbled upon the other, how did you wish your adventure to unfold?"

She scrunched her eyes shut and tried so hard to remember. Those scant months were a lifetime ago. What had her final thoughts been before she had sighted that dragon that carried her doom and destiny upon it?

She remembered the monotony of Moonridge, the never-ending infestation of undead. She remembered her mother pushing her so hard to join the Knights and forever binding her by obligation. She had envied the freedom of the dragonlords stationed in their town, had dreaded the inevitable day they would leave her behind like any and all interesting travelers that stopped at the DragonFang.

In her youth her father had wandered far and wide as a merchant. Then he settled him into safe and familiar roads closer to him. Much like the same paths Arra herself now plodded. There was always someone that needed something of her, even the Blue Mage himself.

And they had nearly taken half of her heart down with them.

"Adventure," she whispered hoarsely. "Real, honest adventure. Somewhere far away from here."

"Then go find it," Lady Celestia commanded. "Together."

Arra's shoulders heaved with a silent sob. Then they straightened when they realized their burden had been lifted.

The mage could only manage a tremulous nod of endless gratitude for the dragon priestess. When she turned to walk away, Draco was already at her side.

She stopped for her pack. A quick peak inside revealed its many contents were still accounted for. At the edge of Sunbreeze Grove stood a portal. Arra's skin tingled at its proximity when they neared. She gripped the Shivering Staff and Draco braced himself. Side by side they stepped into the unknown, and the next chapter of their lives.

After a few hours of quiet contemplation and some brief musing on their plans Eragon consumed several meals' worth of rations and drifted off to sleep. Saphira did not. Nor did she stray from his side.

Brom disliked using his spells so frivolously but necessity had urged him to lure and slaughter a deer with magic when his charges had been unconscious. Perhaps he could have settled for smaller game, but a hunch and morbid curiosity had urged him otherwise.

Over the hours he watched Saphira meticulously strip the carcass of every last edible morsel. Her human's slumber prevented her from so blatantly cracking the bones and disturbing him. Instead she boiled the blames with the heat of her maw, worrying them apart for the marrow within.

She watched Brom as if imagining doing such a thing to him.

Brom watched her with one of the twelve words of death upon his lips. Only Saphira's obvious bond with his son spared her life. That, and how fiercely she had moved heaven and earth to save his life.

"Speak to me," he murmured to her. "Open your heart. Show me my worst fears are unfounded."

Saphira stared back with fathomless eyes. Her mind was a maelstrom he dare not breach uninvited. She could not, and would not, understand him.

Brom knew not what she was. He knew what she was not.

Saphira was no dragon. Eragon was no Dragon Rider. Brom had inspected him thoroughly for any sign he had entered into the pact.

Eragon's magic was apparently not one bound by the ancient language. Brom did not know what his son was changing into. He had stopped watching for sharpening ears and facial features but instead for utter corruption of the human form. It was a small relief that Eragon's physical changes did not yet exceed those of normal adolescence and rigorous training; increased height and musculature.

More troubling was the question of what Saphira was.

Brom had been young by the Order's standards, nowhere near privileged enough to know any of the experiments and abominations the elder Riders had the rare displeasure of disposing when an arrogant sorcerer meddled in magic's direst of laws. Together Brom and Morzan had peaked into their master's records out of morbid curiosity. Brom had shrunk away in disgust. But the horrors had only ignited interest and ambition in Morzan.

Perhaps Saphira was cut of the same cloth, an unholy amalgamation of dragon and Lethrblaka an unwitting hunter had stumbled across. A creature that appeared innocent enough in its infancy, like the dragon hatchling so many had dreamed of once possessing, until it shed its skin and revealed the man-eater beneath.

Or something far worse.

Brom could not unleash such an unknown threat upon Du Weldenvarden, greatest of the strongholds against the Empire left in Alagaesia.

Nor could he commit the ultimate sacrifice. Not when Eragon was still an innocent and his... 'dragon' only showed her true colors in self-defense. Doubtless Oromis, Glaedr, or any elf would grant them the same benefit of the doubt.

Brom needed a true friend for console, and the greatest store of knowledge outside of both Du Weldenvarden and Farthern Dur. Such could be found in Teirm, a crowded city that served the extra benefit of getting the Ra'zac off their trail.

At long last Saphira yawned, baring bone-white teeth, and innocently up on Eragon's chest. On the same damn Amulet that had aggravated the situation.

By dawn Brom conceded defeat, instead drew energy from Aren, and envied them the sleep of the blissfully ignorant.

Chapter Text

Eyes shut, Arra stepped into a new beginning. She inhaled the salt on the breeze, listened to the crash of waves on the rocks below, and opened her eyes to gaze upon...

The stone falcon atop Falconreach's Guardian Tower, stone wings raised as if about to take flight into a sapphire sky.

She sighed. How anticlimactic. Of course Lady Celestia's portal had so thoughtfully spat her up at the main hub for adventurers and travelers in the region.

Draco gazed down to the town below. "Should we go say goodbye? Who knows when, if ever, we'll be back here."

Arra frowned, torn. Perhaps she should make one last trip down into town, withdraw some gold from the bank and stock up on some of Serenity's fresh baked loaves of bread. Grams and Aria down at the pet shop always liked telling her of the strange critters they had helped tame and find homes for. She could always go and thank Konnan one last time for his help with her staff...

Arra shook herself. Falconreach always had a way of dragging her into some quest or another. Young Ash would pester her for the tale of her last adventure and always have another ready. Serenity would press her to stay another night. Of course she would wake up to the town getting attacked by an army of undead trees or something else equally implausible. And there was the headache that was Cysero.

"No," she said firmly. "We'll come back one day, but not without some stories of our own to share. Ones that don't involve fiery psychopaths or evil princes or narcissistic moglins."

They continued up the road, striding past the Guardian Tower to the gryphon outpost at the edge of the hill. The three gryphons stabled there cawed anxiously, talons scratching the ground as their fierce gazes fixated on the dracolich. Their handler soothed them, relaxing when she saw Draco was escorted by an old and trusted client.

"Hello, Arra." Kessa waved and absently blew a feather out of her face, unwittingly sending it straight into her hair with a dozen others. "Where to today?"

"As far from here as physically possible." At the gryphon keeper's confused frown, she hastily amended, "Not sure today, Kessa. Do you have a service map?"

"Sure do." Kessa diligently unrolled a map. "Our gryphons cover a wide range of Greenguard, and even a few select locations outside the kingdom."

Arra's curious eye roved right past her continent altogether for the mysterious lands beyond the sea. But of course even gryphons couldn't cross oceans on their own. Instead she settled for one of the westernmost locations in hopes of finding a harbor nearby.

"What's in Braughlmark?"

"A paladin stronghold... Well, there was a paladin stronghold hundreds of years ago, before some war with shadow necromancers. A lot of our bolder travelers head out there explore the ruins for old relics." Kessa bit her lip. "But not a lot of them come back."

A fallen paladin stronghold crawling with undead. Arra shuddered. Except for the one at her side, she'd had enough to last her a lifetime. She next turned to the north. Maybe it was time to head up to the lands of ice and snow to really get in touch with herself. Her cynical eye instead fell on the region named only 'the Deadlands' that lay across the strait.

"Let me guess," she deadpanned. "Devastated by a long ago war and now crawling with undead?"

"You'd think so, but no." Kessa shrugged. "Elemental war. So a lot of elementals. Very profitable for gathering materials for higher-end weapons and equipment."

Xan and his fire elementals had nearly stolen away one of the things she now loved most in the world. And that land was much too close to the Deadlands.

Instead she fixated on the isle in the east. She squinted at its name. "Sho'Nuff?"

Kessa nodded. "We fly out of Osprey Cove in the south. It's a lively port town perfect for any brave adventurer looking to brave the high seas for gold and glory."

Which sounded like a delicate way of saying Osprey Cove was crawling with pirates. Arra grinned. Following treasure maps and plundering a stronghold or two was just the thing she needed.

"You up for it, Draco?"

The dracolich eyed the gryphons glaring down at him. "I am if they are. There's no way I'm flying your butt across the ocean after all that."

Arra slapped down her gold. Eventually they managed to get the oldest, surliest of the three gryphons to accept both her and Draco on. They did not watch Falconreach's tower shrink into the distance behind them, but rather gazed out into the east and all that awaited them in the land beyond the sunrise.

"Stenr, risa!"

Eragon glared down at the pebble sitting innocently in his palm. Brom claimed this spell to be the earliest even a novice Dragon Rider had to master, but he could not make this blasted rock rise even a hairsbreadth from him. The ancient language that flowed so truthfully from Brom's lips sounded false on his.

"Enough, boy." Eragon's ire snapped to Brom. He was about to retort he wasn't giving up until he made the damn pebble move when he caught the pensive expression his teacher's face. "You obviously have magic of your own, but a kind you can't force down this path. Think carefully. What is it you really wish to do?"

Eragon scowled down at the pebble, and the hours wasted on attempting his first true spell. He allowed the frustration roiling beneath his skin all day to finally flare up.

A jet of warm orange flame erupted from his palm. Eragon flinched back, but the force of the fire still propelled the pebble several feet into the air. Three sets of bemused eyes watched it clatter down near Saphira's paws. She sniffed at it before beaming up at him.

"Good job, Eragon! It's about time you finally found your inner fire."

"Ice," he muttered before turning beseechingly toward Brom. "In Yazuac I froze that crow."

"Aye, you did." Brom's eyes gazed inscrutably into his own. "There is a fury that goes beyond burning. A hatred that you can think can go no hotter before it freezes over into something new and terrible. And in that accursed town you knew it."

Brow furrowing, he tried to remember the sensation of his blood turning cold as winter. The fire came so easily. At last he inhaled the frigid air and let it chill his lungs. When the ice bubbled up within he instinctively channeled it through his right hand. Pale blue magic erupted from his upturned palm.

Its edges clipped the fringes of his hair and froze it in clumps. Saphira laughed at him until the ice swiftly melted and left only water to run onto his face and clothes.

Then Eragon blinked. Ice and fire. How had he managed polar opposites one after another? His confused gaze fell upon Saphira. Gods knew his baby dragon's vague advice had steered him clearer than any of Brom's detailed knowledge thus far.

She cocked her head up at him. "Fire is easier because it's closer to your nature, but not even ice beyond you. I'm one of a kind. Why be bound to a single element when we are above them all?"

"Can you do it too?" he asked.

Her response was to sneeze a snowball in his face. He wiped away the snow, his simmering temper swift turning the rest to steam. So much for the fire-breathing terror.

He arched a brow at Brom's stoic expression. He knew the man enough to recognize his utter bafflement and quiet rage over his ignorance. "I take it this isn't normal for a Rider?"

"Not in the slightest." Brom absently reached for his pipe, eyes never leaving his. "In Teirm I have a friend whose store of knowledge is very vast indeed. Perhaps the greatest in the Empire outside of the king's personal library. He might have the answer we both seek." He hesitated. "In the mean time, I shall train you to the best of my ability. Your swordplay and mental training can continue unaffected. Together we shall make educated guesses about your other... abilities, and progress from there."

Eragon agreed. He could not spend the rest of a very long life hunting down answers.

By virtue of his parentage Murtagh had been raised at the fringes of court. He was no lord's heir, for Morzan had not been of noble lineage and his power had died with him and his dragon, but he had been an asset all the same. When not kept in Urubaen he had been isolated to his sire's old estate, left in the care of Tornac and what servants remained to attend to him.

Murtagh had always seen his king from a distance, such as from the opposite edge of court or down a very long table at some feast or another. Prior to the eve of his eighteenth birthday Galbatorix had paid him no more than a few passing words, the usual trite well wishes the king granted to the children of vital vassals on the passage of major milestones.

Tornac had done his best to keep him from the rumor mills, for their sources had such an odd tendency to disappear or be executed for sedition, but rumors shrouded Galbatorix all the same. Behind closed doors he was called the Mad King. Some called him impotent for simply secluding himself away in his castle instead of personally descending on the rebels with the same fire and blood he had shown during the Fall. Occasionally the king's pleasant nature descended into a dark rage or feverish ranting toward subjects long dead.

Officially such fits did not exist. It was whispered Galbatorix merely affected madness, to keep both friends and foes on edge for maximum advantage. Murtagh had never been personally present for such an outburst. Tornac darkly assured him either the king was the greatest actor to have ever lived or there was truth to the title.

But Murtagh felt no fear when his king next called him. Not so long ago he had pledged his friendship and allegiance to Galbatorix, the man who had stirred even his cynical soul with tales of Fall's early days, when he and Morzan had truly fought as brothers-in-arms. Together they had rose against tyrants. Until a vengeful act had stripped Morzan's dragon of her very name and soul, dragging them both into a downward spiral not even Galbatorix could save them from.

Yet Galbatorix had sworn to do right by Morzan's sole son, as he had sworn to his right hand in a rare moment of clarity. Galbatorix had shielded Murtagh from the pressures of guarding the Empire from rebel insurgents for his childhood. When finally offered a chance to do good in the world, to shield the innocent from those who long to drown the world in blood rather than submit to peace, Murtagh had knelt and sworn himself.

Now was time to make his king proud, to be the loyal hand of justice his father had been unable to.

A stoic servant that refused to make eye contact escorted him into the same private chambers where he and Galbatorix had shared a meal.

Murtagh's first sight upon entering that same room was Galbatorix hurling a chair against a wall. It shattered into splinters. Then the king whirled to face them. His robes and beard were disheveled. Murtagh froze in the threshold when those deep, dark eyes fixated upon him.

"Morzan!" Galbatorix growled. "It's about time that beast of yours brought you to me."

"Presenting Murtagh Morzansson, your grace," the servant announced neutrally. Then he slipped out the room, the door slamming behind him.

Murtagh wished to run after him. Instead he stood stock still and drilled his expression into neutrality. One did not show their back to a predator. One did not show fear.

Galbatorix's eyes cleared somewhat as they studied him. "Ah, yes. Murtagh. Morzan's boy. Someone I can trust. A shadow of your father, but you'll grow out of it soon enough. And that starts today." Like a lion its cage, he started to pace up and down the length of the room. "We are surrounded by secrets and sedition, Murtagh, treachery and traitors. Your mother was a dagger in the dark. You must be my red blade of justice; bright and blazing."

Murtagh did not trust his own words and so remained silent. His king ranted on.

"There's spies everywhere, but it's worst in the north. I blame the damn elves. They must be singing defiance into their dreams. And it's worst in Cantos." The Mad King's eyes gleamed with a wild light. "They are sheltering agents of the Varden, boy. You shall lead my soldiers there, and you shall slaughter them all for their treachery."

"Every last rebel?" Murtagh asked tightly.

"Every last one of them!" the king said shrilly. "The rebellion is a sickness, Murtagh, left to fester too damn long. It's rotten all of their hearts in Cantos, even those that claim to still be loyal to me. Sickness must be burned out before it rots the rest of the realm. Especially with-"

Murtagh's hand, straying down to a blade he did not have, froze when every candle in the room guttered low. The shadows coalesced and they were no longer alone.

To the king's left side loomed a giant of a man made all the larger by bulky black armor that shone deep purple when the light flashed against it. Raven hair fell to his shoulders. Behind a short beard just as dark were brutally handsome features. His violet eyes shone in the dark with an eerie light of their own.

"My king."

Galbatorix stopped pacing when his Shadow laid a hand upon his shoulder. The madness deserted his eyes. A small smile even lit his features. "Ah, there are you, my-"

"Kyrannos, my king," rumbled the Shadow.

The king arched a brow, smile growing even wider. "Yes, yes. Kyrannos." He extended a warm hand in Murtagh's direction. "I do not believe you two have been properly introduced. This is Murtagh, Morzan's boy."

Violet eyes appraised him. Despite their glow and the dim light they did appear to have visible pupils. "A whelp, compared to his father."

"Oh, Murtagh will grow into himself in time. You certainly did." Galbatorix beamed benevolently at him. "Won't you, my boy?"

Murtagh nodded stiffly and bowed so he did not have to meet their terrible eyes.

"You may leave now, Murtagh," Galbatorix ordered mildly. "Do take care for a good night's rest. Tomorrow you lead the charge to Cantos."

Fine tunic caked to his skin from sweat, Murtagh walked away from the king and his Shadow as fast as he could without breaking into an outright run. At the end of the hall Tornac waited him.

The old swordsman leaned heavily against his side, muttering encouragements under his breath. Thanks to him Murtagh made it behind the safety of closed doors before he collapsed to the floor, a quivering wreck.

"Easy, lad," Tornac murmured. "Easy. What did the king want of you?"

A hysterical laugh escaped Murtagh as he leaned against the wall. "Oh, nothing much. Only to massacre an entire town for slaughtering rebels."

Tornac swore and then knelt by his side, seizing him by the shoulders. "Tell me, Murtagh. Did he demand it of you in that damn magic language? Did he force your true name out of you?"

"No, but I saw the Shadow's face."

Tornac's momentary relief dissipated. He stared at Murtagh as if trying to determine whether he was staring at his ghost or else someone who had gone mad from the revelation. "They say the last few Shadows haven't even showed their faces to the poor bastards they've killed."

"Well, I saw this one, and I'd bet a fortune on him being Galbatorix's son." While Tornac choked in disbelief, Murtagh frowned in thought. "If the mother was the manliest, mightiest to have ever walked the earth. Or a Kull."

Tornac eventually joined in on the speculations. Long-lived as Galbatorix was, he had never taken a queen. The rumor mill never even reported any credible paramours or favored courtesans. There had never been whispers of children, true-born or otherwise.

Over packing their guesses at the mother's identity grew increasingly outrageous. As the time drew near they both fell silent.

Under dead of night they slipped out of the castle with all the stealth two mundane men could manage. Galbatorix's guards waited for them at the gates.

Murtagh could not decide it miracle or curse that Kyrannos or a true magician were not among the ambush. Then he too could have been cut down alongside the man who had been more of a parent than those who had given him life.

But they were not, and Tornac's last gurgled order urged him to ride on, and live beyond this night.

And so live Murtagh would. Tornac demanded it of him. So did his own sense of survival.

For the time in his life he fled in his life he fled a free man. Not even to die at Tornac's side could he ride willfully back into captivity.

Chapter Text

Garrett was a guard. A guard bored out of his mind.

Of course every traveler passing in or out of the gates, no matter how old or uninteresting, had to get stopped for at least a cursory questioning. Gods forbid they let in a pirate or a smuggler out that didn't pay the proper taxes.

When two more rode up to his gate, Garrett dispassionately noted their horses were plain and brown. They might not have been dirt poor, but they were not far above the bottom rungs. The older one looked harmless enough, if grizzled in a way that suggested he had survived war along the frontiers. The younger gaped up at the walls only country bumpkin that had never seen a proper city before could.

As they came closer Garrett and his comrade, Aylmer, came alive enough to cross their pikes over the entrance.

"Wha's yer name?" Aylmer drawled out before he wilted beneath Garrett's withering stare. Someone was just asking to set Old Ned on their asses for a lack of proper decorum.

"State your names and purpose in Teirm," Garrett interjected.

For a moment the old man appraised him. Then he rose up out of his slouch. "I'm Neal. This is Evan, my brother's boy."

Aylmer accepted it with an easy nod. So did Garrett after a closer inspection. There were madames that tried to smuggle brothels' worth of girls by claiming the gaggle of them as their daughters, no matter how wildly different they all looked from each other. At least this pair shared the family look, with similar blue eyes and facial features. The boy was lucky to have escaped his uncle's beaked nose.

Garrett spared their belongings a cursory glance. They traveled lightly, with only what could fit upon their mounts, and could have been smuggling anything of value within them. He did linger on the boy's shoulders. Around them was what appeared to be a thick, black ruff of fur. Then two bright blue eyes blinked back at him.

Perched on the boy's shoulders was the largest, ugliest cat Garrett had ever seen. Its fur was such a deep black it seemed to gleam blue in the sunlight. Its smashed-looking face curled up into a snarl when he stared at it too long. The boy winced in discomfort as the thing kneaded its claws into his shoulders.

"What's with the cat?" he asked flatly.

"She's mine," the boy said, reaching up to scratch behind an ear. The cat leaned into it with a purr. "She's a very good mouser."

"Black, too," Neal added. "Good luck for a ship's cat. Can't go to sea without her."

Garrett suppressed a groan. "From Kuasta, I take it?"

"Ultimately, aye," Neal admitted with the easy pride of someone who had been actually born and raised in Kuasta. "Been all over lately. But I've got an old friend up in Teirm's who's got a boat and needs a few more hands to help bring in the cod."

Garrett sighed and wearily waved them on. Aylmer leaned on his pike, glaring suspiciously at the cat. The cat stared smugly back right back until they disappeared into crowd.

"Funny lookin' ca'," he muttered.

"Funny people," Garrett retorted under his breath. "Gods damned Kuastans."

As a port city Teirm attracted all sorts of flotsam and jetsam. Hopefully these freaks would go out with the tide.

Arra inhaled the fresh sea air and tried to hide her wince when the breeze shifted so she caught the wonder odor of dead fish from down by the docks.

She and Draco came fresh from a good night's sleep and hearty breakfast at Mae Pi's inn. Over gruel and grog her fellow patrons regaled her with tales of the treasure that could be found off Sho'Nuff and the surrounding islands.

Mostly they ranted about Sho'Nuff's ninja infestation and how it was hard for a pirate to do an honest day's work if some magical people in black kept popping up in clouds of smoke to steal away their hard-won booty. Between their passionate disavowal of ninjas' complete lack of courage and honor they at least pointed her to a solid reference.

No matter where Arra stopped, everyone had a good word for First Mate Rhubarb. Captain Blackberry's name might have been fearfully uttered by his own crew, but Rhubarb was tough but fair. No adventurer that served on the Red Betty was cheated under his charge.

Arra had no trouble locating Rhubarb. She simply searched Osprey Cove's main square for the saltiest, seasoned seadog she could find. Despite his simple clothes he still carried himself as if he commanded every ship in its harbor.

"Arr! Yer the lass that's been asking 'bout me, then? The one with the dead dragon as a pet?"

Arra glanced down at Draco. "Undead dracolich, but yes. Mae Pi said you might have a job for us."

"A job!" Rhubarb laughed uproariously. "Arr! We just made the haul of a lifetime! One of our teams recovered a ship called the Anna-Maria which was shipping a load of water breathing potions to Swordhaven! Once we sell them all we'll all be rich!" The grizzled man scowled and turned his head to spit. "But the ship was overrun with ninjas before it reached the harbor. It's anchored just outside the cove right now. Those back-stabbing bastards are searching for the potions, but we hid them amongst the gun powder barrels in the powder room."

A ninja's stealth made them deadly to the average pirate in a ship's closed quarters. As a mage Arra would have the magical advantage. Rhubarb charged her with sneaking aboard the Anna-Maria and securing the Water Breathing Potions while the ninjas were distracted with the cargo.

For a moment Arra debated the ethics of helping to steal what had been a legitimate shipment to King Alteon's port, but the challenge of out-sneaking ninjas proved too tempting to resist. So did the share of the sales Rhubarb promised.

Rhubarb even winked and offered a bomb as extra insurance. Seeing no polite way to refuse a pirate, she accepted.

Even as part of himself longed to gape up at the crowds that bustled the winding streets and the buildings that grew progressively taller as they approached the citadel, Eragon could not tear his paranoid gaze away from Saphira. Any moment he awaited for the people around him to realize the baby dragon lounging about in their midst and the cries to seize them all. He braced for when his dragon would flex her true power and do unto Teirm what she had done to Yazuac.

To his eye Brom's intricate illusion was only the spectral silhouette of a cat around Saphira's form. Her true form shone through like beacon in fog.

"Trust me, lad," Brom murmured soothingly to him. "The mundane mind wants to be fooled. It wants to see a gods ugly cat then deal with the impossibility of what she truly is."

Eragon clenched his fists against Alsvid's reins. When they had approached Teirm he had prepared to mediate the inevitable argument between Brom and Saphira when he ordered her to stay behind and hide away in the woods. Instead his teacher all but insisted on the she-dragon joining them and had woven the optical illusion over her with his own magic. Saphira had blithely gone along with it all.

Brom claimed Saphira's small size and the Ra'zac on their trail made it safer for her to hide with them. Inwardly Eragon knew Brom probably dreaded Saphira descending on Teirm in fire and blood in her single-minded pursuit for him.

"Remember," he hissed to her. "You are a cat. No flying. No breathing anything that isn't air. No growing huge and stomping everything beneath your paws."

"Not unless they give me reason too," she muttered.

Briefly Eragon had wondered why Brom hadn't disguised Saphira as a little dog. Then he realized not only would she had been required to follow after them on foot, but her personality was the polar opposite of canine. Cats were simply dragons without the wings and fire.

They stopped at a tavern to inquire the whereabouts of the man named Jeod. A patron pointed them in the direction of Angela the herbalist's shop, for he said Jeod lived right next door. Brom's brows furrowed at the further news of so many of certain merchants' ships, including Jeod's, mysteriously vanishing without ever reaching their destination.

Eragon's unease grew when they headed into the west of the city. The houses were large and ornate, palaces in comparison to the humble cottages of Carvahall. The people in the streets were draped in fineries. Most ignored them as if he and Brom were just parts of the scenery. A few gave Saphira the side eye. She eyed them right back.

"So many pretty things they're wearing. They can't possibly need them all."

"No stealing," he hissed sternly.

At least the herbalist's shop was easy to find. It had a large, cheery sign advertising its existence. The door was open. A woman with a mane of dark curly hair wrote feverishly with her left hand. In the left hand she clutched a frog that had long given up the struggle to escape. It croaked mournfully at their approach.

Brom's gaze flicked to the two houses straddling the shop. Then he strode forward. "Excuse us, could you tell us which house the man called Jeod lives in?"

"I could." She scrawled another note.

"Will you tell us?"

"Yes."

Eragon finally burst out, "Which house is it?"

With a satisfied smile, Angela finally looked up and speared him with luminous green eyes. Eragon winced when Saphira's talons dug into his flesh. She hissed possessively.

"There you go. You finally asked me properly. Jeod's house is on the right." Angela winked at him. "And tell your little kitten you're all hers. I'm no thief. Well, not to her, at least."

"Er, yes. Thank you." Eragon prayed his curiosity was satiated. It was not. "Why are you holding a frog?"

"He's actually a toad. You see, I'm trying to prove toads don't actually exist. If I do, then it proves I've had a frog in my hands this entire time. And, if I conclusively prove toads do not and never have existed, then they cannot cause warts or poison or kill people. Their innate magic will be instantly negated, for they were never truly magical at all, and witches couldn't use them for their evil spells because there will never actually any around."

Eragon opened his mouth to argue and shut it when Brom rammed a subtle elbow into his stomach. "I see," the old man said delicately. "We'll let you get back to your groundbreaking research, for I'm afraid we have to meet Jeod."

"Of course." Angela waved a curt hand and returned to her writing, promptly forgetting they existed at all.

Eragon wanted to mutter a comment that the woman was utterly mad. Then he remembered he had hatched an egg that had exploded into existence. Upon his shoulders was a size-changing dragon that currently disguised as a cat. Who was he to talk?

The tearful woman that answered the door certainly couldn't be named Jeod, and her cautious facade grew icy when they pressed for her husband to come to the door. Finally Jeod himself appeared, an older man gray and mournful, whose jaw dropped at the sight of Brom in the doorway. He escorted them in his chambers in the castle to be free of eavesdroppers. Eragon did not miss his furtive glances toward Saphira upon his shoulders.

The castle hallway to Jeod's chambers was dark and dank. Saphira growled in displeasure. But the chambers themselves were richly furnished, a warm fire crackling in the hearth to burn away the damp.

"You owe me quite the story for thinking you dead for nigh two decades, old man, but I think all of us here know that's not a cat."

"No," Eragon agreed easily. "She's not."

Saphira spread her wings, the illusion around her unraveling like a pulled thread. Jeod's jaw dropped. For a moment one tremulous hand fumbled for his rapier's hilt before it fell slack altogether. She took a moment to bask in his stupefied awe. Then she fluttered down from Eragon's shoulders to curl up on the thick pelt by the fire.

"Finally," she sighed. "Do you know how sore I am from having to keep my wings furled so tightly all day long?"

Eragon rolled his aching shoulders. "Do you know sore I am from lugging you around like a pack? Maybe I should be feeding you less."

Jeod mutely fell back into the chair Brom subtly positioned for him.

"This is Eragon and Saphira," their mentor said wryly. "Now you see why I have disturbed your semi-retirement."

"A-Are you speaking to her? When you growl like that?"

"Aye." Eragon tugged on the gold chain and bared the Amulet hidden beneath his tunic. He grinned at Jeod's utter bafflement. "And that's the least of what it can do."

"I stumbled upon the Amulet not too long ago, and then Eragon and Saphira not much long after that." Brom surveyed shelves of books that extended from floor to the ceiling and encompassed near every wall. "I take it you don't store your more personal collection here, before Lord Risthart's very nose?"

"Necessity may have driven me to take up the merchant's trade, but it hasn't deprived me of my wits." Jeod's indignant harrumph deepened into pensiveness as he gazed upon Saphira. "Such a little thing, to cause such outrageous rumors already. Why not take her to Du Weldenvarden and be done with it?"

"The borders are too closely guarded," Brom interjected. "If we must lie low, why not do so where our time can be spent most productively. Perhaps that heresy of yours can be of use to us."

"Perhaps." Jeod frowned at Saphira. "Magic can disguise her form, but will not hold up to physical scrutiny, or contain her as she grows. There are caves in the cliffs, and plenty of game to hunt. The woods are Lord Risthart's personal domain, and though he isn't one for hunting he certainly won't let the peasants poach his property. She'll have no shortage of food out there."

Eragon winced and tried not to think of those devastating few minutes when she'd been anything but subtle. "Trust me, her growth won't be a problem. Saphira has been this size for weeks now. She's safest by me."

Jeod frowned at him. "How well can you read the ancient language? Most of the arcane texts are written in it." The lines around his eyes deepened with their unspoken question.

Eragon bristled. "I can read the common tongue. And write it, if I have to."

Even quiet Carvahall wasn't immune to slick bastards from the populated towns trying to swindle honest, hard-working folk out of their lands and livelihoods. Garrow was proud of his literacy and had ensured both his boys knew all their letters. Aunt Marian had encouraged reading and writing lessons with Brom, who had schooled many of Carvahall's children. Garrow had taken them under his own instruction when she had died and they had been needed more at the farm.

Some tension left Jeod's face. "And how is your instruction in the ancient language coming?"

Brom laid a proud hand upon Eragon's shoulders. "He can parse enough to help us weed out the useless things. Direct exposure to more complex language will do him good."

"Ah, good." Jeod smiled at Eragon. "The elves devised a flowery script called the Liduen Kvaedhi for transcribing the ancient language, but my sources are human and cared more for pragmatism than beauty. They wrote in our letters. We can start first thing in the morning."

Eragon agreed. Brom knelt down beside Saphira to once more weave her illusory form. He listened intently, picking out every word of the spell he knew. Jeod watched with a scholar's open hunger.

"Masterful," he murmured as he squinted and cocked his head. "For all my training, and even knowing what's beneath it, all I can see is that big Kuastan cat."

Brom smirked. "At my age I most certainly should be a master in my craft. For the privilege of watching one of my skill at work I charge a hearty meal for us."

Jeod eagerly obliged. To avoid any potential mishaps in a crowded tavern they dined privately at his house. Seeing her dinner guests, his wife Helen made a face and retired early for the evening. She was spared the spectacle of Saphira swallowing fish whole like the pelican they had spotted down at the docks.

When the bomb hit the gun powder, Arra summoned her firmest shield whilst the ninjas fled. She and Draco were blasted down to the water. At least the little rowboat they had first used for sneaking aboard the Anna-Maria survived. With aching arms Arra rowed away as the last of the ship's smoking remnants slipped beneath the water. Draco huffily froze the seawater dripping between his ribs and set apart picking away the icicles.

Rhubarb was grinning ear to ear when he met them by the harbor. "Well done! You really showed those ninjas what happens when they try to steal our stolen goods! We should make enough gold from the sale of those potions that we can all retire!"

Arra glumly lowered her head. Rhubarb frowned down at her in concern. His expression sharpened when he noticed her singed eyebrows.

"Lass, what did ye do with the bomb I gave ye?" Mage and dracolich mutely turned toward the smoke still rising from the mouth of the cove. "Never mind. I think I can guess. Now... not only do we not have any potions to sell, but with all those water breathing potions in the ocean... no one will need water breathing potions ever again! They can just... BREATHE THE OCEAN!"

Arra's hands tightened around her Shivering Staff and ice rose ominously from the fractures in Draco's ribs. Then Rhubarb took a deep, gasping sigh, and their tension faded with his.

"Oh well. At least those damned ninjas didn't get them either. I'll just tell Captain Blackberry they blew up the ship and took our retirement with it." His baleful eye fell upon her. "I'll save ye from the captain's wrath this time but if ye blew up one more ship... so help me, I'll sell you out faster than you can spit on a seacow!"

Arra nodded jerkily. But Rhubarb was not yet appeased.

"Ye owe me, Arra. Ye'll have to work a long time to pay off those potions, and that ship."

Arra promised. Damn her responsible parents for raising her with morals.

Chapter Text

After hours of trekking through thick and humid jungle, Arra and Draco were miserable enough when they regarded what Rhubarb called the Ruins of Kordana. The little dracolich paused, head tilting as he took in the twisted mass of rusted metal visible beneath the years of growth. The only obvious entrance, a deep gouge left in the metal by some ancient blow, had certainly not been intended as a doorway.

"I don't get. What exactly are we looking at?"

"A ruin with ghost, strange magics, and deadly traps," Arra said simply, paraphrasing Rhubarb's description from the old journal he had pulled the legend from. "Let's just get the pirates their Wind Pearl, and consider our debt paid."

Apparently the ninjas called it the Jewel of the Four Winds, but all Rhubarb called about was that the Wind Pearl could be used to enchant a ship to sail swifter and smoother than any other vessel on the high seas, to weather storms none else could. It was Arra's was of paying Rhubarb (and Captain Blackberry) back for the water breathing potions. All they'd be getting out of the bargain was a ship that would drive King Alteon's navy batty in trying to apprehend them.

Debating the size of the ruin, Arra bedded down for the night outside. At dawn she broke up camp and led the way down.

Wrongess assailed her the moment her foot first touched down on smooth metal floor. Despite being choked by years of jungle that had penetrated the ruins, beneath the green the steel walls were still untarnished. Gears and pistons still stubbornly puffed away. An electric current, like the air around an electric mage before they cut loose, thrummed through the air. Draco hissed, ice flaring high and cold around him, and he pressed close to her side.

The quiet hum was broken by a distant, female voice riddled with static. "..You tripped the defense... You HAVE TO-"

The voice abruptly cut off by harsh, frenzied buzzing. Magic ready, Arra rained down a fury attack that struck both monsters that erupted from the ruin's bowels. They looked strangely like giant metal hornets.

After dinner Jeod bid them a good evening and retired to soothe his wife's ruffled feathers. His butler escorted them to their guest quarters. Eragon did his best to not raise his brows at discovering they each had their own room. In practical Carvahall a quiet cot or corner set aside for guests was one thing. Even the village's most well-off only wasted the space to heat one small guestroom.

Brom nodded at him. "Get a good rest, boy. We're off to a busy day in the library tomorrow." His eyes settled purposefully on Saphira. "I don't want to come in and wake you up myself tomorrow."

Eragon smiled ruefully back, aware of the butler's listening ears. "I promise, uncle." Of course Brom would do just that. Only he could reapply Saphira's feline facade because gods knew she wouldn't keep it on during the night.

True to form Saphira stretched her wings and dispelled her wings no sooner than when the door closed behind them. She fluttered up to the windowsill before he pulled her down with a hiss.

"It's alright if you want to get comfortable, but you can't let people see you like this!"

Saphira breathed a bit of flame at his fingers. He instinctively drew back. She escaped from his hold and once more alighted upon the sill. Outside lights still burned within houses and from lanterns along the street. Shadows still rose dark and high between them.

"Even with all this fire you humans would still struggle to see me in the dark. Besides, we're not going far."

"It's almost past any reasonable hour, and the answers we're looking for are right in Jeod's library," he grumbled back. "Where else do we have to go?"

His dragon stared flatly at him before her claws and snout started fumbling for the latch. He quickly opened the window before she scratched the glass or decided to simply smash her way through it. She took flight and landed purposefully on the roof of the herbalist's shop. In Teirm the houses were tightly packed together, with no little alleys so as to optimize space and the ability of its citizens to garrison the streets in case of invasion. Eragon's heart dropped at the possibility of her landing in the streets.

Gauging the height from his window to ground level to be too high, Eragon gritted his teeth and clambered out the window. Years scaling trees and the Spine's oft treacherous slopes made him nimbler than most but even he struggled with the slick sidings of Jeod's house. Far too high up his grip finally failed him. He grit his teeth and braced for at least one broken bone on the street below.

He landed heavily on his right side. No more than a grunt escaped his clenched teeth. After a moment the throbbing subsided into a dull ache. With relief he found his leg easily bore his weight. Even his bruising felt minimal for such an impact. A quick wave of his healing magic solved what little injury there was.

Angela's windows were not entirely dark. Somewhere deep within a hearth still burned. At least he wouldn't be disturbing the madwoman's sleep. After a moment he finally dredged up the courage to march to the front door and knock. Eragon drew back, stunned, when she answered barely after his first knock. She was still dressed in that day's clothes. Her eyes burned like brands in the dark.

"Hello again," she greeted simply. "Let me guess. She's up in the roof?"

Eragon mutely nodded.

Angela bustled him inside. It was the ordered chaos he had expected at the sight of her. Vines clung to the ceiling from the plants hanging from pots, obscuring all but a chandelier where candles still burned. The plants on the floor competed for space with complex machines, piles of scrolls, and crates of rocks. Behind the counter were drawers of every size for every possible purpose. It was a hoard of curiosities and knickknacks. She sat him on a stool near the counter, told him to make himself at home, and hurried upstairs to let Saphira in through a window before she made her own entrance through the roof.

Red eyes studied him from the shadows. Eragon stared back. In his haste he had left his bow behind. Fire burned within, but he forced the heat aside for ice. In this clutter a single spark could trap them all in a raging inferno.

A lean cat larger than even Saphira's disguise leaped onto the counter. It had oversized paws, a shaggy mane around its angular face, tufts atop its pointed ears, and ivory fangs that curved from its jaw. At least Saphira's facade could still be conceivably called a cat, if a large and ugly one. This beast was to a cat what a wolf was to a terrier.

An intelligent mind prodded at his own. Eragon was a guest here. He clenched his teeth, held back the frost, and opened himself just enough to let it in.

Well, deadpanned a deep and masculine presence. You're a rather less impressive sight than they've built you up to be.

He bit back the first reflexive retort, though his ire still rippled across the link. He frantically catalogued all creatures, real and legendary, and settled on the likeliest candidate. And you're a werecat then? I'm not sure if you quite live up to the legends either.

Werecats flitted at the edges of stories, keeping to themselves and occasionally giving advice, but always knowing more than they told. In his imagination he had envisioned a creature grander than some shaggy little lynx.

The werecat twitched an ear. Such lip, from one that doesn't even know what he is. Perhaps you might grow to be more interesting in the future. If you live long enough and ask the right people you might divine my true name, but for now you may call me Solembum.

Eragon's indignity that he knew damn well what he was was interrupted by Solembum retreated into the shadows of the shop. Not a heartbeat later Saphira thundered down the stair, a frazzled Angela in her wake. Reflexively he rose from the stool to catch her in his arms, for she charged him a force that would have knocked them both over. She was a furnace in his arms, but still a sudden chill prickled at his skin. In the shadows something shifted. It was not Solembum.

"You know us," he said tersely to the herbalist. "But we do not know you. How did you see her?"

Angela smiled sharply. "I see all sorts of things, especially the things not meant for me to see. And I see one who knows you better than you do." Her grin widened. "You can see him too, can't you?"

Eragon wanted to retort they were alone but for the werecat on the shelf. Then he focused at Angela's left side. A man's shape resolved itself out of thin air. He was tall, covered neck to toe in elegant black armor that shimmered with glints of green and violet in the candlelight. Above a pale, angular face his dark hair was cropped short. Eragon took a step back when he realized he could see the stack of scrolls behind the specter. From his neck dangled an echo of the Amulet, phantasmal as himself.

The spirit dipped into a short bow, raising his right hand to his heart. He spoke in draconic's deep, rumbling tones. "In life, I was, and still am, known as Rephaim. I was what you are now. From the coming of your dragon into this world I stood watch over her egg and, when the time came, the pair of you. When your bond flourished I passed on my Dragon Amulet to Brom so that it would find its way to you, so that we might meet again when you were ready to progress with your training."

For a moment Eragon thought he gazed upon the ghost of a Dragon Rider, one who had lingered in this world until one of their Order once more came again to train. He frowned thoughtfully down at Saphira. Brom considered himself a dragon expert but was thoroughly unnerved by her and Eragon's unique growth as her bonded.

He reached for the privacy of their bond. His desperation was such that Saphira didn't chide him for impropriety. Saphira, are you from Alagaesia at all? Or... from somewhere else?

Her blue eyes stared earnestly up at him. No. I'm not from this world. Some jerk from my world accidentally banished my egg here. But I found you, so it was worth it. Her snout twitched with a tentative snarl as she glanced back to Rephaim. He's not from around here either. The souls here can't cling to the physical realm like he can.

Eragon inhaled deeply. And exhaled. Then inhaled again.

"Fine," he said at last. "Let's say I believe you. If I'm not a Dragon Rider, then what in the seven hells am I?"

Rephaim cocked his head considerably. "The Dragon Amulet does its best to transmit draconic into a language the bearer can understand, but sometimes its conventions can be... problematic. You are not a dragon master, who uses a Dragon Amulet to force his will upon unwilling dragons. You are a dragonlord. The bond between you and your dragon is not one between a human lord and vassal, but between two mutual souls. You did not claim your bond by force, but was bestowed upon it by a dragon who considered you worthy of becoming a sibling to her soul. Should one of you ever become unwilling, the bond will break."

"Dragonlord," he murmured, in both draconic and his own tongue. Rightness, like Saphira's name, settled in his bones. He sighed, finally at peace with a part of himself.

"Dragonlord," Saphira mused. "My lord... Well, it's more dignified than calling you my pet."

Eragon grinned ruefully. If he was her lord than she was his queen, if not his empress. His suspicion once more sharpened on Rephaim. "I know how Saphira came to these lands, but how did you?"

The dragonlord grimaced. "Vesna and I were always too fond of poking our noses in places we didn't belong. One day we finally strayed too far. I survived my passage into this world. Barely. And died on the wrong side of the veil." He exchanged a grin with Angela. "Rare is the soul that can see me on this side, so I take what I can get. A witch is better company by far than a werecat."

Solembum sniffed from his shelf.

Eragon considered what else his dragon had told him. "Saphira calls herself one of a kind. And you're... dead. A ghost. At least my living teacher can show me how to swing a sword. I'm not sure how much you can teach me."

"You're right," Rephaim agreed blankly. "My mind died with my body. It's my soul that's interacting with this plane. The corruption that killed me tainted it, so I'm certainly not about to reach out to you and ruin yourself and your dragon in the process. Vesna was also Dark, and I aligned myself to her. For you the Dark will come in time, but you will never know it like one solely of the Dark does. But a dragonlord's basic development is congruent enough."

Rephaim won his attention when he accurately described Eragon's gradual strengthening against injury, in addition to a quicker healing of his wounds that had finally resulted in the ability to heal himself completely in an act that caused magical exhaustion. He also predicted his increased speed and stamina. Eragon's brows rose when Rephaim ultimately predicted his recent ability to shoot fire from his fingertips.

"How...?"

"Dragons are elemental creatures bolstered by powerful bodies and a potent tie to the physical world. They pass their resistances on to their dragonlords, but also the same weakness to their opposing element. Light, in my case. Drawing upon your element to heal is more intrinsic to a dragonlord, considering their dragon's strong desire in keeping them alive and well." Rephaim flatly returned his gaze. "As to the fire... Well, you're a hothead by nature. Of course your first magical attack would be punching fire at whatever made you angry."

It had been ice, actually. But Eragon pressed his lips tight on that one.

Rephaim then blankly offered what he could and could not do for him. He could teach Eragon how to focus his healing to regenerate either himself or his magic, but his potion knowledge was useless in a world where its ingredients were not native. He could help Eragon channel his force into more precise attacks and strikes, but a dragonlord's greatest strengths had come from the armor forged for their order for centuries. Rephaim's set, while not burned with his body, was currently far beyond their reach.

Eragon accepted anyway. Any control of his abilities was better than none. "What of Brom?"

Angela smirked to herself, but Rephaim shrugged wanly. "He can't see or speak with me, and he is no dragonlord. You and Saphira are my concern. Tell him what you will."

Eragon lingered long enough for Rephaim to show him how to separate his healing magics. He could call upon both a red wave of power to revitalize his health or soothing blue for his magic. Rephaim cautioned him both had their limits. Depending on how he exerted himself magical exhaustion could prevent him from healing himself again for hours or days afterward.

They parted with the promise of more tutelage the following night, for Rephaim was stronger in the dark and then Eragon had time to spare. Angela generously allowed him use for of her window for clamoring back in their room unnoticed by Jeod's household.

Without the energy to do much else, Eragon stripped off his clothing and collapsed into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

As a mage Arra was well-acquainted with magic. The arcane came as natural as breathing. Even untrained layman could call up an extra burst of strength or jolt of magical energy to defend themselves if the situation called for it.

The enigmatic force of 'science' was magic's polar opposite, the domain of gnomes and the occasional madman. Arra vaguely knew a lot about science involved animating giant metal monsters with energy and mechanics instead of pure magic. The Ruins of Kordana, ancient as they were, were artificial to the core.

After hours of smashing her way through mechanical constructs, Arra felt almost tempted to lash out the owner of the mysterious, itinerant voice when it finally flashed into existence. She took the form of a young woman, brown hair cut short, and clad in tight dark blue clothes that had the look of a uniform.

"You made it!" the voice exclaimed joyfully, far clearer than it had managed earlier. "Oh, thank the maker!" The face of the woman smiled earnestly. "I'm Kordana. I'm sure you have many questions, and I will answer what I can."

Arra's eye twitched at the condescension heavy in those last words. Draco was still all for attacking. "Well, knowing what you are would be a good start." After all those blasted weeks in Amityvale she was an expert on ghosts. And Kordana was no ghost.

"I was the onboard Artificial Intelligence unit for this..." Kordana trailed off at Arra's look of utter bafflement. "Oh, think of me as a... magic illusion. A construct designed to help maintain control of this place. I've been here a long time. A very long time."

Arra's eyes narrowed. Whatever civilization had given rise to something like this should have still echoed in the legends, and Rhubarb's journal had mentioned nothing of Kordana's true nature. "How long?"

Kordana's avatar flickered. "I lost control of the security... constructs you were fighting. They destroyed all my repair constructs about... oh, a little shy of three thousand years ago. I think. I've been so confused by these last few centuries. I think my program is finally degrading."

For a moment Arra was boggled at an age even dragons considered impressive. Then she was flooded with guilt. Kordana was a sentient life of some sort, and Arra had plundered her home to steal a priceless treasure. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

"Long ago a kind priest brought a powerful magical artifact here to hide it. He kindly allowed me to draw power from it, for the last of my own was dying by that point. But now that it's been taken my power cells will die..."

Arra's eyes narrowed. "Was this artifact called the Wind Pearl, by any chance?"

"It could be called that, I suppose. The clans of this island call it their Jewel of the Four Winds." For a moment Kordana's form wavered and vanished, an illusion of a giant shimmering pearl floating in her place. "It is truly called the Wind Orb, and it has fallen into dangerous hands. I did my best to stop the thief, but all I did was burn up more of my own power." Kordana reappeared, face pleading. "Even if you do not return the Wind Orb from me, you must retrieve it before he uses it to his own ends! If he does the consequences could be dire!"

Arra squared her shoulders and vowed to do in all her power to retrieve the Wind Orb, or whatever else it was called, from evil hands. Then she asked Kordana for any information she had about the thief to help the hunt.

Kordana's form vanished once more, replaced by a familiar cocky bastard with his sword slung over his shoulder.

For a moment Arra gaped up into Drakath's gloating face. Then she rattled off every swear she knew. And for good measure did so again in draconic.

Chapter Text

Haunted by restless dreams, Brom at least gave up the guise of sleep by dawn. He cleaned himself up, but did not shave away the last remnants of his beard, for the stubble helped disguise how little time affected him and obscured his past identity from any who might have glimpsed his face prior to settling down in Carvahall.

Delicately he opened his mind once to check upon the boy. He was relieved to find both Eragon and Saphira deep in sleep. Hopefully exhausted from their travels they should not bother him for hours yet.

Brom emerged from his chamber to discover he had beaten the butler up. Jeod, dressed simply and without a merchant's pretensions, was already awake and waiting in the library. Without listening ears the years melted away between them. For a short while they fell back into their usual banter and reminiscing of old glories.

Jeod's cheer finally wavered, and Brom's contentment with it. "I'd say it was high time that damn egg finally hatched, but given that Saphira is rather the wrong color, I assume there's more to it than that."

Prudence warred against the temptation to finally unload his worries on a sympathetic ear. He heaved a ragged sigh. "Jeod, not only is Saphira the wrong dragon, I doubt she is even truly a dragon."

Jeod considered this. "Well, perhaps a rather small and impertinent dragon, but a dragon nonetheless. I'm not an expert on them, but what else could she be?"

"Perhaps she is mistaken for a dragon the same way a Ra'zac is for a man."

Jeod paled. For a moment Brom thought he would accuse him of japing. Instead his old companion turned for the shelves. He retrieved a seemingly innocuous book, an old ledger, and opened past the first few pages to reveal yellowed pages and arcane scrawls.

"There are curiosities tucked away in here, and the rantings of mad men, and then secrets that would see the king blot out my line and every one tangentically connected to me," he said gravely. "It's amazing what coin and the right connections can turn up. Galbatorix is always trying to make the most dangerous of magic known only to himself, but that makes the spell-casters all the more determined to unravel what even he cannot."

Brom poured over Jeod's most secret of caches. The information was far from complete, mere tattered pages rescued from lost tomes or mere summaries or speculations over full spell books and experiments.

At last he wearily turned away from them. Were not so hardened against the Empire's cruelties some of the suggested sacrifices and experiments over such corrupted magic could have made him vomit. It was cold comfort no mentions of anything vaguely like Saphira or the Amulet were referenced.

"I'm half a mind to burn this abomination altogether," he muttered, "and the other part of me glad you preserved it. Gods forbid this knowledge ever be lost to everyone but Galbatorix. As long it is known it can be warded against."

Jeod bowed his head. "This is only a copy, for redundancy's sake. Of course the Varden also holds a copy, because of course all the Du Vrangr Gata together could not make a single one work."

Brom returned the false ledger to its hiding place. Then he added his own protections, subtle enchantments that would turn a searching eye elsewhere and make a searcher more inclined to pick up the books next to it.

A quick mental prodding revealed Eragon and his little dragon still fast asleep. At least unconscious they could cause no mischief.

Eragon blearily awoke to sharp rapping on his door. Saphira hissed when she tumbled off his chest. The sound became muffled when he tossed the blanket over her.

Then Brom stormed in, his voice raised as he loudly cursed his nephew out for his laziness as he slammed the door behind him. For a moment Eragon feared his rage genuine. Had he and Saphira been sighted at Angela's? How much of the truth did he have to tell?

Brom's fury fell from his face as he restored Saphira's disguise. She grudgingly tolerated his magic, slinking away as soon as he was finished. His eyes twinkled when he turned to Eragon.

"I hope you're both well rested and well recovered from your journey here," he said in amusement. "I'm afraid I'll have to wake you even sooner tomorrow to keep up the ruse. Now go and make yourself presentable. We're guests in a fine home, for gods' sake."

Eragon nodded mutely. His teacher blissfully took his leave without once mentioning their nocturnal absence.

"Should I tell him?" he whispered in draconic. Saphira was half his soul, after all. Perhaps she could solve his agonizing indecision.

She snarled at him, eyes burning bright through the shadow of her feline facade. "Absolutely not, stone-head. You're not a Dragon Rider. You're mine, and Rephaim can teach you how to make yourself all the worthier for it. This has nothing to do with that old liar."

He bristled. "Brom saved our lives!"

"Under false pretenses! He thinks we're both something we're not, that we're both destined to save this little backwater from its crazy king." The Dragon Amulet flared hot upon his chest from the force of her words. "Besides, you were never in any real danger. If I'm really pressed I don't even need the Amulet to protect you. The Ra'zac pick off humans. We can raze whole cities."

Eragon pulled back. Saphira pressed forward. Through the thin layer of false magic her warm scales were assurance against his side.

"He tried to go behind your back, Eragon. He reached out to me, as if he could ever sway me from your side! Even now, he's keeping almost all of his secrets from you! You feel it like I do. Why not return the favor?"

Eragon frowned and clutched his Amulet tightly as the old resentment sprang back up. He had pressed Brom for more answers about his life, why he had tarried so long in Carvahall and more of his relationship to the rebellion. The old man had sidestepped all questions with vague platitudes before trying to turn his attentions elsewhere, such as swordplay or his utter lack of progress with magic. Brom had never even told him the full story behind the Amulet, no matter how significant it had become in Yazuac.

"Fine," he said at last. "For now this is our little secret. But I still reserve the right to tell him later."

Saphira rolled her eyes but silently accepted it.

At last Eragon dressed properly. Then he picked up the small mirror on the bedside table to check his appearance. For a moment his reflection rendered him mute. In all their weeks of travel he had relied on the dull surfaces of ponds and Saphira's dubious feedback on human grooming to keep up his appearance. When had he last seen himself so clearly?

Any lingering baby fat had been stripped from his cheeks by training and hard travel. His features, most notably his jaw line, were stronger and more defined. With a painful twinge he recognized traces of Roran in his face.

Frowning, Eragon tugged at the sleeve too tightly clinging to his wrist. His tunics, having always been a bit large to grow into, had no more room to spare. His swordplay had paid off in the arms and shoulders. More vertical growth left his hemline closer to the top of his breaches than his calves. Perhaps it was time to invest some crowns into larger clothing before they left Teirm.

Saphira considered his self-inspection. "Well, your kind still grows too disturbingly fast for my liking, but at least now I can't pick my teeth with you anymore."

Eragon rolled his eyes back at her. With a dragon in disguise trotting at his heels, he departed for the library. The butler was waiting outside to show him the way.

In a grand chamber filled with seemingly endless shelves of books, Brom and Jeod both sat with already a large stack conquered between them. Saphira sniffed at the scrolls once before curling by the fire. She grumbled about the dampness in the air.

Eragon studied the titles with narrowed eyes. He did not read often, especially not since Garrow had considered him fully trained. It took time to puzzle the words out. His shoulders squared the challenge. "Did you find anything yet?"

Rephaim had briefly mentioned falling out of the sky and atop a Rider and her dragon. Perhaps some reference of his death or his belongings had survived the purge.

"Nothing whatsoever," Brom growled.

"Not yet, at least," Jeod supplied more diplomatically. From the table beside him he offered a book bound in fine black leather. "I recommend you start your search here."

Eragon ran his fingers over the mysterious runes carved in the leather. He flipped through pages of fine glossy ink. A column of script, long and flowing, caught his eye. With some squinting he recognized the sharp points and odd inflections of the ancient language. He frowned as he considered the title.

"Domia abr Wyrda," he muttered. "Dominance of Fate?"

Brom nodded in approval. "Aye, lad. Well done. It details a complete history of this land, starting from before the elves landed and ending but a few decades ago. The Empire decried it as blasphemy and had practically had every copy burned. I think this is the most complete one left of its kind."

Jeod shook his head ruefully. "Some poor fool tried to pawn off to a trader down by the dock. Fortunately, I was there to save it and his neck along with it. He didn't have a clue he could be executed for sedition just by having it in his possession. I read it ages ago, but a fresh pair of eyes might be able to pick up something useful. Heslant describes dragon magic as miracles, as the primal energies of the earth made manifest. He documents the most notable instances through history in one section. Perhaps one like your Saphira made mention."

"Maybe," Eragon allowed. He knew Saphira was the only dragon of Lore alive in Alagaesia. He had not dared ask Rephaim if his own dragon's body had survived the fall between worlds to rot on a foreign shore.

With the heavy tome in his lap Eragon settled down into a leather armchair. At the very least he could hone his reading and increase his knowledge of the ancient language. Rephaim might have been the uncontested authority of Lore, but it was Alagaesia they resided in. The better Eragon knew its history the better he knew how he and Saphira fit into it.

They read for hours on end. Words still swam before his vision even when he closed his eyes. His head throbbed with the information taken in. For a while Saphira had idly listened in. Then she had been miffed at the revelation any race of dragon, even one from another world, had nearly been obliterated by elves of all creatures. And then had created a mutual pact to forever bind their races together.

"If their races were so equal, how come the elves are in hiding and the dragons here all but extinct?"

Brom had blinked, earnestly surprised Saphira had addressed him even if she relied on Eragon as translator and mediator. "The wild dragons were a proud race that had close bonds of kinship. When but a single one was endangered the entire clan rose to defense. Faced with subjugation to Galbatorix, they chose to defy him to the bitter end. A dragon's magic is unpredictable. They got their revenge upon the Forsworns' dragons by magically stripping them of their very names and sense of selves, but against the direct force of their power they were no match. They chose to die free than live as his slaves."

Saphira had huffed a jet of flame, setting the rug beneath her alight. Eragon had hastily doused the flames with a burst of ice that melted into water upon contact. "If they had bonded themselves to proper elements they would have survived. Some of them, at least."

Eragon had frowned and kept her bitter comment to himself. Brom had still sensed her mood and offered a final revelation. The knowledge that three eggs had survived the genocide and languished in Galbatorix's possession was poor consolation.

The heavy conversations weighed upon them all. Jeod, citing the need to see to Helen, retired first. Eragon and Saphira followed in his footsteps.

Not long after they retreated to their room Brom tried to seek them out. Saphira's furious mind blazing against made him admit defeat for the night.

Under cover of night they at last returned to their refuge. Eragon groaned in dismay when Rephaim insisted their first subject be history.

"What?" the ghost retorted, arching a brow. "Last night I taught you the bare basics of what being a dragonlord entailed. You have to understand the context of why people like us even exist."

He levitated a blank scroll from Angela's stack and unfolded itself on the table between them. On its own a pen rose, dipped itself in an inkwell, and deftly wove an intricate diagram. The runes on it points were at least intuitive. Eragon picked out familiar symbols, the flame and a water droplet.

"Behold, the eight cardinal elements; Light and Dark, Earth and Wind, Fire and Ice, Water and Energy. They are the prime components of Lore, the threads that weave the tapestry. And in their purest form they are represented by their Avatars."

Eragon's eyes widened when Rephaim told of fantastic beings composed entirely of Fire or another element, and were that element embodied. "They're gods?"

"Eh, not worshiped as such where I'm from, but apparently so on other continents." Rephaim shrugged. "Trust me, there's stranger gods out there. If the Avatars are the elements in the purest form we can divine, then the dragons of Lore are those powers made manifest. For millennium the Avatars only showed themselves to the dragons, and each chose a champion amongst them. They became the original Great Dragons, who pass that power down to their own offspring."

Angela, chopping herbs in the background, casually chimed in, "Not every child, of course. Only one can hold that kind of power at a time."

Eragon blinked, for their entire conversation had been in draconic. "How..."

The witch tittered. "Please. Spend as much time with that spook as I do and you pick up a thing or two. Especially if he keeps forgetting them himself."

Rephaim purposefully cleared his throat, even if he didn't have a throat to clear. "And then about... oh, a thousand years prior or so now, by my reckoning, a great corrupting darkness tried to take that land. It had no regard for other realms, or even its own, and all of Lore threatened to be torn apart. To bring balance back, and give all creatures a chance against that corruption, the Avatars each revealed themselves to a chosen human champion. Each coalesced a pure orb of their energy. Together, with the power of the Great Dragons, they drove that foulness back to its pit and restored the balance."

He tapped the phantom Amulet around his own neck. "And so the first Dragon Amulets were forged to foster that trust between our races. On its own a dragon is a formidable force, but they are stubborn creatures of habit. Those willing to bond to a human bond themselves to a force of unmatched creativity and tenacity."

Solembum apparently understood enough draconic to purr in agreement, stretching out on his shelf. Oh, yes. You humans are like cockroaches. So very fast-breeding and so very hard to kill.

Eragon's brow furrowed as he turned to his dragon. "And how come you aren't bonded to an element?"

Saphira rolled her eyes. "Because I'm above settling for just one, and so are you."

He rolled his eyes and let the argument be. Drawing strength from one element opened up weakness to its opposite. By denying themselves a singular strength they were protected from one glaring weak point.

"Did you remember your preferred weapon tonight?"

The magic of Lore was often channeled through instruments that honed and magnified its inherent power, like the Amulet did for dragon magic. They ran the gamut from simple swords and staffs to intricate masterpieces bonded to sentient spirits. The effectiveness of such a weapon was finicky. Great weapons could outright refuse an unworthy hand or weaker ones shatter with too much raw power poured into them. A mage's power sang through a staff but fizzled from a blade.

Eragon presented Zar'roc in its red wine sheath. "It's the only weapon I have any real practice with, wooden sticks and staffs aside. And it's not bonded to any element."

"In your case a conventional weapon of Lore would focus you to favor when element when your strength comes from your unpredictability. Considering the circumstances a Rider's blade is the best option available to..." Rephaim's curious squint deepened into a true frown as he inspected the blade's glyph. "That's Zar'roc, isn't it?"

"Aye." His grip tightened as the mood in the room grew heavy. "Is that a problem?"

Abandoning her knife and cutting table, Angela leaned in to examine the blade with the same intense study she reserved for her amphibian test subjects. She held out a hand. "If I may?"

Eragon offered up sword and sheath, but Angela's hand firmly grasped the hilt. Her eyebrows flew straight to her hairline as she drew the blade. Rephaim flinched back as if burned, transparent form wavering as he retreated into the shadows. In the firelight Zar'roc gleamed as if dripping with fresh blood.

Angela whistled in morbid appreciation. "Perhaps it picked up an affinity after all."

Rephaim arched an irate brow at Saphira. She blinked innocently back. "I wonder whose fault that is."

"Oh, hush," Angela chided. "Considering Zar'roc's history it could have picked this up all on its own ages ago. The only weapon out there with a greater reputation is Vrangr."

Solembum's face twisted as he made a snide comment. The witch paled, but the werecat did not share his words with Eragon. He simply stood, stretched a final time, and vanished into the shadows of the shop.

Eragon glowered at Zar'roc's red color. Even Morzan's dragon must have breathed fire at some point or another. "It's Fire, isn't it? Indiscriminately burning everything in its path?"

"Nothing so mundane." Angela sheathed Zar'roc, stepping away from him while Rephaim drew close to her. "This blade is pure Evil."

Eragon stared flatly back at her. He waited for her to burst out laughing or Rephaim to outright disparage her wild theories about the magic of his realm. Their faces were both as solemn as death.

"The elements act true to their natures. Fire burns, and Ice freezes, and so on. They are primordial forces of the world that simply are what they are. And then there are those weapons forged with the sole purpose of inflicting misfortune upon the world." Eragon recoiled. He nearly dropped Zar'roc in horror. Only Rephaim's calm face, far from alarmed, held back his fear. "An Evil weapon doesn't make you evil. Gods know you aren't that weak-willed. Plenty of heroes in my day wielded ones they claimed from some tyrant or another. With you as its wielder Zar'roc can swiftly learn to inflict its greatest damage upon those you consider worthy of evil... like the king's creatures."

He glanced dubiously down at Saphira. "What do you think about this?"

She sniffed up at the sword. "It's the best pointy stick we've stumbled across so far, so it'll do for now. Anyone that tries to hurt you deserves evil."

Not a glowing recommendation, but her apathy toward the Evilness of Zar'roc lessened his dread. At last he relented in drawing the blade for a practice bout.

Sparring with a spirit was impractical but Angela proved an enthusiastic partner. Her blade was named Tinkledeath, and befitted a wielder just as odd and vaguely unsettling. Her erratic fighting style was another exasperation, but at least he received practice in both applying swordplay to a dragonlord's strengths and practice against a partner far crazier than Brom.

Chapter Text

Arra did not know the true extent of the Wind Pearl's power. She didn't need to, the same way she hadn't needed to know the box Lady Celestia traveled with had contained the egg of the dragon that could have saved the world. All that mattered was Drakath had once more found a way to endanger lives in yet another grasp for power. She had foiled him before, and Avatars help her, she'd do so again.

Rhubarb's contact among the sneevil ninjas had at least confirmed Drakath was still in hiding on the island. He had reached out to his master, Sepulchure. Considering Sho'Nuff was currently devoid of undead skeletons crawling up from the depths and black clouds shrouding its skies, he had not yet come to claim the orb himself yet.

Rhubarb had sent message to his superior. Now Captain Blackberry himself summoned Arra before him.

The Red Betty was not docked in town, but anchored out at the mouth of the cove. Rhubarb wasn't the type to question his superior. Arra wasn't in a position to complain about being bundled into a rowboat manned by two twitchy pirates. For a moment she thought them terrified of Draco.

"He might look intimidatingly adorable, but he's the sweetest bag of bones once you get to know him," she assured her escorts.

The younger one blinked in bemusement at her. The older, gray and grizzled, rolled his one remaining eye. "It ain't that lich o' yours that has us ill at ease, lass. The captain is a formidable man in his own right, but this Pearl business makes him a tad more fierce than usual."

Arra was still trying to devise a response to that when they finally reached the Red Betty. Even with her limited experience she could tell it was a fine ship, the most impressive docked at Osprey Cove, sleek and well-shaped. Draco hissed at the sight of it, springing back into her lap and as far away from the hull as he could.

"Aye," the grizzled captain remarked. "The captain has tha' sort of effect on all sorts of beasts."

Arra frowned, a sense of wrongness stirring in her own gut. "No. That's not it." She bent close to the dracolich in her lap and asked him what was wrong in quiet draconic.

Draco snarled up at the ship. "It's that stupid boat. There's something wrong about it."

Having breached necromancer hideouts and a pyromancer's lair, Arra concurred. She wrinkled her own nose. "Like Zorbak wrong? Or Xan wrong?"

"Neither," he said immediately. "Zant's magic tried to tell me what to do and Xan's just wanted to burn everything around it. This is like... mildew, and water that makes you rot wet and soggy."

Arra understood his unease. Most necromancers worked with dried flesh and bone as moisture tended to hasten the decomposition of their creations. Draco, kept freeze-dried by his own ice magic, was still not completely immune to it. Then she remembered the trickling waterfall where Zorbak had first reanimated his clutch of dragon eggs. Only a miracle had prevented heavy rains from flooding the cavern and rendering them rotten to the core, too far gone for even a moglin to bring back.

Hanging back wasn't an option. Not when Drakath could leave Sho'Nuff at any moment with the Wind Orb. "You can stay behind. I won't be long."

"Fat chance!" Spreading his skeletal wings, Draco fluttered straight onto the ship and left her to scramble up after him.

Her unease amplified when she came into contact with the hull itself. The deck of the Red Betty was pristine, but a faint stench lingered as if something had been dredged up from the deeps and left to rot in the sunlight. Moisture seeped into her shoes and the hem of her robe. Draco landed solidly on her shoulders, cold and comforting.

Captain Blackberry towered above them. His fine red coat and black tricorn hat did little to civilize his unkempt black beard and the vicious scars visible above them. Or that he had both a peg leg and hook hand.

"Ahoy there, lass! Welcome aboard the Red Betty, the most feared ship in the eight known seas of Lore." Sharp eyes appraised them from beneath bushy brows. "Struck dumb by the mere sight of her, aren't ye?"

"There's no other ship out there like her," Arra agreed diplomatically. "Rhubarb sent us."

"'Course he did," Captain Blackberry said gruffly. "Rhubarb says yer pretty suave fer a landlubber... that ye get what needs doin, done. He may an honor-bound idiot, but he has a good eye for talent... the eye I didn't take from him. That was the last time he let the ship's cook overcook my steak, by Triton!"

Working beneath a mad moglin now allowed Arra the composure to smile politely while the captain laughed uproariously to himself. Draco's claws tightened against her shoulder.

Abruptly the captain's laughter cutoff when he glared intently at them. His gaze flicked from Draco down to her Dragon Amulet. "Yer the lass that stole herself a dead dragon and an Amulet, aren't ye? That's gotten closer to capturing the Wind Pearl than any pirate so far? And yet Rhubarb also tells me this Drakath fellow took it out from yer very nose!"

Arra near strangled her Shivering Staff. "Not after today, I can assure you. Drakath as a lot to answer for."

"I don't allow failure on the ship but considering your performance so far I'm giving a chance to redeem yourself, swab! I've tracked Drakath to a cave on the southern tip on the island... You'll have to take the underwater path to get to him quickly." Captain Blackberry flashed her a shark's smile. "I guess ye get to test the quality of those underwater breathing potions the ninjas flooded the sea with."

The mage steadfastly his laughter and then his mad ramblings on the monks in the Temple of the Four Winds and their poxy prophecy that the Wind Pearl would only be safe if returned to their temple. When Captain Blackberry ordered her to do whatever she wanted to Drakath, so long as she returned the Pearl, Arra quietly nodded. She kept silent even when he promised to reward her with Rhubarb's position as his first mate.

Then she clambered into the solitary dinghy awaiting them and set to rowing. She was all too relieved to see the Red Betty and its crazed captain finally slip out of sight.

Forget pirates. Forget ninjas. First she would tan Drakath's hide. After that she was promptly returning the Wind Orb to Kordana and getting Warlic to erect his strongest wards around it. Then she'd call in King Alteon's navy and let them deal with this mess.

At first their stay in Teirm was productive at all hours. Eragon and Saphira could both train with their secret teachers under cover of night and then sneak in a few hours of sleep before Brom came calling. While Saphira contentedly snoozed before the fire in her cat guise Eragon could hone both his reading and skill with the ancient language. Brom pushed him further in his mental arts, and with more secrets to hide Eragon became all the more effective at shutting him out and hiding his true emotions behind shields and misdirection. When Brom pushed him to practice traditional magic, Eragon put up a token effort even while his mind dwelt on Rephaim's lessons.

As the days dragged by and his knowledge improved, Eragon started catching up on his sleep during his hours shut away in the library. Brom grumbled about it but recognized from his weariness he simply needed the sleep. Then, as his reading speed caught up to Brom's and his knowledge of the ancient language veered from the practical into the abstract, he grew restless.

Teirm's cramped conditions and prying eyes from all corners of Jeod's household left him nowhere to practice his swordplay with Brom. Angela's shop was cramped. While her training sessions were grueling for him, Saphira could not benefit in the same way. The growing impatience of the dragon slipped into the mind of her dragonlord.

Then came the day where Eragon found himself listless not even an hour into their study. His eyes flicked over pages of the Domia abr Wyrda without taking in a single word. With one hand he absently toyed with his Amulet, running his fingers over the golden dragon until he knew its every inch by heart.

No longer did Saphira nap. She paced before the hearth, the shadow of the cat near burned away by the fire radiating from her. The flames in the hearth seemed to pulse in time with her heavy breaths.

"Enough!" Dragon and dragonlord glanced up, startled by the force of Brom's voice. His blue eyes fell on them. "What ails you, boy?"

"I..." Eragon inhaled deeply, trying to put his emotions into words. Why did the salt smell so strong now when now his nose scarcely registered the sea air after breathing it for so long? "I feel like we're dithering away here while life passes us by. That there's so more I'm..." He glanced to Saphira, and amended, "We're supposed to be doing."

Brom's face softened as he glanced at Saphira. "Dragons, even little ones, aren't meant to be caged like beasts in a menagerie. Our search here has proved fruitless. Perhaps it is best for us to depart Teirm soon and continue with our wanderings."

Eragon did not protest. Rephaim had told him just last night they had reached the current breadth of his abilities, and to find him again when he could better handle the next stage of his training.

"My name still counts for something in this town, I'll have you know." Jeod lifted the quill at his side, neatly wrote something on a sheet of paper before him, and presented it to Eragon with a graceful flourish. "So long as the gates at the gate see my summons they'll not doubt an errand boy of mine is checking on the status of some leather I'm expecting from one of the nearby villages and expected back promptly."

Brom sighed. "There's the still the matter of your errand boy walking out with a cat and returning with a dragon. He can't make the illusion on his own."

Eragon thought for a moment. Then he dashed to his room, dumped out his rucksack, and returned with it. With a beleaguered sigh Brom enchanted it so eyes darted away from the sack and none would feel the need to question its contents. Saphira sniffed at it. So desperate was her need for escape she silently agreed to the humiliation.

With Saphira in her cat guise coiled around his neck, he saddled up Alsvid and rode out in his imaginary errand. When Teirm was behind them, he broke his horse into a gallop, and flew down the road.

As they left the main path behind on the route down to deserted rocky cliffs Saphira sprang from his shoulders and spread her wings, her guise falling away in a flash of flame. Alsvid whinnied in alarm and nearly bucked his rider.

Eragon finally coaxed the poor gelding into a halt. He took a moment to soothe the horse before securely hitching him to a tree a safe distance from both potential thieves and Saphira's unbridled power.

When he finally made it down to the cliffs Saphira was a little blue blur on the horizon. He watched her dash into the clouds and dive down to skim the sea. Sometimes she sought him out, swooping so close the wind whipped at his hair and brand new tunic.

Watching her aerial acrobatics, Eragon settled down with a sigh and basked in her joy.

His twinge of envy ached all the same.

Arra emerged into Drakath's cave hideout sopping wet and rather tired from having to fight her way through a route full of hostile shark-people, but miraculously not drowned. Just how potent were those underwater breathing potions to work so far from where she had accidentally exploded the Anna Maria?

Draco hopped out just behind her, already furiously freezing the water dripping from his bones into frost. Due to his complete lack of lungs and a life, he had never truly been at risk.

Despite her initial belief the shark-people had turned out to not be Drakath's sentinels, but rather freaked out by a second human and a walking skeleton so casually walking around their underwater home. Arra raised her staff, intently searching the cavern for any sign of true minions, but the tunnel was unguarded.

They discovered Drakath at the end, alone and glaring down at the giant opalescent pearl that floated beside him. Arra's lips curved into a triumphant smirk.

"There you are, and with no friends this time. You'll be easy."

The exiled prince whirled to face her, unsheathing his sword with a growl. "You-" Catching sight of Draco, he froze, before his mouth twisted into a sneer. "Don't expect me to believe that thing is the dragon of destiny. I heard how you bungled that one up. Is that why you got this sad sack of bones? Killed a real dragon and needed an undead replacement to make yourself feel better?"

Arra's fists clenched around her staff. Draco snarled with the force her rage. "This is your last chance, Drakath. The Wind Orb. Now."

Drakath brought his sword to bear. "There is nothing you could do to me worse than the price for failing Sepulchure. If you want the orb, bitch, then come and fetch it."

Neither mage nor prince moved first. Her Dragon Amulet blazed around her neck. The Wind Pearl flared with it, drowning out the world in an aura of white. Arra screamed in surprise when the solid stone beneath her feet fell away, but the wind had ripped the air from her lungs, and tugged her forward like a rag doll.

For one dizzying moment she hurtled through a white void. Then they stood aboard the Red Betty, sun bright overhead. She greedily gasped in a breath of fresh sea air.

"Drakath," she murmured as she fought the urge to wretch. "What did you do?"

"I... I did nothing," he mumbled, as stunned as she was. "The Wind Orb... Such power..."

Draco pressed against her side, a cold that anchored her back to reality, where the Amulet still burned against her chest. "..That was dragon magic."

Drakath let out a delirious giggle of disbelief. It quickly grew into deep-bellied, crowing laughter, for the Pearl still floated obediently by his side. "The orb must know I am the rightful king of this land. That has to be why it protected me." For a moment he considered their sudden surroundings. "It... must have brought have me here so I could defeat you in front of all your disgusting pirate friends. Yes, that must be it. Fight me again, bitch, if you dare!"

The prince threw out a commanding hand to call down upon her death. Arra summoned up her magic and retaliated with her strongest blast.

The impact sent Drakath sprawling against the deck. Groaning, he climbed to his feet to gape at the floating, passive Wind Orb.

"I am your rightful king! Protect me!"

Arra rolled her eyes. It was quickly becoming apparent Drakath couldn't even use the Wind Orb to open a jar. "I'm not sure it was even protecting you in the first place, you brat. Alteon is king of this land, and that is the way it should be."

Drakath staggered to his feet, wielding his blade high. "You'll pay for this disrespect! I commanded the Wind Orb once, and I'll do it again!"

"I don't think so, you fool," drawled another.

Arra braced herself when the Wind Orb seemingly rose at his command. Then it flew past them both. It came to rest diligently at Captain Blackberry's side. Drakath sputtered indignantly.

The captain sneered down at him. "Even though Kordana is old and her magic failing I wasn't fool enough to risk my own life for the orb. Yet when I leaked its location to Sepulchure I didn't dare dream he'd send an imbecile like ye to retrieve it. 'Course, the orb only wakes up for dragon magic. Good thing you had that bag o' bones with ye, lass."

Arra snarled and bodily placed herself before Draco. "You'll have to kill me first."

The pirate jeered at her. "Your beastie's played his part, lass. Twenty years ago fate brought me that spell in a strange chest floating in the ocean. I had its power woven in the very boards and planks that make up the Red Betty. You're aboard a living spell, one that will make me... into a god!"

The Wind Orb pulsed, and the ship with it, sickly red runes lighting up along its surface. As the lines began to form, Arra began to feel nauseous, so she locked eyes on Captain Blackberry's face and refused to look down. Even then the strange lines danced before her mind's eye.

"Soon, this spell shall transform me into a monster that hasn't been seen in a thousand generations of sailors. I will become the King Braken!"

The pirate's form wavered as the same wrongness flowed into him. Arra skewed her eyes shut. Draco roared for her to turn away, the air around him howling with a blizzard's shielding fury. Only Drakath's later retching and Blackberry's horrible, distorted laughter made her open them again.

She gagged herself. Blackberry's head was gone, consumed by a squid with oozing orange tentacles and far too many eyes. A scrap of black beard still dangled from its vicious green beak. His human hand, melted into a tentacle, clutched his cutlass. Beneath his fine clothing his humanoid form bubbled and roiled with further mutation. Arra shuddered at the sound of snapping bone and crawling flesh.

"It's working!" the creature declared in its distorted voice. "Soon I will be the god of the sea! Ye have the honor of being my very first worshipers... as well as my first meal when I fully transform." Captain Blackberry's laughter ended in a gurgle as the body lost its ability for human speech altogether.

"Me? Worship you?" Drakath snorted disdainfully. "You look like you caught a venereal disease in every port you visited."

The creature uttered a high and rasping screech. It spread its crumbling arms in a clear motion for them to fall on their knees before it. Arra rolled her eyes at it.

"Bow to yourself, I'm busy." She glanced purposefully at Drakath, the only other human on hand to stop this abomination before it grew too powerful to kill. "Look, Drakath, this thing isn't good for either of us. If we all work together, just this one time, we might be able to kill it so we can all go back to hating each other."

For a moment the prince's haughty expression fell from his face. For a moment Arra allowed herself to hope. Then he laughed in her face and vanished in a puff of smoke.

"Coward," Draco sneered. "But we don't need him anyway."

Her Dragon Amulet burned with the force of his zeal. Arra ignored the temptation. She was no true dragonlord and her dracolich no true dragon.

Raising her staff, she pressed on as a mage.

(no no not again oh gods please not again-)

Eragon jerked, nearly falling from his perch by the cliff side as he frantically struggled to act against a surge of desperation he knew, deep down, to not be his own. Yet he clenched from it all the same.

Zar'roc had been left behind in Teirm. His hand instinctively grasped for the Dragon Amulet. He called her and so she came.

Saphira fell from the sky, form wavering before it fell away with all the world around them...

Between one heartbeat and the next he plummeted through an endless void. He could not see, for he had no eyes and no body, but still an endless and dizzying myriad of colors swirled past. But she was with him, she always was, and that was what mattered.

When he came back to himself the wind was shrieking in his ears and his stomach had rammed itself up near his throat. With muscle memory born from horseback his legs clenched for dear life against the familiar warmth and muscle that shifted beneath him. His hands fumbled for one ivory spike rising from the broad expanse of sapphire scales before wrapping around it in a death grip.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from inside him. They were flying! Together. Like a dragon and her lord should.

Saphira was not what she was, but what she would one day become. Her form was not small and compact, but lean and graceful. Her neck, now long and serpentine, turned so that she might gaze upon him with her true features. Her snout was long and she bared her rows of glistening fangs in a triumphant grin. Her face was wreathed in ivory spikes and horns that had not yet sprang up, but her brilliant blue eyes were no less dull.

Eragon grinned at her, but it fell from his face when he turned his gaze downward.

The lush green land and turquoise seas below him were certainly not Teirm's craggy coast and gray waves. Teirm was a city of high and formidable walls. It did not in any way resemble the small town sprawled out along this unfamiliar shore. In the harbor ships bucked and heaved with the force of the waves pounding the docks.

His narrowed gaze glanced down at the mouth of the cove, where the one ship not safely anchored was ruthlessly tossed by swells that might break it in half at any moment. They narrowed further upon spying one human figure clinging to the mast with one hand and a small figure no larger than Saphira's true form in the other.

Orange tentacles and a squid's mantle erupted from the water, swatting the ship back and forth like a cat toying with a mouse. They belonged to a beast large enough to down entire fleets.

Eragon snarled. With a bone-shaking roar Saphira dove, and they fell upon the colossus with fang and fire.

The wrath of the ocean swelled up to meet them.

Chapter Text

The wind rattled the glass in their panes to the verge of shattering. It shrieked in through the chimney, driving the fire low and near chasing it onto the rug. The gale raged through Teirm, tearing at everything not nailed down and at the very scars Saphira's death had rended in his soul.

Brom sprang to his feet. In his heart of hearts he knew that damned little dragon to be the cause. And she had dragged his son down with her.

Sensing his intent, Jeod rose with him, the years falling away from his shoulders as the rebel agent stood sure alongside him. He didn't bother with his usual elaborate dress, only a cloak to cover his simple clothing and his rapier at his side. "Of course I'm coming with you, old man. Not even your charm works on surly guards that know my face and name."

Brom huffed, pushing his way through the household with little regard to its servants. "As if we can stay, considering what is about to fall upon our heads."

Jeod curtly ordered his butler to ready their horses, for Evan's errand had stranded him out in the storm and someone needed to retrieve the boy. Alone again, he added, "And without disguises you so brazenly associated with a suspected rebel sympathizer. All their suspicions about us both if you and the boy go charging off into this chaos. Give it at least a day or two."

Brom bit back his impatience. This was an argument for another time, when Eragon and his brat of a dragon were safe and sound.

An eternity passed before their horses were readied, plain dun Arvak and a mare of refined features and illustrious pedigree. They rode their mismatched mounts side by side in a brisk trot. The few carts and pedestrians that dared the windstorm scurried out of their way, for both Brom and Jeod projected the impatience of powerful men. One word from Jeod had the guards at the gate hastening to obey.

With only open road ahead Brom spurred Arvak into a full gallop. Jeod's experience with the area had directed Eragon and Saphira south, where the road eventually parted from the shore and left them miles of deserted coastline. Yet even then many paths diverged from the main route, and the coast was long and winding. Perhaps Saphira had even grew in size and spirited Eragon away altogether.

Brom opened his mind far and wide, searching for a telltale spark. Her soul blazed like a bonfire but only in close proximity.

Despite the relative warmth of the coast, the wind screaming in from the sea was harsh and cold. For a moment a deeper chill prickled his skin. Arvak and Jeod's mare, eyes rolling, snorted and skidded away from an invisible threat. Even as Brom's mind revealed no other but him and Jeod nearby, for frightened animals had long since fled or taken shelter, phantom hands tugged at his reins.

Remembering the mystery of the Dragon Amulet, Brom allowed himself to be guided. He turned his gaze and, for a moment, swore pale eyes met his own. Jeod uttered a curse.

Then he blinked, and gazed upon a deer path he had overlooked in his haste. Fresh hoof prints had kicked up clumps of dirt and grass.

Brom urged Arvak onward. Not far down the path they discovered Alsvid, firmly tethered to a tree despite repeated attempts to pull himself free. Brom briefly delved into the animal's mind to confirm both Eragon and Saphira had willingly come this way. He sent calm and assurance to the poor gelding, dismounting from his own horse to hitch him to the same post. The path ahead was narrow and winding. He now moved faster on foot.

The tops of the trees closest to the cliff side were near snapped off. Waves thundered down on the rocks below. Out in the west the sky was near black from the storm that raged offshore. He knew his son and Saphira to be at its heart.

Fists clenched in a stranglehold around his staff, Brom watched it howl, and waited for it to break upon them.

When Captain Blackberry's mutated body, thoroughly battered and frostbitten, finally toppled overboard, Arra leaned against her Shivering Staff and gasped for breath. For one weary moment she allowed herself to believe the fight was finally over. Drakath was gone and Captain Blackberry's dead body sinking to the bottom of the sea. They were free to take the Wind Pearl back to Kordana and leave Sho'Nuff behind them.

Draco hissed, low and rasping, as the Red Betty started to shift ominously beneath them. Only then did Arra realize Captain Blackberry had been transmogrifying himself into a god of the sea, and she had just dumped him into his element.

The waves churned, the ship's rocking worsening. Reflexively Arra reached down to snatch Draco, pressing his bony body tightly against her own, for she didn't need to worry about smothering him. She bolted for the mast, clinging to it as tightly as she could without dropping either Draco or her only weapon. Just as she grabbed on the Red Betty bucked and heaved. There was a terrible metal scream as the anchor's chain ripped free of its port, casting them into the heart of the chaos.

Orange tentacles erupted from the waves. They grew in all directions, rising to tower above her head and then the ship itself. Behind them rose the largest, ugliest squid to ever swim the eight seas. Its beady green eyes, puny for its size, fixated ravenously upon her. Arra could almost hear Captain Blackberry's demented laughter echoing in her head.

She was going to die here, be it by drowning or devouring.

Draco clawed and gnawed at her arm, uncaring if he drew blood. He roared at her to use the Amulet.

Xan had left him battered and burned, his soul and magic leaking out from the cracks in the bones. Visions of her dracolich, their broken remnants scattered across the cove, made her cling to him all the tighter.

No, no, not again. Oh gods please not again-

The Wind Pearl, floating serenely in the midst of the chaos, pulsed once more. Arra skewed her eyes shut against the sudden radiance and a gale that shrieked through the sails.

The screaming gale ended in an earth-shaking roar and the beating of monstrous wings. She cracked her eyes open to behold the dragon that circled over the cove. She scales were a lustrous sapphire, deeper than the blue of the sea. Arra's jaw dropped in disbelief.

The dragonlord, short-haired and broad-shouldered, briefly returned her stare. Then with a snarl of his own he and his companion dove to meet the Braken head-on.

Arra had once imagined a hatchling of black and green for the egg's mottled colors, but she recognized their savior all her own. A hysterical laugh escaped her. Apparently the dragon destined to save the world hadn't been a doomkitten snack after all.

Saphira swooped down upon the behemoth with her hottest jet of flame. It sank back into the waves with a pained wail, throwing up a wall of water at them. The she-dragon, inhaling for another shot, choked and sputtered in outrage as the sea doused her flame.

To Eragon's alarm he realized the squid near matched her in size. It was more than large enough to grab her in its coils and hold them under until they drowned. Furiously he screamed for her to pull up. She bellowed at his caution but obeyed, retreating to a safe altitude before the beast could fully recover itself.

It's a squid! she yelled at him mentally, for she was too busy regaining lost breath to bother with verbal draconic. We're going to feast!

Fearlessly she dove down for a second blast. The squid reared up the bulk of its head. For a moment Eragon glimpsed its revolting undersides. Then it bombarded them with a black, vile substance. Eragon, shielded from a direct blow by Saphira's bulky neck, gagged at the odor.

Saphira screamed, her voice rising above a roar to a keen of agony. Even before she raised her claws to swat at her own eyes Eragon knew she had been blinded. The squid lunged after her, tentacles snaring high around her arms as it pulled her down. It hauled them down to its eye level, gaze almost gloating, and lower still into the churning seas.

With a bellow of outrage Eragon punched out his right fist and loosed his hottest fire into one bulging eye. The squid shrank back, killer grip loosening enough for Saphira to rip herself free and back into the safety of the air.

Red sparks danced across Saphira's hide as she summoned her own innate healing magic. For a moment it eased the ache of her eyes but did not clear away the ink. She snarled when the stinging set back in.

"I can't see!" she snapped in fury and rising hysteria. "I can't-"

"I know," Eragon interrupted, soothing as he could be. "I know. But I can. Let me be your eyes."

Brom had showed him how to open his mind and senses to another. Already bonded to Saphira, it was almost easy to let her peer through his eyes. Her panic lessened somewhat even as her frustration mounted. His eyes were poor in comparison and his prospective from aboard her back jarring.

Saphira shook herself free of the severed tentacles. Still twitching, they fell back into the sea. In dismay Eragon spotted the squid had swiftly sprouted replacements, fast growing to match their counterparts. Saphira was a raging inferno. This beast was bound to the fathomless power of the sea. In time even a dragon could burn herself out against it.

Eragon shook doubt from his head. He guided her down for another jet of flame, a safe distance from the water. The squid sank down, their blow hardly singing it, even as its own blast of water squarely hit Saphira in the chest as they rose back up.

Dragon blinded, he pressed onward.

Arra, an unwillingly close spectacle to the fight, swiftly realized it had settled into a stalemate. The competitors each retreated to the sea or sky to escape the worst of their opponent's blows and were each capable of regeneration themselves to an extent.

It was a stalemate with an inevitable victor. Even a dragon's power burned itself out, and they were facing a sea god in his element. Eventually the dragon would tire out and fly too low. Then the Braken would drag her and her dragonlord down into the deeps as his first meal as an eldritch abomination.

"Then let's get out there and help them!" Draco snapped. "If we can fight a walking volcano we can handle one little squid god!"

A squid god that had been a pirate captain up until mere minutes ago. A pirate captain that was obscenely possessive over both his ship and his stolen Wind Orb.

Her eyes resolutely fixed on the Wind Orb floating serenely in the midst of utter chaos. Gritting her teeth, Arra abandoned her death grip on the mast and soldiered onward. A moment later the Red Betty heaved beneath her feet. She let go of Draco to wrap both hands around her staff. With its support she kept her footing. Her dracolich securely dug his claws into her robe and coiled his tail around her arms. He was not selfish enough to go charging into a suicidal clash against a physical god if it meant leaving her behind.

Arra was Ice to the core. Against her own innate magic the Wind Orb's aura, clear and unbound, felt all the stranger. But Ice and Wind were kindred elements. They were the blizzard's teeth, the force behind the howling gales of winter. With a human body and Dragon Amulet to ground her, Arra was certain the Orb would not rip her asunder as it could a dracolich, held together by Ice and Darkness.

Arra, unlike Drakath, was not an exiled royal with delusions of grandeur. She knew she could never harness the Wind Pearl's power to her utter bidding. Even Captain Blackberry had used it only as a means to an end; a power source for a different spell entirely.

Skewing her eyes shut, she reached out for that shining opalescence with only a half-baked thought and fervent prayer.

The wind went where it willed. Today it blew in her favor. Arra opened her eyes as the wind spun around her and Draco in a protective cocoon. Outside their bubble the shrieking gales snapped the last of the ropes binding the ship's sails. Unfurled and uprooted, the Red Betty careened toward shore.

Bellowing in outrage, the Braken bent the sea to its will, and hauled back the tide. But not the Betty. Captain Blackberry had spared no expense on his ship. A vessel unmatched, she glided on the waves with her hull scarce curving deep into its waters, and her wide sails caught a breeze like no other. She gracefully crested mountain-high waves meant to sink her. Under the Wind Pearl's power she glided onward with no water at all beneath her.

Then the Red Betty was shoved ashore, hull groaning as her mast cracked. Its vessel able to move no longer, the Wind Pearl's gale shuddered and died.

Arra immediately bolted for the beach. With solid earth once more beneath her feet she hurried for higher ground, away from the waves slinking away from shore so that they might fall upon her all the heavier and pull her back in. Draco kept pace on her right side. At the left the Wind Orb followed her diligently, Amulet glowing in response to its presence.

Out in the cove the Braken had vanished. It resurfaced on the storm surge that dragged the Betty back into the sea. Hauling itself onto the desecrated beach, it shrieked as it raised up a shadow of writhing tentacles to bring down upon them.

Its vengeful bellow ended in a keen of agony when a plume of dragon-fire blasted it from behind. Mantle smoking, the Braken whirled around with another wave of water.

But the dragon was no longer there. She landed firmly on shore. Seawater and the remnants of ink streamed from her face, for at last she had had the chance to cleanse her sight. Talons gouging into the sand, she rose onto her hind-legs and bombarded the Braken face-on with an inferno that burned out every last eye.

No longer submerged in the sea, its wounds did not heal. The smoking remnants of the Braken tried to ooze back into the ocean. Instead, the dragon caught the roots of several tentacles, and hauled the creature back. Sinking her talons into its mantle, she held it down, and bit into where its brain should have been. She spat out a mouthful of blue-green blood in disgust as its tentacle tips twitched ominously.

With a growl of her own Arra reached for the Amulet. For a moment her surroundings fell away before she regained awareness on Draco's full-grown back. So absorbed in their task, the dragon and her lord didn't look up from their task even when they swooped down to help.

Together dragon and dracolich hauled the body further and further away from sea, blasting it repeatedly with ice and fire. The bits Draco froze burned all the brighter. Even when the mass stopped twitching they didn't relent until only ashes and a few bits of frozen goop remained.

Panting heavily from the exertion, the dragon sank low into the sand, but stubbornly clung on to the dignity of her adult form. Draco, without breath or exhaustion, politely lowered himself to her level.

"You can let go now," he told her bluntly. "There's no one here to impress."

The blue dragon bared her teeth at the suggestion. Her lord, seemingly just realizing Draco simply wasn't just a pale and bony dragon, looked oddly at him before turning to Arra herself. With their dragons at eye level so were they.

"I don't think she can," he told them in draconic's rumbling tones. He frowned at Osprey Cove before glancing out to sea. "Not until we're home again."

Arra blinked. Right. She had sent that poor dragon egg hurtling into a different dimension. It was miracle enough that realm was hospitable to dragons, let alone to human beings. Then she grimaced. "I'm sorry for everything I put you through. If I hadn't so blindly gone along with an idiot mage then your dragon wouldn't have nearly gotten fed to a doomkitten before falling into your realm in the first place."

"No," said the dragon herself. Her burning eyes stared down at Arra as she arched her neck to its full height. "The world I hatched into was the world of my lord. If you hadn't then I would've been stuck with you for all eternity."

Arra accepted her disparaging with grace. She had deserved that. Still, she tamped down a smile when Draco retorted, "Well, good. She's all mine now. Keep your own stupid human."

"Lore," murmured the dragonlord. "We're in Lore now, aren't we?"

"Yes. On the isle of Sho'Nuff." Good. At least he had some knowledge of worlds beyond his own. Of course his dragon had found her own way back. Lady Celestia's prophecy implied the dragon of destiny to have a power unmatched by any other. "Thank you for showing up when you did. If you hadn't then we'd both be dead." Draco growled indignantly but she knew on his own they both would have been smashed by the Braken's full power.

The dragonlord's brow furrowed as he gazed at her. "I heard a cry for help and felt its desperation like it was my own. I.. I had to help."

Arra's face cracked into a wry smile. Avatars, did she know that feeling. It was the same personal responsibility that had led her down this damned road in this first place. "Welcome to being a hero. You're chronically obligated to help anyone and everyone around you."

Beyond being cut from the same cloth reckless disregard they were bound on a deeper level, as dragonlord of the dragon destined to save the world and the predecessor that had fucked up her chance at the role. There was no doubting the Wind Pearl was a powerful artifact and the Braken a fledgling abomination. No wonder the dragon had been summoned back to the realm of her birth to fulfill her destiny.

The young man suppressed a groan. Then he looked out to sea again, annoyance giving way to uncertainty. His lost expression made him look more like a boy and made her feel certain she was his elder by several years. Yikes. And her own mother had repeatedly made it clear to her she still regarded Arra as a child in way over her head.

"We need to get home," he murmured. "Before my mentor kills me."

Arra bit her lip. She wasn't an expert on inter-dimensional travel. Her best source was Warlic, the same mage that had summoned an eldritch abomination and lost the dragon's egg to it. The little town known as Croft wavered in and out the Doomwood on a yearly basis. When they turned up the witch sisters brewed delicious candy with nasty side effects. Moonridge, bordering the cursed forest, was overrun with victims of their magical mishaps every year. But Croft had vanished again until next autumn.

With a growl the dragon hauled herself onto her paws. Draco reflexively rose to match her. Soon it became painfully apparent she towered over him by a head. Where he was dead skin and brittle bone she was lean muscle and sapphire scales. The dracolich rasped a warning and slunk out of striking distance, but her gaze focused past him.

Arra's hold around Draco tightened when the dragon hungrily fixated on the Wind Pearl. Her intensity outmatched even the Braken's.

She suddenly remembered Warlic had never been truly certain which egg they had held, the dragon destined to save the world or the one to doom it.

As the dragon advanced on the Wind Pearl Arra spared a glance at her dragonlord. He looked uncertain and apprehensive, but still in awe of the orb's power and beauty. She saw nothing of Drakath in him. Her tension eased the tiniest bit.

Eyes glowing white, the dragon lowered her snout to the Wind Orb. For a moment her entire form shone with the same white radiance.

The dragon snapped her wings open in a buffet of wind. With the gale howling beneath her she rocketed into the sky. Arra clenched her teeth and squeezed hard to avoid being blown off by the torrent.

But the wrathful wind didn't descend upon Osprey Cove. It blew out to sea, taking the dragon with it, and then elsewhere entirely. Back to whence the dragon and her lord had came.

The ice mage exhaled slowly, only then realizing that anxious breath had been held inside her for well over a minute. She scowled down at the Wind Orb floating innocently above the sand. "Orb. Kordana's. Now."

Draco did not complain.

For a moment the world held its breath.

Then the storm that had been brewing over the west broke upon the shore. Straining against the gale, Brom stared out to sea. His breath hitched at the black, ragged claw that wrenched its way into the world. Deliriously he thought back to darkness and his dragon beneath him. His nightmare had been omen after all.

The shadow resolved into Saphira's grown, glorious form as it neared shore. Her edges shimmered like an illusion on the verge of breaking. She snarled at the strain of holding herself together. If she gave out now she and her rider would both plummet to their deaths.

Brom threw open his mind, offering up every drop of power in Aren even as he sharply walled off his personal energy. In seconds she had drained it dry.

Seconds were all the she needed. Her crash landing shook the earth and rendered proud, ancient trees to splintered trunks. Upon impact her form exploded in a wave of light.

Brom rushed to the fallen forms of Eragon and his little dragon. First he found his son's pulse and then Saphira's. A thoughtless prayer escaped him.

Saphira's arms and belly were badly scratched from where they had taken the brunt of the impact. The crash could not explain the red, ragged wounds on her arms and neck. At first Brom thought of tendrils of chains before realizing the raised marks were round and evenly spaced. Like the suckers of a squid or octopus. She was damp in his arms. The remnants of a black crust ran in ragged marks down her eyes and snout. Brom experimentally picked at the crust and rubbed it between his fingers. It felt like dried ink.

He inspected his son for similar damage. Whatever their foe, Saphira had done her damnedest to shield her rider. His hair and clothes were still wet with ink and sea water. He and Saphira both smelled foul, like something dead that had washed up into Teirm's harbor, but Eragon was physically unharmed.

Brom placed Saphira upon Eragon's chest. Unconsciously she sighed and snuggled deeper into his tunic, against the gleam of his Amulet. Then he bent down to scoop his son into his arms.

"You're making a habit of this," he chided their unconscious forms as he started up the path. "Good gods, wait to grow up properly before you go charging off like brazen idiots."

Brom dared not dip into their minds. In her unconscious state Saphira might lash out with far darker powers should she sense her or Eragon intruded upon.

Only once they were safe in his hold did Brom turn to Jeod, who had weathered the storm at his side. The poor man was windswept, hair blown from its careful parting and revealing the bald spot he fought to keep so secret. His face was ashen and eyes round as saucers.

"Well?" Brom prompted. "Did the wind blow away your tongue?"

"You feel it," Jeod murmured. "You have to feel it too."

The former Rider arched a brow. With Saphira's alien presence and the Amulet's burning power in his arms he felt nothing beyond the usual oddness he had come to associated with the pair. "Nothing more strange than what I encounter on a daily basis now."

"The wind. It's..." His friend stumbled over the worlds before his face twisted into a scowl. "Dammit, old man, magic was always your area of expertise. It's something on the wind. Or in it. Or the very wind itself!"

The windstorm Saphira brought with her was already dying down by the time they reached Teirm's gates. Brom, he and his charges heavily shrouded beneath his strongest illusions, were invisible to the crowd that unconsciously gave them a wide berth. By the time they reached Jeod's residence it had died dissipated completely. Teirm enjoyed a calm and quiet dusk.

Jeod still insisted something was different. Brom, absorbed in his vigil over his patients, soon forgot his concerns entirely when Jeod left to make excuses to his wife.

Chapter Text

Something had changed. He could feel it on the wind.

No. The Wind.

Having drifted so long in a realm of neutrality touched only by the faintest traces of Dark, Durza recoiled away from one rooted so firmly in a rival element. His human vocal cords failed to make a proper sound of his rage and only a gargled hiss escaped.

Pulling the shadows protectively around him, he turned away from his last source of frustration to the newest bother. Mortal flesh dulled the spirit. Tentatively he uncurled the slightest bit of his true essence, reaching beyond the vessel he had not fully released since entering Alagaesia. It was his strength and his anchor.

The ripples his rival left reverberated all the sharper to his pure form. Red eyes fixated on the west.

Dragon. Not the rootless kind of this world, but a proper dragon, raw elemental power made manifest.

Durza's mind drifted back to that shiver of dread and delight the same night Galbatorix's damned egg had once again escaped his grasp. Consumed by his failure and his interrogation of the elf-woman, he had paid the disturbance little mind. There had been later irritants, prickling at the back of his mind like a gnat, but none that had so utterly sundered the world as the Wind being unleashed upon it.

A satisfied smirk crawled across his human face. No wonder he had never been able to identify the source of his pest. Before Alagaesia he had known only a realm of pure Darkness. Wind, so light and ever-moving, was elusive in its nature. He had not truly known it until an avatar of its element had first tapped into its full potential.

It was not the dragon the king had commanded him to search for, but this dragon had already ripped through the veil twice. Hunger, dark and yawning, bubbled up inside him.

The elf-woman's flagging resistance still held. Before he prematurely devoured her and all her secrets Durza forced himself to leave the cell.

Purposefully he strode for his faithful mount and his men. The hunt was on, for doubtless he was not the only one to have sensed the tilting scales.

Distantly he knew that he was dreaming. He had left his body somewhere behind in the waking world. Without it to ground him he bobbed powerlessly along on a mighty current, dragged where and when it willed.

For a heartbeat he was safe and sound in Carvahall. He was a boy, safe and sound in his ignorance of dragons. Garrow and Roran were with him. Together they weathered the winter night until the creatures, bent and wrong, broke down their door. Their eyes fixated on Eragon. He choked on his own lifesblood as one sank its beak into his throat.

Away, he urged.

Away he drifted from Carvahall. He settled in a new town, both strange and innately familiar. The night was calm, dark clouds lazily drifting before a crescent moon. Yet far heavier shadows hung over the neighboring wood, dank and foul. Out of their depths lurched abominations, walking dead with the flesh sloughing off their bones and skeletons twisted into bestial caricatures of their human form. Sentinels sent out warning cries. From homes and watchtowers rose a defiant tide against the living dead. A knight the charge, her armor glinting from a blade like forged moonlight.

He tried to hang on to watch the battle unfold, but the river ripped him away. A man walked a dusty road with a caravan at his back. Another bled out from a fatal blow while the other half of his soul roared in agony. A woman, sweating and shaking from fever, cried out in delirium. A gawky girl, half-familiar, spun around with her little sister laughing in her arms.

No. It was his dragon he carried, scales still slick from the egg and gedwey ignasia stinging upon his palm. But that wasn't quite right either. He cradled his daughter in his arms, perfect in her newness, and vowed.

Down the river pulled him, away from the sun and into all that was deep and dark. In his arms died the love of his life and his humanity with her. His little hatchling had grown into a true dragon, brilliant and strong. For all his power, all he could do was cradle her as her life and lifesblood spilled out, leaving only emptiness behind...

NO.

No, he realized. He wasn't carried by the river. He was the river, flowing from dream to dream in a thousand rivulets. He reached for his sense of self and grasped at himhertheythemnoNONO-

Saphira. He needed Saphira, blazing bright and defiant in the chaos, a rock against the endless flow.

Rightness sang through his soul as his disparate threads wove themselves together. In a breath of fresh wind he was lifted above the utter madness down below/

The veil of shadows parted. For a heartbeat he peered into a cold, hard cell. A young woman, bruised and battered, hunched into herself. Still she turned to gaze up a at him, pointed ears poking from raven hair. From a tear-stained face emerald eyes burned with grief and rage captivity had not yet sapped her of. They seemed to pierce his soul.

Eragon awoke with a groan. The late afternoon sun cast golden rays across his room. Saphira was curled up on his chest, fast asleep, the Amulet a burning warmth between them. He frowned as his fingers gently ghosted over the ugly wounds left by the Braken's tentacles. Trying and failing for a wave of healing magic, he first replenished his magical stores before attempting to use it on Saphira. His healing magic eased the ache from his limbs without erasing the red marks on her hide.

Beside him Brom grunted and set aside the Domia abr Wyrda. "You've been unconscious for a full day. Or at least you were until it eased into true sleep. How do you feel?"

"Like I was nearly killed by a giant squid," Eragon said bluntly. "And then dragged through the void between worlds twice in one day for good measure. Why didn't you heal us?"

Brom rubbed the ring Eragon had never seen him without. The sapphire and the unknown glyph engraved upon it shimmered in the golden light. "Aren's gem was specifically cut for the purpose of storing energy. I had years' worth of my own power tucked away in it. And Saphira drained it dry in the few seconds it took for her to reach solid ground. Your very first magic lesson was to never attempt a spell beyond your power. In opening my magic to either of you it might have unwittingly caused the spell to devour me whole."

Eragon silently conceded his point. The Braken had been a physical god that had bent even the ocean to its will. And he and Saphira had burned it into oblivion. Instead he asked why they were still hunkered down in Jeod's home.

Brom eased back in his chair. "Because two strangers in Teirm associated with a suspected rebel collaborator would be all the more suspicious if they vanished just after a freak windstorm that ripped through the city. As far as everyone else is concerned you were knocked out by a falling tree branch and recovering your strength before we finally stop intruding on a good friend's hospitality."

Unspoken was the demand about how they had caused such a phenomenon in the first place. Brom's arched brow made the question all too clear. Eragon chewed his lip. Rather than return his gaze, he forced himself to sit up, cradling Saphira in his arms.

His heart broken again at the sight of her wounds. Suddenly he remembered Rephaim, the restless shade of a dragonlord stranded on the wrong side of the veil without his bonded. With a shudder Eragon realized how close to Rephaim he had almost become.

The dam broke. He started from his explosive first encounter with the egg and rambled on from there. Even Rephaim made it in, for the ghost had been ambivalent about his own secrecy. Eragon still bit back on the full details of their meeting, for Angela and Solembum had not signed away their privacy. As the story spilled out of him he refused to look up from the dragon in his arms, a titan so small and vulnerable in her true shape.

When his recollection finally trailed off Eragon braced himself for the flood of denials and accusations. Silence reigned. After a few moments he dared glance over to Brom. Outwardly the man's face was stone. Excepting the eyebrows that had climbed into his hairline.

"Seven hells, boy," he at last breathed out.

Eragon smiled wanly. "Don't go invoking them, because they might actually exist. Rephaim wasn't all too keen on telling me what happens to the average soul after death." He paused. "Gods exist too, apparently. Some of them, at least. In Lore."

Brom made an aborted fumble for the beard he had sheared short. Then he buried his head in his hands. Eragon felt like doing the same. Fighting the giant squid had been one thing. His brain was still trying to wrap itself around the dragonlord with an undead skeleton as her dragon. Vaguely he wondered why he had been more unnerved by the girl than the dracolich.

At last the old man inhaled deeply and righted himself in his chair. "Well, I believe all our mysteries about your nature as a Dragon Rider have been solved. And how the Dragon Amulet came into my possession in the first place." Sharply his blue eyes darted about. "Is... your mentor here right now?"

"No," Eragon said simply. "It's easiest for him when it's dark. He might have been around last night but you wouldn't have seen him. He'll likely be here in a few hours to chew us out for ripping a hole between worlds after what happened to him."

"Well, at least the damned shade and I can agree on one thing," Brom cut in sharply. "Chasing after that voice was the stupidest thing you've ever done! Considering how long I've known you, boy, that is not an easy thing."

Eragon's lip quirked as he recalled that conversation on the beach. His fellow dragonlord, the one that had nearly been Saphira's, had been no stranger to such high stakes. "It comes with being a hero. Apparently feeling the urge to help anyone and everyone around me comes with the territory."

The old man scowled back at him.

Part of Brom wanted to embrace Eragon and weep in relief at his survival and pride of the selfless man he was becoming. The other part wanted to wallop all that damn naivety out of his head before it led him down the same foolish paths it had Brom before him.

Instead Brom forced himself to walk toward the door and summon the butler that his 'nephew' was finally awake and in need of food. Warm bread and hearty soup were immediately ran up from the kitchens. A pot had been waiting on the fire all day for him. Helen might have turned up her nose at such questionable company, but she was doing everything in her power to see an injured guest attended to.

Fresh fish was even ran up for the boy's 'cat.' While Eragon wolfed down his food Saphira roused herself enough to ravenously devour her own meal. She crashed back into sleep with her head on the plate.

Her Ri... bonded smiled fondly when he gently returned her to his lap. "She was like this out of the egg too, awake enough to eat me out of house and home before biting my fingers for good measure."

So had his own Saphira been, in those first few days. Now was the time for truth, to finally let her name be known. It sat like a stone on Brom's tongue.

Honesty had to start somewhere. Brom offered a wan smile of his own. "At this point it should be obvious I'm no stranger to dragons myself. Of this world, at the very least."

Eragon nodded solemnly. "I know. You fought Morzan, aye? His dragon must have been around too."

"She hung back," Brom answered succinctly. "Our battle was... personal. Morzan was always arrogant and had a flair for the dramatic. But he was not only the only Forsworn I fought."

He had helped slay seven others over the years, three of which had personally fallen before his blade. How easy it was to name them all now. His son listened intently, never once pressing for more than what was given. Most boys his age would have pressed for the bloody details. Eragon, who had dealt death as both hunter and killer, knew more than his share already.

Gradually the topic shifted to safer ground, the differences of their magic and Brom's lighter exploits with the Varden, most especially his missions with Jeod. Outside the golden afternoon gave way to the fires of dusk.

Finally Saphira stirred. Eragon looked down, words dying in his throat as she consumed his attention. Blazing blue eyes cracked open to blearily peer back at him. She rasped up at him and he answered back in draconic's rumbling tones, smiling in tearful relief.

Brom politely averted his eyes, knowing he intruded on something beautiful and intimate. The connection between him and his own Saphira had been entirely between their souls. Of course the boy and his brash little hatchling were more open of their bond.

Saphira's brilliant gaze fell upon him. Eragon's did too.

"She's giving you permission to touch the Amulet," he explained in bewilderment. "So that you can speak with both of us directly."

Brom couldn't stop his eyes from widening. He recalled how fiercely she had threatened his mind in the past when he dared prowl the edges of it and her bond to the boy. Perhaps she remembered how he had saved both their lives with Aren's power. "I am honored," he answered humbly. "But you are well within your rights to refuse her request. It is not my place to intrude upon either of you."

In draconic Eragon pressed Saphira for clarification. Her impatient hiss was answer enough. "Her permission is for one brief touch. Just enough for us to transfer the knowledge onto you. You taught me the ancient language," he said ruefully. "It's only fair we pass on ours."

The rational part of Brom was still loathe to allow Saphira any access to his mind. But the paternal side of him murmured Eragon had willingly embraced this bond. No matter what else he could say about Saphira, she moved heaven and earth for his son. How could he burn the bridge they were offering to cross the gap between them?

Eragon removed the Amulet from his neck and held it out. In the fading light its gem glowed all the brighter. Brom reached out with his left hand, for his right still bore his gedwey ignasia, and he could allow no other to challenge the claim his Saphira had made upon him.

For a heartbeat his fingertips made contact. Something hotter and thicker than flame sparked across the link. Brom drew back, gritting his teeth against anything more than a pained grunt. When his mind felt on the verge of breaking, a new understanding finally snapped into place.

Sweating profusely, Brom glanced down at his hand, half-surprised the Amulet hadn't burned it off.

It had taken years of study to master the ancient language. Draconic was nothing so learned. It was innate, natural as a dragon's first flame. Brom hadn't the slightest idea how the grammar or sentence structures worked. Yet, when he opened his mouth, words that rumbled deep in his chest in guttural inflections suddenly made perfect sense.

"I'm deeply honored that you allow me the privilege," he began diplomatically. "I hope you are feeling better."

Blazing blue eyes appraised him. Saphira spoke, and at least he truly heard her words. Her voice was young and brash, but carried an undercurrent of the innate wisdom his own dragon had shown mere weeks after mastering speech. "You saved our lives and finally proved yourself useful in the long run. I think I can see why Eragon is so attached to you." She bared needle-sharp teeth at him. "But still, you lie to him, to us. I know what you are."

Eragon frowned sharply as he glanced between them. Brom's right hand clenched. "How in the seven hells...?"

"I've known since nearly the first time I saw you," she said disdainfully. "I smell it on you. And we go no further until he hears it from you personally."

Brom did not bother with denials. Not when Saphira had cornered him so defiantly. No wonder at times she had seemed to stare into his soul, as if gazing into the gaping void her namesake had left behind. He evenly met imploring blue eyes as he held up his shimmering right palm. "In hindsight I was perhaps too obvious with my lore," he admitted ruefully. "Did I seem to know Morzan too well?"

Boy and dragon gaped at his gedwey ignasia. It was Eragon who finally blurted out, "What? When did you even..."

"I was even younger than you were when she hatched for me," he murmured. "Blue as the summer sky. My Saphira. We grew up together in Doru Araeba alongside our fellow apprentices, Morzan and his bonded. And then she gave her life protecting me from them years later." His lips quirked into something that could not be called a smile. "Unfortunately for them, and for myself, I survived to take our vengeance."

His son was silent, only taking his own Saphira up into his arms. Brom half-expected some flippant comment from her being greater than her predecessor. For once the little dragon seemed stunned into silence.

"And unfortunately for half the Forsworn."

Brom's neck prickled at a faint voice that seemed to resonate from rooms away, though a new shadow filled the room. The day was a fading red smear on a dark horizon. With a word the fire guttering low in its hearth flared up anew. The intruder retreated into the shadows in the far corner as the phantom cold he had brought with him receded.

In his black armor Rephaim cast a formidable figure even with gaunt features and dark bruises beneath his eyes. Shadows danced on the wall behind him, clearly visible through his transparent form.

"Rephaim, I assume," Brom said dryly, even as a wild part of him calculated the best way of harming a spirit from another world.

"Brom Holcombsson," the shade returned. "Your reputation precedes you."

"I wish the same could be said of you." Eragon had mentioned this dragonlord had died on Vroengard. Brom had never heard mention of such a mysterious man near dead on arrival. But the elders had always been so wary of things they could not understand. No matter how conservative Oromis had seemed at times he had still one the more liberal minds on the Council. Gods knew Brom could still their majority covering up such a troublesome outlier ever having stumbled upon their shores.

Broad shoulders shrugged. "Since the Fall there haven't been that many interesting people to follow. And you're more relatable than most of them." Gray eyes closed wearily. "You were right to burn the bodies of those you felled personally. Or to try arranging the burnings if you couldn't yourself. Less to work with for those left behind."

Brom exhaled shakily. Always he had been apathetic on the subject of an afterlife, wishing to believe Saphira simply existed somewhere he could not yet reach without having the evidence to prove such. Now he faced a true spirit. Despite not having a true physical consciousness, Rephaim was still very much present. Yet the question that burned inside him would not come.

Rephaim's knowing gaze met his. "She is somewhere. I do not know where. In my youth I skirted the edges of my own realm of the dead in hopes of gleaning what knowledge I could from more friendlier shades. Before I met my Vesna I had already turned to more... esoteric areas of study. I am a ghost bound to this world. I cannot gaze past this veil to what lies behind."

"Why?" Brom demanded. Only his obligations in this world kept him from following Saphira into the void. Were he in Rephaim's position he would have gladly followed his dragon long before a sudden random egg had exploded into this realm too.

The spirit said nothing. His face faded further into shadow.

"You said Brom couldn't see you," Eragon intoned. "Was it because we lent him the Amulet?"

"No." Rephaim loomed out of the night, the shadows surging with him. "It's probably because of the great fucking hole ripped into this world. And the elemental dissonance you brought with you by introducing Wind to an essentially neutral plane."

For a moment Eragon seemed to wither beneath his stare. Then the boy puffed up in defiance. Saphira rose with him, uncoiling from his lap as she spat a jet of flame. The spirit flinched back as if burned. "I heard a girl crying for help. Of course we had to. And it's a damn good thing we did. Some monster was using the Wind Orb to make itself a physical god!"

"That's nothing new!" the spirit hissed. "There's always been those of the Dark who try to blot out the sun just as the Light will try to kill the night. Lore's pretty damn good at sorting out its own messes. All you've done is risk the balance of two worlds instead of one!" For a moment he seemed ready on to ramble with numerous examples from his own past. But he only sighed and rubbed his temples.

Eragon's righteous anger dissolved into worry. And guilt. "You're pure spirit. Is that why you look so ragged? From our magic today?"

He snorted. "Oh, you two are certainly part of it. Actively conscious all these weeks, leading the Ra'zac in a merry chase. Burning power I don't have to spend. And giving you away my source on top of it." The boy's hand flew to his Dragon Amulet. Rephaim angrily waved it away. "No, Avatars damn it. Gods know you certainly need it more than I do. Centuries of a spectral existence, without the distractions of a physical body. Do you know how tedious that can get? How boring? The human mind wasn't made for it. Especially when I've just given up my last link to the physical plane. It's been ages since I've slept. I need rest. I want rest."

"You've made it well clear I can't train them," Brom interjected gruffly. "And they punched a hole between worlds. Rest when they're capable of cleaning up their own messes."

Rephaim's features briefly sharpened into impatience. "They've reached their current limits. I need rest. They need rest. Before you fools push yourselves and this world past its breaking point. Get out of Teirm, go to ground, and don't sunder the world while I'm gone. I'll find you soon enough."

The fire blinked. Between one heartbeat and the next Rephaim was gone. Saphira snorted good riddance. Eragon spluttered after him before turning his hapless gaze toward his living (and vastly more reliable) mentor.

"Visions," he said. "I didn't have time to ask him how common visions are in Lore."

Brom wearily pinched the bridge of his nose but did not dismiss the notion out of hand. Eragon's last hunch had apparently saved a whole town from a nascent god. "Are you sure it was for this world?"

"Certain." Eragon's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "You were a Rider. How well could you identify an elf?"

Brom's own eyes widened as he considered the only elves that might have recently been taken alive. He knew the princess and her most trusted of escorts. "Show me."

Eragon did. A boy who had never seen an elf sent him a perfect image of Arya Drottningu, captive and close to breaking. If death did not claim her first.

Brom swore. Draconic made his gravest oaths sound all the more dire.

Chapter Text

Eragon could only watch with widened eyes as gruff old Brom raved in words even Garrow would be hard-pressed to match. To human ears Brom's draconic must have rumbled like foul, filthy thunder. Saphira cocked her head in bemusement at a string of curses so profane it could have caused poor, reserved Helen to drop dead from sheer mortification.

"Wow," she muttered.

Eragon clenched his jaw as he shifted his legs. His healing magic had driven the ache from them, but they were still so numb, and inside he felt so empty. Saphira jerked in surprise as he gently tried to push her from his lap. She dug her claws into his blankets, so deep they punctured his thighs, and hissed warningly up at him.

Brom's ranting cut off abruptly. "Seven hells, boy!" he snapped, jumping to Eragon's side to help force him back down into bed. "You're on bed rest until I damn well clear you!"

Eragon scowled up at him. "Whoever she is, she means a lot to you. I'm damn well not going to leave her there."

Saphira growled. "We just whooped a squid god. Let the old fart take care of it."

"Like hell I'm going anywhere," Brom barked back. "The last time you two were left unattended you ripped a whole in the world. And nearly got yourselves killed over it!"

"She's dying!" Eragon snarled back, his draconic so deep it rattled his bones. "We're going and we're going to fucking save her."

"Gods dammit, boy, Arya willingly risked her life for dragons. She'd rather die then see you and Saphira fall into the King's hands!"

Both fell silent at this revelation. Brom had all but admitted more than just Shruikan survived. At least one was sheltered by the rebellion.

"Arya is a skilled diplomat," Brom gritted out at last. "Fifteen years or so ago I helped liberate an egg from the King's clutches, the egg of the very last she-dragon of this world. Since then Arya and her guards have escorted the egg between Du Weldenvarden and the Varden's stronghold, in hopes that the dragon inside might finally deign a rebel worthy of being her Rider. They all knew the risks involved and all swore in the ancient language to rather die than give up that egg or its location. I'm surprised her interrogators haven't triggered that ward already."

Eragon shuddered at the thought of such torture. He would endure anything for Saphira, but this Arya had acted for an egg that had never hatched for her. "Then we have no time to waste."

For a long time Brom just looked at him. When he spoke, it was in the deliberate gentle tones of human language. "Eragon, your bonded is literally not of this world. The King would slaughter all his kingdom just to get his hands on her. Would you willingly bring her to him when both of you are so woefully unprepared to win?"

Eragon stared down at Saphira, the fight going out of him. Rephaim had flat out told them they were not yet ready to continue their training. Eragon could not hold a candle to his dragon, and Saphira's full power was a fickle thing that left her drained afterward. What happened if Galbatorix outlasted the surge? He stubbornly pushed her out of his head before she saw where his dark imagination took him.

Saphira bared her fangs at him, her fury radiating off her in hot, palpable waves. "I shall devour whoever stands in our way, Eragon, even some petty little tyrant that calls himself a king."

Eragon wearily sagged back against his bedpost as the reality of today once more caught up to him. "One day," he allowed. "Not tonight."

Saphira's mouth parted in a yawn. "No," she agreed. "Not tonight."

Once more she curled up on his lap and crashed into sleep, so much like the infant she truly was. Eragon too surrendered to fatigue, settling back into bed. He fixed Brom with a final glare.

"This isn't over," he vowed.

Brom just dipped his head and left them their privacy.

Eragon slid into sleep. His dreams were dark and dire, but he was in too deep to pull himself out. When he woke all he could remember was a vague unease that it wasn't over.

If only he remembered what it was.

For a tropical island with white sand beaches, Arra's last few days on Sho'Nuff had not been restful in the slightest. Rhubarb had declared himself captain of the Red Betty and taken charge of Osprey Cove's rebuilding. Arra wished she could have left him to it.

Of course the ninjas had watched the Wind Orb debacle play out from the shadows. Ambushing her and Draco right after returning it to Kordana and dragging them to their hidden village had been Thyton's way of personally expressing his gratitude. They had believed the pirates to be behind the Wind Orb's theft, just like Rhubarb had believed the ninjas responsible.

Dragonlords were neutral parties in the realm's affairs. By virtue of having a tiny undead dragon and a role in the Braken's defeat, Arra had been roped into mediating between Rhubarb and Thyton. Total peace between pirates and ninjas was an impossible dream. Arra just wanted to kill enough monsters and settle enough grudges to return Sho'Nuff to its pre-Drakath state.

But the monster attacks weren't declining.

Captain Rhubarb looked sharp in his new red coat but no less concerned when he flagged Arra down after breakfast at the inn. "Ya see, lass, all of the animals are now fleeing the coastal mountains to the south." His single eye narrowed ominously. "And, though it be right in thar' neck o' the woods, Thyton's sneaky little dogs've got nothing to say about it."

"One actually dropped by at the crack of dawn to report the same thing," Arra admitted.

Poor Ashi had only meant to leave her Thyton's new mission and slip out of the pirate pit without treading on any toes. Too bad for her Draco didn't sleep and had taken the shadow at their window as something to be pelted in ice. Nothing a little thawing out and a healing potion hadn't fixed.

"Gar!" Rhubarb exclaimed. "Then why are ya still here?"

Arra gestured dully down at her side. "Because apparently he's the nanny now."

Unblinking blue orbs appraised her critically. "You're the one that can drop dead at any moment if you don't get the right amount of food or sleep or who knows what else. Even a hero needs a solid night's sleep and three square meals a day."

Arra suppressed a groan at hearing Draco the words her mother nagged her with whenever she stopped by the DragonFang. Gods damn that dragonlord for translating between the two.

Rhubarb's gaze flicked between them before he wisely decided this was not a subject to barge into. "Aye," he agreed at last. "See if ya can clear this mystery up."

Rhubarb might have been heads and shoulders above his predecessor, but Arra still tamped down her instinctive response of "Aye-aye, captain." Instead she only nodded, slung her bag higher over her shoulder, and set off to the south.

The Braken was dead, Drakath run off like the sniveling coward he was, and the Wind Orb safe and sound where it belonged. Whatever was behind this latest source of unrest could not have compared.

Much later, when Arra gazed up horror-struck at a force that swallowed the very sunlight, she distantly realized she was right.

This was so much worse.

(no... avatars, no...)

Teirm was still a shadow behind them when Eragon froze in dread with a fear that was not his own. Beneath him Alsvid whinnied in alarm before rearing up. So numbed were his limbs that he tumbled out of the saddle like a doll. Brom's distant shouting and his gelding's fading hoof beats echoed dully in his pounding head.

Saphira clung to him, claws sunk deep into his shoulders. Even when thrown by Alsvid she burrowed in all the tighter.

In her there was no fear. Only a hatred so harsh it burned Brom's illusions from her form and swallowed up everything within it. Only hatred and an iron resolve to never, ever let go.

Saphira snapped open her wings, blotting out the sun itself, and Eragon tumbled into darkness.

He resurfaced with a rumble that split the air like thunder. Once more was he astride Saphira's titanic form, the sun baring down on his back and blue skies just visible overhead.

On the hill above them night had fallen early, eating into the daylight and the sun still so high overhead. Beneath the dark loomed a colossus of yellowed bone, its skeletal wings arched back like claws. In its black sockets burned orbs red as blood. This was not like the dracolich from earlier, still bright with ice magic and with flesh clinging to his bones, but a beast with only malice left.

Standing imperiously upon its horned head was a figure of dark red and vicious spikes jutting from its shoulders. At its side levitated an obsidian longsword with human bones for its hilt. For a moment Eragon feared he looked upon a true demon, one skinned down to its very muscle, but he realized a human mouth sneered beneath the draconic helm.

"So the mere existence of my pet's true power made yours jealous enough to face us," drawled the voice. "How... predictable."

Another voice laughed uproariously. It sounded neither more nor female, but rather like broken glass that raked straight into Eragon's soul. Hahaha! Told you so! No matter where she was, the prospect of big brother acting before she could was too much to resist!

Saphira snarled in hatred. Eragon's perturbed gaze did not fixate on the dracolich, but rather on the eldritch blade that floated on its own power.

The demonic dragonlord's mouth twisted further. "The dragon destined to destroy the world... bonded to a boy. What ever did she see in you?"

Eragon bared his teeth. He tried to join his defiance toward Saphira's, but felt none. Her fury on their behalf was not born of denial.

Dimly he recalled exactly how Saphira had entered the world. Brom's long stares after them and unease at leaving her unattended suddenly made too much sense.

The sword laughed hysterically at his bewilderment. No one told you anything, did they? Hahaha! There's a prophecy that states two dragons will be born - one to save the world, and the other to destroy it. Guess which one you got, kid! Hahaha-

"That prophecy is broken," ground out the dragonlord. "I was able to hatch the savior dragon and corrupt him into a servant of Darkness. Now there is but your dragon to destroy the world, and Fluffy to help."

"No," Eragon choked out. "Never." His hands curled themselves into fist around Saphira's spike. "Not when I'm around to stop you."

The sword cackled gleefully when it advised him to not be in such a rush to die. The dragonlord heaved only a tired sigh. "I have no interest in fighting you. Go home, boy. Spare your parents the grief."

"If you want Saphira," he ground out, "you're going to have to kill me so hard my spirit won't come back to rip yours out of you."

For a moment even the sword was struck silent. Then the dragonlord barked out a laugh. "Ha! You're one of those, are you? So be it, boy. I would've rather waited for you to develop your skills first. At least then I could more amusement then squishing you into the-"

Eragon bellowed in rage as Saphira spewed an inferno at the infuriating little target. Black flames spewed from the dracolich's maw, devouring the attack as its dragonlord slid down his vertebrae to a more secure spot between the wings. Saphira lunged after the dragonlord, nearly losing an eye as the eldritch sword sliced across her forehead.

The dracolich's claws grabbed for Eragon. Saphira reared back, seizing his arms as the two grappled.

It should have been an easy win. Saphira was pure muscle and her oppenent utterly lacking. She should have shattered brittle bone like twigs.

Yet the dracolich had no need for breath or exhaustion. Slow and certain as death, it forced Saphira back onto her haunches, lower and lower as her muscles shook with the strain.

Eragon shot jets of flame and frost into the thing's burning sockets. It didn't even flinch. He sliced at its snout with Zar'roc. It barely left a scratch behind.

Beneath him Saphira grew cold with a building burst of ice. She never got the chance to exhale before the dracolich spewed them with shadow. Eragon skewed his eyes shut against death's cold, hungry fingers seeping through his skin and clutching at his soul. Limply he fell from his dragon's back. The crunch of so many bones breaking was only a distant agony.

Saphira screamed as she thudded to earth, colossal form shattering. Had she fallen a few feet further left she would have crushed him beneath her bulk. The Amulet clattered uselessly by her side.

The dracolich loomed over them, eye sockets fixated only on Saphira's small, unconscious little form. Its master instead sneered in Eragon's direction. "Heh. I gave you fair warning. You were not ready for me. But perhaps I'll be merciful. I could chain your soul to your bones, so you can watch through your own eye sockets as Saphira and Fluffy tear this world apart."

The sword laughed it floated between them, the skull on the hilt almost seeming mirthful. Not this time, Sepulchure. We have work to do... and so does the kid that tried to call himself a hero. He and the dragon walk free. The Master commands it.

"What?" the dragonlord, Sepulchure, muttered. Then the visible portion of his face twisted into a snarl. "We stand before the dragon destined to destroy the world. We strike the boy down now, before he grows to be a nuisance!"

Despite not changing expression the skull's face darkened ominously. Sepulchure, it sounds like you want to disobey your master. Like you want to disobey ME.

Sepulchure stilled, the dracolich beneath him shuddering with what only could have been shared dread. "...No. I obey." His composure returned when he jeered a final time down at Eragon. "Looks like you lucked out today, boy. Make the next battle more interesting for me."

His dracolich spread skeletal wings and ascended on a foul wind. On broken limbs Eragon crawled toward Saphira's limp form. The sword's mocking laughter still echoed in his soul when he slipped into oblivion.

For a moment, Saphira shrouded the world in shadow. Even as she thundered into the sky with Eragon in her grasp Brom was still close enough now to feel the utter wrongness as she ripped a hole in the world, the force of the suction trying to drag him after her.

Brom stopped fighting Arvak and let the poor horse bolt. He gracefully tumbled from the saddle with staff in hand as he braced for the latest mess his boy had made of things.

Skeletal shadows blotted out the morning and Brom dimly realized he was not alone. Rephaim's dire warnings echoed in his head as he gaped out the abomination Saphira's tearing of reality had spewed out in her wake.

It had been a dragon, once. Now what remained of its hides were a few withered scraps clinging to ashen bone. From cracks billowed a pale, icy vapor. Skeletal wings spread wide, it stood taller than Saphira, balanced squarely on its hind-legs and clutching its claws possessively to the glowing orb glowing square between its rib cage. For a moment the head swiveled toward Teirm. Then the cold stars burning in its sockets fixated on Brom.

Training demanded him to retreat a strategic distance, so send out a spell that broke the thing's bones even further. Instinct left him standing dumbstruck.

Slowly, the abomination raised one claw away from its rib cage. For a heartbeat Brom thought himself about to be crushed. Then he realized as clear a peace gesture as a giant, skeletal dragon could make with one paw.

Brom lowered his staff. "Peace," he murmured, only half-surprised it came in draconic's rumbling tones.

Slowly the beast lowered its left paw to ground, gently laying its precious cargo on the ground. The girl's was tightly curled in the fetal position and rimed in frost. Brom's heart dropped as he remembered how Rephaim had come to haunt this world.

Rushing to the girl's side, he barked a spell to evaporate the ice and return the warmth to her flesh. Pressing a finger to her neck, right where her ragged brown hair was sheared short, he slackened a bit at feeling a pulse and even more so when she groaned. Pale blue eyes, cold as the winter sky, fluttered open.

Brom's breath hitched, for he met the eyes of a ghost.

The girl's gaze slid past him. Her eyes were only for her dragon, the one who had twisted itself into a monster to protect her from the destructive powers of the void between worlds. Yet the girl's eyes didn't widen in fear or disgust or denial. They softened in unspeakable relief.

"Draco," she murmured. Then she groaned again, skewing her eyes shut as a hand flew to her head. "You overgrown idiot. What did you do?"

The skeletal dragon huffed frost from his nostrils. "Save your life, that's what." His glowing sockets fixated on Teirm and the panicked sentinels just visible to Brom's sharp eyes on the city walls. "Arra, I don't think we're in Sho'Nuff anymore."

Arra, the girl, pulled herself into a sitting position. Her eyes near popped out of her skull as she surveyed their surroundings. Then she boggled at Brom as if he were the stranger sight than the undead dragon looming over them both. "What?" she asked blankly.

Slowly Brom stood, leaning on his staff as he offered the girl his hand and his best grandfatherly smile. "I'm Brom Holcombsson," he offered warmly in draconic, for their mutual understanding. "And that is Teirm." He pointedly glanced at the men now spilling from the city's gates. "Perhaps it's best we carry out introductions somewhere else."

Arra accepted his hand, slinging her bag higher over shoulder as she stood. "That depends. Have you ever ridden a dracolich before?"

Brom considered the skeletal dragon. "Does one with flesh and bones count?"

Draco knelt. His dragonlord and their passenger clambered on. Brom shoved the nightmare of Saphira withering beneath him from his mind as th e dracolich unfurled his wings. Apparently whatever magic kept him animated did not require flesh and bone to help him fly.

Brom directed them toward the shelter of the Spine. In draconic, of course, because his one attempt at the human tongue resulted in even Arra giving him blank looks. Draco glanced back at Teirm. "Dragon attacks common in these parts?"

"Not in a hundred years, but the evil king ruling over them is no friend of mine."

The girl nodded in sympathy. "We cast our old evil king down years ago, and I just had to whoop his bratty kid for trying to take it back." She gestured grandly to her dracolich. "This is Draco. I'm Arra. Arra Gundhram."

Chapter Text

Eragon awoke with throbbing everything. His first response was to try cracking his eyes open, and his second to groan against how bright the light burned. The sound of leather wings flapping away was only a distant concern, before he realized it must have been Saphira.

Once more, he ground his teeth and forced his eyes open. He rested in a comfortable bed of a quaint room. Beyond the open window light emerald leaves rustled in a soft breeze. It was months too early or too late for such ideal weather.

He was not alone. Seated by his bedside was a beautiful woman garbed in white. Her face was ageless, though the long hair that cascaded near to the floor was silvery-gray. He would have called her an elf, were it not for her rounded ears. She raised her teacup for a delicate sip.

"I-"

The woman set her teacup down and motioned to the steaming cup at his table. "Young hero, you've had quite the day. Please, take a moment for yourself."

Eragon downed it. And sat up straighter as new energy coursed through him. That was some tea. Only then did he realize she had spoken in draconic.

He frowned at the open window again. The forest outside did not even look remotely close to the humid jungle from his last two times in this world. If it was still that world. "This is still Lore, aye?"

"Sunbreeze Grove instead of Sho'Nuff, but yes, very much still Lore." She dipped her head. "I'm Lady Celestia. An old friend and I were called in when we noticed... how you and your dragon fared. Saphira agreed it was best for you and her to recover here. Evil cannot touch you in this grove. Not while I'm here to keep the protections woven."

Your magic let her in, didn't it? his mind blurted out, before he forced it away.

"I'm Eragon," he supplied wearily. "The draconic is because we do not share any more common tongues, yes?" Rephaim had demonstrated his first language several times, just for Eragon's curiosity. He hadn't understood a word of it.

"For now. I do have a quick translation spell whipped up by an old friend of a friend, but he is very... unorthodox. It can wait until you're more settled." Lady Celestia calmly fixed him with a gentle stare that nonetheless stared into his soul. "But I do believe we have higher priorities to address."

"Aye," he hissed out. "Is...?"

"Long ago, in a time now ancient to even dragons, two eggs were laid," she began. "Only two in a whole clutch is unusual to begin with, but the twins were anything but ordinary, even in their shells. They were not born to the elements, but to the very underpinnings of the universe, polar opposites. Order and chaos, entropy and equilibrium. One to destroy the world, the other to save it." She smiled wanly. "Those who came before me figured it would be helpful to guard them in neat, little boxes. One white and one black, so those protecting them would know which was which."

Eragon swallowed against a sudden up-swell of hope. "What are the odds the eggs were switched?"

"There is always the chance," she assured. But her smile faltered, ever so slightly, and told him all he needed.

"Then what happened to her brother?" he blurted out instead. The poor thing couldn't even be called a dragon anymore, just dead yellowed bones held together by Dark and malice.

"Sepulchure," Lady Celestia said heavily. "Sepulchure happened."

Silently she poured Eragon another a cup of tea. Then she solemnly told him of a time when this kingdom had once been under the reign of the tyrannical Slugwrath. Two his greatest knights, Aldin and Valen, had started a revolution to at last overthrow him. They had succeeded, after many long and grueling months. Aldin was selected as the next king and enthroned as King Alteon. Valen had been his trusted right hand. Beneath them, the realm had known peace, until...

"Lynaria," Lady Celestia breathed out. "Valen loved her as he had loved no one else. When she died, she took his heart with her. He left Swordhaven, seeking more power to protect those he still had left. He found it, at terrible cost."

Perhaps the Dark had warped him. Perhaps it was only his own grief and withdrawing from the world when he should have built closer bonds with those he had left. In the end it mattered little. He was still Sepulchure, who had raised the dark powers of the world beneath his Shadowscythe, so that the Dark might swallow the world in shadow.

He had already killed and enslaved the one power who had posed a threat to his ambitions. And now he desired Saphira, so that she might set the end in motion.

Eragon frowned grimly out at the peaceful grove beyond. Here was a refuge. Here was an expert in all things draconic, who could at least connect him to the living order of dragonlords and all he needed.

Here was the world Saphira was destined to destroy and the evil that not only had full knowledge of her existence. Galbatorix had only wanted to rule Alagaesia. Sepulchure intended to raise up the Dark, so that the dead might march as his armies and swallow the sun in eternal night. He thought of Brom and an elf-woman wasting away in her cell. He thought of Garrow and Roran, oblivious to the scythe hanging over their heads.

"This is not our first time in this world," he said at last. "When we defeated that squid creature, Saphira brought us home before she lost her titan form."

"She attuned herself with the powers of the Wind Orb," Lady Celestia explained. "On her own Saphira must certainly has the power to rip into the Void, but she is much too young to cross it on her own. Not without severe help."

Eragon sighed and waited for the other shoe to drop.

Good gods, did it drop.

Arra refused to think about her passenger until they were safely ensconced in those nearby mountains. Well, as safe as they could be before Draco's titan form started to shiver, and he was forced to land before they all plummeted to their deaths. Once more restored to his proper size, he crawled wearily into her lap as their guide in this strange world kindled a fire for them. With her dracolich in hand Arra of course sat as far back in the cool shadows as she could. She was Ice herself, too, and couldn't handle hot fires like she could before first attuning to her element.

She could not stop himself from staring at his face. Brom Holcombssen looked like her dad. Disturbingly so. Well, her dad if he served as King Alteon's grizzled assassin, and just wasn't a well-traveled cheese merchant.

Brom settled on the opposite side of the fire, regarding them as warily as they were eyeing him. "Your dragon," he began cautiously. "Has he..."

Draco snorted a puff of frost. It oozed up more from the cracks in his ribs than his nostrils. "I hatched this way, thank you very much."

Which made the man even more perplexed.

"He died in the shell," Arra explained, "and got revived in a Dark forest by a necromancer with a really strange mix of Dark and life magics." Brom nodded as if this made sense to him. They both know it did not. So Arra plowed past the awkwardness to ask, "I take it you have a young dragon and plucky apprentice that, er... Are a bit inconvenienced, right now?"

"Saphira," Brom supplied. He hesitated, before expounding, "My... The boy's name is Eragon."

Eragon. Huh. Weird name for a kid, but okay.

Eragon. Arra Gundhram. It she stretched out their names just so in her mind, it almost sounded like...

Arra bit her lip, inspecting this man who resembled a grittier version of her dad. What had the dragonlord from Osprey Cove looked like? She remembered only the eyes of his dragon, consumed by the Wind Pearl. "My parents are named Abram Gundhram and Diana," she blurts out. "Diana Moonblade, actually. She... She's good with swords. And cutting undead monsters to bits with Light magic. And my dad's called Bram for short, so..."

"Do you have your mother's eyes?"

"She does," Draco chimed in sleepily. "And the same scary look when something evil gets between her and the things she cares about."

Brom bited back a sad grin. "Aye. I knew the same, once."

Arra deflated a bit, both grieved and immensely relieved she would not also be stumbling upon an alternate version of her mother. That did not change her and Draco being stranded in this same dimension in the first place, with no freaking clue how to get home.

"Would you happen to know anything about inter-dimensional travel?" She sighed at his dumbfounded expression. "I thought so. Well, it was worth a shot."

"So where do we go from here?" Draco drawled.

"Evade the powers already hunting down a dragonlord and his dragon," Brom answered succinctly. "Until such a time comes that I can get you to ground and perhaps speak to one slightly more knowledgeable than myself about this."

Arra steeled herself. His guilty glance at Draco told her a safe haven somewhere was not an option. Not for a dracolich, and therefore not for her. "We'd best stick close by, then. There's always the off-chance another portal could suck us off and spit your son and his dragon back up instead."

Brom snorted a laugh. "Aye. Always the chance."

Eragon found Saphira exactly where Celestia's assistant, Elysia, promised he would. Elysia had assured him she had scattered too many dragon treats around the grove for Saphira to desert it so easily.

Saphira lay curled at the edge of the grove, a small hoard of hardened biscuits piled beneath her. All were distressingly shaped like fair-faced princesses and armored knights. Turning in his direction, she snapped one such treat in half between her teeth.

Silence fell. Eragon cleared his throat, swallowing back a hundred questions and accusations that could have poisoned the moment. "How are you?"

Saphira chewed and swallowed her knight's upper half. "Full," she answered. "And never settling for another stringy rabbit ever again."

Eragon couldn't help his smile at that. "I'll make sure to stock up, before we leave."

Burning blue eyes bored into him. "Where are we going? That flying city with all the dragonlords?"

"No," he said resolutely. "To Falconreach. Once there we're stocking up on supplies and then flying out to Duat in the Sandsea."

Saphira cocked her head. "Why? For your training?"

"To find the Orb of Light before Sepulchure can." Then their duties to Lore would be done, for with two of the eight Orbs already secured Sepulchure could never hope to bring his plan to fruition. "We need its power in safe hands, and we need it to get home. Before..."

Beneath his desiccated appearance and the pale blue magic leaking from his core, Brom grudgingly admitted Draco the dracolich was adorable. In a rotted, forsaken sort of way. His and his dragonlord's devotion for each other certainly showed neither was enthralled by sorcery, but rather bound by a deeper love. Arra shivered away from the fire so Draco did not steam with the heat. Draco served as their eternal, unsleeping vigil, only sliding away from his watch to quiet Arra through the worst of her nightmares.

A creature born of Ice, without blood to warm, should have thrived in winter's chill. Instead Draco grew only more listless. His quips fell silent and he strayed less and less from Arra's lap. The horses stopped fearing him and sniffed suspiciously close, far closer than they had ever dared when he'd still the strength to spit frost after their snuffling noses.

Arra, too, grew grim as the days drew by. Her tentative bursts of ice magic grew shorter and fainter by the day, though she had assured him the cold weather stalled the decay somewhat.

Then when morning, when he rose to collect their breakfast, Arra snagged his arm. She pierced him with Selena's eyes, fierce and resolved.

"Bring something back alive," she urged in the common tongue. They had opened their minds enough to each other for her to pick it up, should there ever come a time she need speak for herself and her dracolich without his aid. "Please."

Brom's gaze carefully avoided the dracolich in her lap. His eyes, once bright as glacial ice, faded to dull pinpricks in the black of his eye sockets. "I was not aware he ever needed to eat."

"The ambient mana in the air should be enough," Arra said tersely. "In the Doomwood, especially so for those like him. Unless their creators really screwed up with their reanimation, or..."

The air held no mana at all, only the same magic Eragon had never managed to tap into.

With a grave nod, Brom descended from their camp back into the wild wood. An honorable hunter would set up traps and snares, but he has never been one to waste time and energy spent on greater tasks. He threw open his mind to a burrow of nesting rabbits. One spell was enough to bring them to his hands, alive and screaming.

One fell unconscious at his feet beneath another brusque word. The other died when he snapped its neck himself.

The dead dangling from his belt and the living beast held firmly in his hands, Brom returned to camp. Immediately Draco stirred in Arra's lap, with a low and rasping hiss that sent skitters down even Brom's veteran spine. Setting down his unconscious rabbit, Brom retreated with the dead.

The dracolich pounced, jerky as a puppet. The spell over the rabbit broke as yellowed claws sank into its side. It screamed and struggled, before the dracolich opened his maw and inhaled.

Its cry grew high and thin and dry, before it stopped forever. Arra did not look away, but watched with grim-faced determination.

With a contented chitter, Draco turned from the bundle of desiccated skin and bone. He settled back into Arra's lap, cleaning excess bits of fur from his claws.

"'S good," he mumbled in full, drowsy contentment.

Arra smiled in grave satisfaction. "Good." Then her eyes, Selena's eyes, glanced cautiously at the withered remnant of rabbit before spearing Brom. In the common tongue, she demanded, "Burn it."

"Brisingr."

Blue flames ate away swiftly at desiccated flesh. Draco hissed at the fire and did not settle until it petered out. Only at the sight of ash did the tension in Arra's shoulders ease.

"You can't be too careful," she murmured again in the common tongue. "I won't have my legacy in this land be an epidemic of undead bunny rabbits."

Brom snorted at the image. "The strangest plague, perhaps, but far from the worst Alagaesia has endured." He eyed Draco again. Light had returned to his eye sockets, though still nowhere near as bright as when they had first arrived in his world. "Would catching another make a difference?"

"Not now," Arra answered knowingly. "And the one after this, even less so."

Brom considered what else in this world besides the king himself might match a dracolich in its inherent foulness. Those still must have hunted him even now, unless the smell of ice and desiccated dragon-flesh had at last thrown them from the trail.

"We can always try feeding him a Ra'zac or one of their lovely parents, but I recommend that as a last resort."

They had time yet, however borrowed.

Chapter Text

Stepping through Lady Celestia's swirling portal, Eragon tumbled head over heels while Saphira tripped over her own wings. Then, still blinking the swirling stars out of their eyes, dragon and dragonlord retched onto the grass. The sour tang of vomit on his tongue at least washed the taste soapy sponge still lingering on his tongue, because he had not taken the warning about the source of Lady Celestia's translation spell seriously enough.

Rolling away from the mess, Eragon took a moment to relish the reassuringly solid ground beneath him, and the fresh, salty breeze blowing in from the sea.

Saphira, he groaned mentally. If anyone named Cysero volunteers to help us, I want you to drag me away from them as quickly as possible.

With a final jet of flame, the little dragon righted herself. "If and when I do, I expect to be paid for my services."

Lady Celestia had sent them off with all of an adventurer's basic supplies, including tent and bedroll and a generous starting supply of gold. Everything was thoughtfully bundled in a small cloth bag, deceptively light, but enchanted to hold far more objects than a lone travelers could ever hope to carry on their own. Most of their food pouches were brimming with dragon treats. Some were packed with all the nutrition a growing dragon needed and others to swiftly regain energy after a debilitating time in titan form.

Eragon appreciated the basic enchantment keyed to his own signature that prevented basic shoplifting. It ensured Saphira wouldn't eat her twice weight in treats the moment he settled down to sleep.

Dressed in the leathers and light armor suited to an adventuring warrior, Eragon felt no small amount of trepidation when they descended down into town. Yet almost all of the townsfolk looked even stranger than he did, with hair colors every shade of the rainbow. Even the little dragon at his side received only fond smiles and the occasional child asking him if it was okay to pet her. Saphira, the brat, basked in the attention.

There was a pet shop that sold creatures out of a child's fantasy and a zoo that held beasts even more outrageous. They stopped at separate stores for potions that restored health and mana. The strange blue little creature trying to catch their eye in an alley promptly retreated at Saphira's warning growl. Eragon bypassed the bank and the shop belching multicolored smoke and flashing lights, because its sign ominously proclaimed it as Cysero's Superstore of Savings!

When he had no more excuses, Eragon at last dropped into Yulgar's Weapon Shop. Saphira remained outside, surrounded by a crowd of adoring children, the largest of which was a gangly teenage boy with too large a blade strapped to his back.

A man with a kind, weathered face that reminded him of Horst peered up from behind the counter. "Well met, warrior! New to adventuring? I haven't seen your face around before."

"I've been at it a few months now," Eragon answered honestly, trying to ignore how strange the words felt coming off his tongue. Just because he had yet another new language beneath his belt did not stop it from sounding not quite right.

Yulgar glanced purposefully at his blond-haired apprentice, who dipped his head and retreated past a curtain in the back. From behind came the sounds of a hammer on steel. "Are you coming to buy or sell?"

Eragon possessively one hand on Zar'roc, safe in its wine-red sheathe. "I'm here to browse, mostly. Hopefully I'll find a blade better suited for me."

The smith squinted at him and the neutral colors of his clothing. "Are you attuned to any one element in particular, even just solid old steel?"

"No," he admitted.

Despite stands and shelves of plain but decent blades, Yulgar was a salesman who first handed him far finer swords of higher quality and exorbitant price. He held blades forged for knights and nobles and paladins. All felt wrong and heavy in his hands. Their magical auras flared against his own, and he did not like it one bit. He did realize how a Fire sword could feel so hot or an Earth blade so stubbornly rooted.

Though he was too polite to say anything Yulgar sensed his growing disappointment all the same. "May I?" he asked, nodding at Zar'roc.

With reluctance he unsheathed Brom's gift to him. Yulgar's face remained expertly calm, though his hands paled slightly he turned and scrutinized the blade of Morzan.

"Rarely have I seen a blade of such high quality," he remarked after a lifetime of pensive silence. "Once in a very great while some adventurer will show off the pride of their travels and tomb raiding. I can never offer a fair price to buy such weapons. They're too strong, and too picky, to be used as anything but display pieces or broken down for their components. I can offer you nothing of this craftsmanship."

Eragon nodded in resignation as he reclaimed Zar'roc. "I don't need a blade of this quality, just one I can trust in the Sandsea."

Yulgar's face shuttered. "You can most definitely trust that blade in the Sandsea. The monsters there are the sun and sand, Light and Fire. It will cut through them like a knife through butter." When Eragon's face fell further, he ventured, "I'm afraid I can't help you, boy, but there's a newcomer to Falconreach who might have what you're looking for?"

Eragon looked up eagerly.

"The mysterious stranger skulks around just side the western gates," Yulgar continued reluctantly. "Strange fellow, always lurking around after dark. His weapons all go for a very high price, but they are of... superior quality, if they are the type of weapons you seek."

His enthusiasm withered and died. "Everything he sells is Dark, aye?"

"Most definitely so." Yulgar hesitated, before adding, "Contrary to belief, Light does not necessarily mean good. Especially out in the blazing sun where every predator must be Light. Any well-rounded adventurer worth their grit knows to keep several back-up weapons on hand. There is nothing wrong with a Dark weapon, used right. Nothing else is so effective against the Light."

With a wry smile Eragon patted Zar'roc and all its sheathed evil. "Well, perhaps one thing. But thank you for your time."

His work done in Falconreach, he collected Saphira from her adoring public.

Of course she snorted and muttered about overgrown chicken-cats when the time came to book their gryphon ride. When Eragon pointed out the alternative was either her carrying him there, or a very long and tedious wagon ride, she clammed up.

Though their mount was bored beneath them as any workhorse, Eragon laughed in open delight at the wind whooshing through his air and the landscape unfurled beneath them like a living map. Saphra simmered jealously.

"Bah. You're acting like I haven't taken you flying three times before now!"

"I was almost definitely unconscious the first time," he pointed out, "and too afraid for our lives to enjoy the last two."

He almost expected Saphira to volunteer herself for the last of the journey, but she only shifted sulkily in his lap. Eragon frowned. He knew she was fully recovered from the physical exhaustion of her last transformation, but...

"I don't blame you, Saphira," he sighed. "Not for what happened on that island, or how we're stuck in Lore."

It wasn't her fault she had hatched destined to destroy this world. All he could do is remove her from it before some deeper instinct kicked in, if one ever would.

"I should have killed him," she mumbled into his lap. "Right then and there."

She did not mean Sepulchure.

"He was your twin," he murmured. "He's your brother still, even after all that's happened to him."

"He kills me, or I kill him. I should've have killed him, before that monster could make even more of a... mockery of him than he's already had. And I couldn't."

She fell silent. So did Eragon, even as the green plains beneath them gave way to golden dunes.

True to its name, the Sandsea was vast as an ocean, with roving dunes that shifted like the waves. Even so high above the desert the late afternoon shimmered with heat, creating thermals that only made the gryphon soar higher. With the cloudless sun beating down on their backs, only the winds of the high altitude offered any sort of relief.

In the endless golden sea, the town of Duat was an island of green upon the waters of a blue oasis. It was sunset by the time the hot and cranky gryphon landed, feathers angrily ruffling to rid itself of sand. Eragon paid the last of their traveling fees, and thanked the gryphon-keeper for pointing them in the direction of the inn.

With daylight yet to kill, they first wandered to the marketplace. The townsfolk were dark as the Travelers back home, though with light and loose flowing garbs better suited for the climate. Some were already closed or closing for the night, but a few stall-keepers tried shouting out at him for his business. Beyond the market place rose a magnificent palace of three golden pyramids.

Eragon browsed for a bit, but called it quits the second time a fire-snorting Saphira scared off a would-be thief from her bag of dragon treats. All of Eragon's stuff jammed in to it was incidental.

The next natural step was dinner at the inn. While Saphira scarfed down a whole rack of lamb, Eragon did his best to listen to the gossip.

There were some adventurers out here. They discussed likely sites where there might be treasure out in the sands and complained about scorpions and tombs already raided. However, there were far more locals, and almost all of their conversation centered around one topic; complaining about their king. While the oldest people debated whether Sek-Duat XIII had truly been worse than Sek-Duat XIV, or perhaps the other way around, it was mutually agreed upon that Sek-Duat XV was the worst one yet. They muttered about how prices had driven up inflation, again, and yet another mandatory day in the temples praying for those dead kings.

Eragon snorted into his drink. A world away, and tyrants are tyrants all the same.

Saphira ripped another shank off her lamb, mouth too stuffed to bother with proper words. A bad one, at that. Listen to all this people, fomenting rebellion beneath his very nose.

Eavesdropping further, Eragon heard only aimless grumblings, filled with the same resignation people in Carvahall used to curse cruel gods or fickle death. His hand tightened around his tankard. No, Saphira. Galbatorix tolerates no treason, because it's said the Varden has a hold in every village. Here, however... I don't think Sek-Duat matters what's said against him in the shadows. Not when even these people think they have no chance of ever overthrowing him.

Paying for the night, Eragon retired to his room. Saphira curled up beside him as if nothing had changed.

His dreams were much the same as they always were, though instead of Ra'zac tearing Garrow and Roran apart it was the dracolich, Saphira's corrupted brother, joined by a red-eyed, seething shadow with Saphira's shape.

Neither of them said anything about it the morning after. Eragon wearily supposed it was another nightmare to fade into the back of his mind, when something even more haunting inevitably came along.

After a quick breakfast Eragon headed for the marketplace. He had no clue when Lady Celestia's contacts would reach out to him, but he must have stuck to them easily enough. No other adventurer in Duat had a little blue dragon at their side.

Unlike the sweltering afternoon, Duat was almost pleasant in the early morning, for the sun felt welcoming on his back as it drove away the last of the nighttime chill. They took their time heading down the street, mostly because Eragon slowed down to ogle the giant tortoise-like beast a man was slinging a saddle onto.

"Pst! Hey, you!"

Eragon froze, glaring suspiciously at the man fixing the saddle's many straps. The man was shrouded head to toe, a wrap even obscuring his face. "Are you talking to me?"

The man glared back from the side of his eye. "Keep your voice down! You are Eragon, yes?"

"I am," he allowed. "I... take it we share a mutual friend."

"We most certainly do. Come, we must make for the Light Orb immediately, before-" They both jerked toward the sudden screams and curses from the crowd, as a sleek brown stallion barreled its way through the streets. "Oh, Khazri's tit!" When Eragon reached for his sword, the stranger hissed at him, "Don't you dare! You need to reach the orb, no matter what!"

The stranger bolted on foot, leaving his beast behind. It did no good. The stallion leaped clean over a cart, its rider springing himself from its back. The stranger scarcely had the time to unsheathe his sword before the man landed square on his back, holding up his own blade to his throat. The turtle-beast bellowed in panic, thundering out into the dunes.

Eragon stalked a few steps forward, hand creeping toward Zar'roc. He stopped when the hunter turned toward him, blade never letting up from the stranger's throat.

The hunter grinned his way. "One more rebel for Sek-Duat. Thank you, stranger. If you hadn't been distracting him, he might have slipped away again."

"Traitor!" the stranger snarled. "You're the king's dog, Zhoom! Your forefathers would weep, if Sek-Duat had left any alive!"

Zhoom smiled tightly down at him, lowering his blade to draw blood. "Only a sand elf on my mother's side, thank you very much. The other half of me is very much human." His feral gaze snapped Eragon's way. "Tell me, did you know you were having a conversation with a wanted man?"

"Yes, dog." Even through his wrap, the stranger rolled his eyes for all the world to see. "I clearly was plotting sedition with another boy adventurer that bumbled into town yesterday in a crowded street, in broad daylight. Really, are you that desperate for Sek-Duat's blood money?"

Zhoom scoffed, but his stance loosened somewhat. "I see your point. A stupid boy, in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"The 'boy' has a name," he interjected hotly. "It's Eragon. And I was just trying to talk up some townsfolk to find where the real gold can be out in that gods forsaken desert."

Despite his own name, Zhoom had the gall to snort. "Sure, Eragon. Just choose your next guide a little more wisely. It wastes all our time when I have to take in unsuspecting warriors that try making friends with the wrong people because they can't bother to understand the Sandsea's... local politics."

"I'm not a warrior." Eragon held out his arm. Saphira fluttered up to perch with an indignant hiss, spitting sparks Zhoom's way for good measure. They smirked at his look of utter flabbergast.

"So you aren't," Zhoom answered, olive eyes narrowing in speculation. "Dragons appreciate their gold, yes, and their dragonlords near as much?"

He stroked Saphira's head. "If there's enough to be worth our interest."

"Oh, the reward is certainly worth the risk. Our king is generous with his patronage, to those who truly deserve it, and he seems to be having a... bit of a dragon problem, right now."

"I'm no stranger to dragon problems." When the first example of such nipped his hand, he switched to scratching her chin.

"Even to those no longer technically alive?"

"Oh, those most especially of all."

Zhoom glanced disdainfully down at the rebel still sweating beneath his blade. "Rebels like our lovely sand-rat here dared to defile the Sek-Duat dynasty tomb a few weeks back. In their desecration they woke a wrathful guardian, a mummified dragon, that thankfully dispatched of the problem. Unfortunately, the beast refuses to be pacified. It lays waste to all who come near, even those simply trying to restore the tombs of our forefathers. What should be a sacred protector has sadly become a thorn in Sek-Duat's side. We'd greatly appreciate... any help in laying the dragon to rest."

Eragon and Saphira pretended to think it over. "Sounds like it could be worth our time."

Zhoom nodded. "If you're still interested in making yourselves a fortune let's meet back here in an hour. I have a delivery to make first."

They made a show of wandering back to the inn, though their eyes never left the pair. Kicking the rebel's blade aside, Zhoom hogtied him. With a whistle, his horse trotted beside him. Slinging the rebel over its back like a prize kill, he rode for the golden palace in the distance.

"There's still time to stab that half-elf in the back and steal the rebel for ourselves."

"He wanted us to go with Zhoom," Eragon answered in draconic. "So we will."

Lady Celestia had warned him to steer clear of the Sandsea's king, though she had also conceded it to perhaps be inevitable. The Sek-Duat dynasty had ruled unopposed for fifteen hundred years. It was almost guaranteed the Light Orb was the source of their longevity.

As Galbatorix and the Forsworn had proved, it was so much easier to take down an institution with inside knowledge.

Chapter Text

They found Zhoom waiting with a second horse. He grinned at the sight of them, and wider still when Saphira hissed back.

"I'm glad you showed up after all," he joked, "and not just because my king is paying me commission to ensure you get to the temple safely."

"But not to help inside it?" Eragon asked dryly.

"I am a humble ranger, kept from wandering only because Sek-Duat is so generous with his patronage." Zhoom shrugged. "I'll leave dragons to the dragonlords, My part is to get you there and back if- when you put the beast to rest." He nodded to the white mare beside him, sleek as pearl. "From the size of your dragon, I thought you'd appreciate the ride."

"We do," Eragon replied as Saphira and the mare eyed each other. She was even slighter and slimmer than Alsvid, but did not blink twice at the dragon that settled onto his shoulders. "I suppose you bring her around stranger things then dragons, for her to be so calm."

Zhoom chuckled. "Khamsin and Sirocco are ranger's horses. If they can't be trusted to carry me and my hawk through a sandstorm or a battlefield then they'd be no use at all."

Zhoom led them out of Duat and into the rolling dunes. At first Eragon marveled at the endless waves of sand, but he tired of them quickly, and even more so of the numerous bandits, giant lizards, giant scorpions, and living sandstorms that rose out of the desert to harass them. The horses, well-trained, tried to calmly and swiftly carry them such threats. There were times Zhoom would simply shoot something dead with an arrow, and others when he'd jump off his stallion to plunge his blade into something's back.

Saphira snarled in outrage when she swooped down upon the two-legged lizard Zhoom called a Sunspike. Her flames scarcely left a mark behind.

"Tell your dragon she won't be much help here," Zhoom called as he struck another Sunspike through the eye with an arrow. "These beasts are all bred to withstand Fire and Light, and she's-" The first Sunspike's gurgled squeal was cut short when Saphira instead shot ice shards into its throat. "-Quite capable of fending for herself."

"That she is," Eragon agreed.

Zhoom squinted at them when she returned to his shoulders. "What elements are you aligned to again?" Eragon only shrugged. "Fair enough."

For a time they rode in silence. With nothing to stare at except the sand and sky, Eragon's eyes strayed to Zhoom. Where most denizens of the Duat had dressed in muted blues and grays, the ranger wore a red silk tunic, with colorful scarves and strings of golden coins tied around his hips. His skin was adorned with jagged black tattoos. Strangest were his ears, with points that peaked out from his nest of black hair.

"Not a lot of elves where you're from, I take it," Zhoom called back dryly.

"None we've ever seen," Eragon admitted.

"I'm only half sand elf, on my mother's side. My dad was pure human." He paused, before throwing out, "Not that you'd see sand elves out here, anymore. They betrayed the Sek-Duat dynasty and paid for it."

"I'm sorry that had to happen," he replied neutrally.

Zhoom said nothing, for there was nothing to say.

The ranger drew his stallion to a halt, Eragon's mare stopping with them. Beyond, half swallowed by the sands, was nonetheless a palace that sprawled out across the dunes. Part of Eragon marveled at its grandeur while the other part shook its head at such wastefulness. What did dead kings need a palace for? Surely their tombs would have been even safer if left small and anonymous, to be swiftly buried by the sands.

"We better get something ten times as grand," Saphira sniffed. "If we ever decide to die, of course."

Eragon frowned at the numerous openings that yawned out of the complex. There were at least fourteen dead kings out there, assuming a few hadn't shared numberals so as to have reigns that seemed to have lasted a hundred years each. "Which one is it?"

"Whichever one has the undead dragon that comes out to kill you." Zhoom shrugged at his scowl. "A simple ranger, remember? Dragons above my pay grade. Besides, rebels are far more numerous, and profitable on a wider scale. This as far as the horses and I go."

Rolling his eyes, Eragon unsheathed Zar'roc and dismounted. Saphira lifted from his side, circling the tombs before definitely landing in front of one.

"You're sure this is the right one?"

Saphira sniffed. "That smell can't be anything else other than a dead dragon."

Of course, that was the moment twenty man-sized scarab beetles decided to burst forth from the shadows. Slashing a burst of ice from his blade, Eragon sent two belly-up after taking out enough legs, tripping up three more behind them. With a wave of defensive magic washing over him, he hurried into the fray, while Saphira savaged the outsiders.

Standing over a pile of beetle corpses and covered into their gore, a now distinctly unhappy pair stalked into the tomb. They ventured so deep into the dank darkness even Eragon's weak little human senses gagged on the overpowering stench of rotted dragon.

At the back of the tomb, something lurched up in a ragged heap of gold and rotted cloth. Wrappings of yellow linen revealed mottled flesh, though the wings and mighty tail had rotted away to mere stubs. Gold adorned the paws and knees like shackles, but completely masked the head. The undead dragon's blazing blue eyes fixated upon them, proving it very much could still see.

Eragon hesitated, unwilling to attack first. He tried draconic to pacify it, but at his first rumblings the beast threw back its head and drowned him out in a screech the Amulet could not translate. Then it spewed forth something like sand from its desiccated lungs. Eragon rolled out of the way, but hissed as grains struck his exposed face. They scalded like he now knew only Light could.

Saphira struck it behind, zipping by to blast ice into its eyes. She was not fast enough to dodge the paw that swatted her aside like a gnat.

Eragon's heart did not burn with Fire or numb with Ice. No, an emptiness opened up inside him, black and dead as he watched his little dragon fall. Before the creature bring its paw down upon her, he surged forward with a terrible roar. The beast shrieked as he sliced off its toes in a wave of blackness that could only be called Dark.

When the creature tried another barrage, Eragon braced himself over Saphira and threw out his arm. Darkness enveloped them like a shield as it surged forth in all directions. Through waves of billowing black the few bits of Light to make it through scarcely stung.

While they still had cover Eragon surged forward. Before the beast could rear back he closed the gap between them. He burrowed Zar'roc into its chest up to the hilt.

With an agonized shriek the beast lurched. He wrenched his only weapon free before its last claw could close around him, rolling out of the way.

Saphira leaped back into the air. She battered the creature's eyes with waves of Dark, blinding it as the colossal squid once had her. Its breath attack flailed uselessly after her, falling far shorter than the first had. From the wound Eragon had wrought goblets of Light magic, dim and fading, fell to dissipate upon the floor.

He rolled forward, taking the toes of a back paw in one swipe, and then from the other while it floundered. Staggering on what remained of its feet, the undead dragon snapped after them. Its second breath fell fainter than the first, and the third fainter still. Upon its fourth, the thing collapsed, and could not rise again.

Eragon hung hesitantly back. Despite the Light bleeding sluggishly from its wraps, and the raspy wheezes through the holes in its body, the defiant light in those sockets refused to dim. He strode forward to finish it.

Its gaze pierced him. "Thief!" it rasped, low and hateful. "Drained... me... dry."

"I-"

"Traitor... murderer... didn't spare... children... tried to stop... wanted my... eternal..."

"The orb," Saphira hissed. "Where is it?"

"Traitor... take it back... end it... END IT!"

He brought Zar'roc down. Its eye shattered like glass. Eragon wrenched his eyes shut against the wave of blinding light he unleashed, but it passed him by in a searing wave. The spirit was set free, and its broken body an empty husk.

Saphia sniffed suspiciously at it. "Did you understand what it was trying to say? Because I sure as hells didn't."

Instinct guided Eragon to the wall embedded in hieroglyphs, walling off one of the Sek-Duat kings to their eternal rest. It didn't matter which one it was. What mattered was the gaping hole from where the mummified dragon had wrenched itself free from its burial place. Ignoring the invaluable relics strewn about by the beast's awakening, Eragon fixated on the golden sarcophagus.

Even to his enhanced strength, the solid lid was nearly impossible to lift. With a grunt he finally pushed it far enough to get a good look inside.

He was not surprised to discover it empty.

Returning to the mummy, Eragon cut off a shred of its rotted bandages, and then hacked off the end of the mask's artificial beard. He stowed them away for safe keeping, and together he and Saphira left that place of death and deceit behind.

Zhoom and the horses waited from a distance. Eragon watched a hawk fly from the ranger's hands, back in the direction toward Duat.

"How did putting the poor beast out of its misery go?" he called.

"It's done," Eragon bit out, mounting Khamsin without further word. Saphira settled atop his shoulders.

"I hope you have proof of that," Zhoom said neutrally. "Don't want to go riding all the way back without something to prove your word." He whistled when Eragon silently pulled out the scrap of beard. "Yeah, that'll about do it. Solid gold. I don't suppose you grabbed anymore for yourself while you were at it?"

Eragon bristled. "We aren't grave robbers."

"I never said you were," the ranger replied, some tension easing from his shoulders. "Not only would it be damn wrong of it you, it would be utterly stupid to steal from the line of Sek-Duat. Their enemies don't tend to live long."

"We noticed." After a moment, when the silence once more turned companionable, he chanced, "The kings out here are lucky bastards, aren't they? Only fifteen of them, after all these centuries... Unless they're just the ones to go by Sek-Duat?"

Zhoom shrugged, not glancing back his way. "Not that unusual for families of a certain bloodline to make it past a century. Part of it depends on their innate magic or... the closeness of certain relations." His pointed ears spoke for themselves. "Besides, the royal line keep themselves secluded from the rabble. I'm certainly not blessed enough to know how many generations grow up in their sacred halls. Perhaps a regnal name passes father to son to mark centuries instead of individuals."

Saphira snorted. "Even you smelled that lie, right? Any idiot out of the egg could see he doesn't believe half of what he talks about. And most of his words aren't even worth trying to understand!"

Eragon said nothing. Perhaps Zhoom was only a mercenary motivated by his own self-interest. Perhaps he was even a sleeper agent, a dagger for the rebellion to put in Sek-Duat's back when he least expected it.

In the end it mattered little. Whether or not the ranger stood with them, Eragon would prove himself a king-slayer.

The Beor Mountains were cursed ground, any Urgal knew so. Their true homeland was in the west. Mother Spine was a harsh mistress, but her rugged mountains kept both humans at bay while allowing her true children to thrive on the slopes. The Beor Mountains rose too high for any Urgal to scale. Their peaks were hollow, teeming with treacherous little dwarfs who toiled beneath the earth like worms. Their beasts were brutes that could kill even a Kull like a child.

Yet Father ordered more and more of them east, and so east the Urgals marched. The Herndalls could do nothing to stop their sons from a war that was not their own. Father considered the Urgals his. So they were. A century ago the king's pet monsters had proved why that was true by devouring any who raised blade against him.

Galbatorix was honored even the Herndalls addressed him as Father. He knew it as the title carried by Kulkarvek and believed himself as their second king. Of course he did not understand why the Urgals had rose up against their one true king and seal him beneath the earth, where he could terrorize his children no more.

So did Father and his Shade believe Ithro Zhada a fearsome name. No Urgal uttered Rebel Doom without a voice dripping in bitterness or sarcasm. Of course even Father was at least still partially human and humans were deaf to the nuances of the Urgal tongue. The Shade had never been human at all. Perhaps he could not understand Urgal tones. Perhaps he delighted from their misery.

Holding a secret base in enemy territory was no easy feat, even for Father's Black Hand. The only crops that grew in that dim city were tubers and toadstools plundered from the dwarves. Even a Kull could wither to nothing without sunlight and on such a diet. Todor not only missed meat, he craved it, like the falcon did the wind or a crow the carrion of the slain.

His orders prevented him from hunting. It did not prevent him fighting. Father could not abide his warriors feasting on boar or goat without his permission. Them killing themselves to bring down a cave bear or one of Svarok's sons amused him so.

Todor hadn't gone out wanting to glut himself on an Urzhad. He had only wanted one scrawny little yearling of a Shrrg, one lured out from the pack scarce larger than the wolves of the west. Was such a thing too much to ask?

But, long before Todor and his comrades stalked too close, the wind suddenly shifted. The parent Shrrg, with senses keener than any Urgal's, nosed their half-grown pups ahead of them and flee.

"Rahna's tits!" Dravko swore. Any beast that could make a Shrrg turn tail was no mere threat. "An Urzhad? Shouldn't they all be hibernating?"

"Like we should be so lucky," Yavor snarled, whirling toward the source of the wind. "Fucking Fanghur!"

Todor bared his teeth in a smirk. Fanghur were the bastard cousins of dragons, without their size or fire. They relied on their mental attacks to overwhelm their prey, but any Urgal of Father's had iron shields. Perhaps they could yet feast after all, if they could down one-

A pack of four Fanghur swooped down. As Todor raised his weapon against him and mind steeled shut, too late did he sense the otherworldly bite of magic building in the air. His first hysterical thought when the Fanghur opened their jaws was that they had learned to breathe fire.

There were no flames, only a windstorm that slammed Todor and his brothers back against the earth.

As their death descended, Todor raised his arm with a snarl, to take down as many of these abominations as he could with him.

Chapter Text

With Zhoom to charm his way to the palace walls, and unquestionable proof he had put the undead guardian out of its misery, Eragon strode inside the palace with minimal interference. At the gates Zar'roc was not even taken from him.

The head guard at the entrance smirked at his surprise. "You have done the royal line a great service, dragonlord. Our king does not treat honored guests with such suspicion." Unspoken was the very real threat she and her comrades would kill him long before he could do more than draw his weapon.

Eragon bowed his head and said nothing. If he was allowed Zar'roc than certainly no fuss was made over Saphira. For once her youth and adorable features played in their favor. She perched innocently on his shoulder, damn near purred when the guard scratched her chin, and showed no hint of fang or flame down ornate halls. Guards armed with golden pikes watched their procession from every wall.

Saphira eyed them right back. "Their very weapons are gilded and they can walk off with them at all time. Is this king that stupidly trusting with his hoard?"

Or maybe he knows damn well none are stupid enough to walk off with his gold, Eragon thought privately. He dared not speak aloud, lest the guards know draconic or at least suss out his intent.

Right in the heart of the palace, through endless halls and an army of armed guards, King Sek-Duat XV rested on a throne of gold and lapis lazuli. His body was shrouded in robes of white linen that could not disguise a frame so skinny it bordered on emaciated. Over his garb the king's royal raiment consisted of heavy gold, gauntlets and pauldrons covering from shoulder to fingertip. His massive crown included a golden mask that obscured his face entirely, even the eye holes burning with blue magic. Despite the treasury heaped upon his shoulders the king did not tremble as he smoothly rose from his repose.

Saphira snorted and buried her nose into his shirt. So deep inside the palace the chamber was without windows. The incense and lantern oil burned strong enough to make even his eyes water. A dragon's poor senses were overwhelmed.

A guard eyed him sharply. "You may bow now, before the Sun King, King of the Sands, the Celestian..."

The list of titles continued for some time. When it finally ended Eragon bowed stiffly, eyes never leaving the throne. Saphira's claws sank into his tunic.

"It is a rare honor for you, young dragonlord, to be invited into my presence," Sek-Duat said at last. His powerful voice carried beyond his helm but muffled it so Eragon had no true age of the man behind it. "Very few people have ever held this honor, not even King Alteon the Balanced."

Eragon jutted his chin mulishly. Zhoom and the guards at the gate had told him to speak only when commanded, to do so as succinctly and civilly as possible. So he let the king ramble on. When Saphira's mind strayed in boredom, fixating on the shiny gold, he warned her only to keep her paws to herself.

"Zhoom is a great ranger. He has become famous for hunting those who are hard to find, but he is a specialist. I have need of one like you, with raw power, someone who can think fast and overcome unforeseen challenges. If you think fast enough... perhaps you can leave my kingdom with twice as such treasure." Burning blue eyes stared past him to Saphira who defiantly returned it. "But you are a dragonlord. Why else have you come to my domain, beyond seeking your own fortune?"

Considering the many spear tips surrounding him, Eragon inhaled slowly. "Your highness, a fallen knight called Sepulchure seeks the power of Orbs that are the embodiment of the eight cardinal elements to throw this world into Dark. Saphira and I nearly died in thwarting his attempt on the Wind Orb. We have reason to believe the Orb of Light to be somewhere within the Sandsea. As your dynasty has long protected these lands we hoped you might have some idea of the Orb's whereabouts, so we can track down and secure it before he can."

Sek-Duat stilled upon his throne. Eragon's hand slowly reached for Zar'roc before he spoke again. "King Sek-Duat I, first and greatest of our line, was surely blessed by the Light to raise up this throne. Regretfully this 'orb' is unfamiliar to me, and I am well-versed in my family's lore. Rest assured, no threat to this land or my people shall stand so long as I am here to stop it. But perhaps there is something I may do for you, if your concern for my kingdom is genuine."

Sek-Duat cursed a Sandwitch for his people's malcontent, a crone so evil she was cast out of her own society in the Doomwood. It was she who stole people in the dead of night, poisoning their hearts with fear and blindly making them lash out at the very kings who sought to protect them. He ordered Eragon to go forth and slay her. In the mean time he would order his scholars to scour the library for any mention of the orb or its whereabouts.

Eragon agreed. It got him out of the palace without a pike through his back. When they were clear Saphira vehemently lifted off from his shoulder, snorting fire and ice into the sand.

"Bleck! That old tomb was so stuffed up I couldn't smell a damn thing!"

"It might have just been from all the incense," he pointed out reasonably. They both scoffed at the likelihood of that.

They searched the town for Zhoom or his horses. Eragon was not surprised to find neither.

Without a mount Eragon trekked out into the desert in the same direction Sek-Duat assured him where the Sandwitch made her lair. Dragonlords did not feel the desert heat as ordinary men did. The sun never scorched his skin and he felt only the heat from mild exertion. Saphira lazily went after the scarabs and Sunspikes that dared harrass them.

They didn't need to go looking very for what was out to kill them.

"Elf-boy dead ahead!" Saphira called from above.

Eragon refrained from a sigh. He knelt to the ground. His spirit reacted to the sturdy Earth below as it never had in Alagaesia. In Lore Rephaim's lessons on defense proved true. Shielded by sturdy Earth the arrow bounced off his chest without even tearing his fabric.

"What gave me away?" he called conversationally into the dunes.

Another arrow sailed forth. Eragon reflexively raised an arm to block it. He winced as this shot rebounded far more forcefully as the protective power of Earth receded. For all he could call upon all the elements he could never hold one for too long without his spirit revolting.

"Please," Zhoom sneered as he erupted from the sands like a ghost. Zar'roc scarcely parried his scimitar in time. "I knew you were with the rebels since you first entered town. I was playing the long game to see if you drew any more out. When you all but blatantly threatened the king and one of the kingdom's most legendary relics I decided to cut my losses before your own rebellion assassinated you."

"Truly?" Zhoom tried to spin low to cut his legs out from under him. A bone-crunching kick got him spinning out of the way. "Because I'm trying to make sure a monster doesn't drown this world in eternal night."

The ranger scoffed. "And getting Sek-Duat killed in the crossfire was to be an unexpected bonus?"

Eragon's eyebrows climbed to his forehead as the fight wound on. Zhoom fought dirty and kept trying to slip back for his ranged weapons. Eragon easily closed the distance between them. "If you truly are a rebel plant now would be the perfect time to drop the act. I've better things to do than fight one like me."

Zhoom's scimitar whirled like a dervish. Angela, a more unpredictable opponent, had given him the experience to parry the frenzied patterns of the blade. "What ever gave you that idea?"

"A Sek-Duat massacred your mother's family!" Fire blazed around Zar'roc from Eragon's indignant rage. "You should be trying to tear them all down. You should only be selling out innocents so you can get close enough to stab that tyrant in the back!"

Zhoom's face cracked into a feral snarl. "Don't you dare speak of my mother! She taught me to rise above petty things like vengeance, the value of a promise. My contract is my word, my honor! Even for a king corrupt as Sek-Duat I'll keep it!"

"Is that what you tell yourself at night?" Eragon hissed. "Does it quiet their ghosts, that you serve their murderer like a loyal dog?"

The ranger lunged at him. Eragon rose Zar'roc for a parry. A ragged scream escaped him when the scimitar proved only a distraction, and one of Zhoom's arrows slashed down his arm. His left arm went numb as blood and green poison splashed onto the sand.

Saphira's patience broke. She swooped down. Zhoom was not quite fast enough to escape her fire. He snarled as the fire seared his lower leg. Eragon tackled him as he reached for his bow.

Fist cocked back for a punch, Eragon looked up as a new shadow fell upon them. From a dune prowled something like a monstrous lion, only its snarling face was a man's.

"What the seven hells do you want?" he roared up at it.

When Zhoom shifted beneath him Eragon rolled out of the way before the scimitar could sink into his gut. They circled each other warily as the cat beast slunk closer. Saphira took to the air, growling as she debated which idiot was the bigger target.

"My king commanded it of me," drawled the cat beast.

"Forget it!" Zhoom spat. "Sek-Duat already ordered me out here. This is my contract!"

"And mine is to kill the both of you."

Zhoom faltered for a moment before spinning indignantly toward the new threat. "What?"

"You two were to kill each other, or myself the winner." The cat beast yawned. "I tire of the stalemate, so I'll kill you both. And take the hatchling as a snack."

Saphira spat sparks as a new fire blazed around Eragon. "Seven hells you will!"

"Excuse me!" Zhoom butted in, olive eyes murderous. "That king owes me a shit-ton of gold, you fucking sphinx! We have a contract!"

"You are the last sand elf," sneered the sphinx. "My king could never trust you. You were only a means to an end, one grossly overpriced!"

For the ranger the blow to his pricing was the last straw. Three arrows fired in rapid succession. The sphinx reared back, stone erupting from the ground to take the blows and Eragon's plume of fire.

It did not think to look skyward. Saphira dove down in a rain of Dark. It rose onto its hind-legs with an agonized screech as black flames licked at its mane, massive paws swatting after her.

An arrow bloomed in the roof of its mouth. Eragon surged forward to plant Zar'roc into its lower belly, beneath the protective ruff of mane. The sphinx tried to bring its weight down on him. It stumbled back as two more arrows made its eyeballs targets. With a grunt Eragon was able to turn the sphinx's momentum against it, leveraging Zar'roc to hurl it onto its back.

"F-Fools," gurgled the sphinx with its dying breaths. "The t-time of resurrection i-i-is near. S-Sek-Duat s-s-shall live..."

Zhoom's scimitar ended its last attempt to instill fear in their hearts. "Overpriced," he muttered darkly. "Fucking cheap king and his lackey beasts."

Eragon blinked in bemusement as he wrangled Zar'roc free of its belly. It tore free with a disgusting squelch. "I take it this broke the terms of your contract."

"Oh, I am going to get paid. Even if I have to pry my gold from that bastard's cold, dead..." He trailed uncertainly off. "I was hired to catch one hundred rebels. Alive. I only ever got paid if they were alive. What sort of tyrant doesn't allow for their enemies dying?"

"Someone who can trade those lives for something better than security," Eragon answered wearily.

Galbatorix must have made such exchanges, all those decades ago. Brom had described the Dragon Riders as a massive order, unmatched in their vigilance and magical prowess. How else had thirteen disparate rebels cast down such a power if not by resorting to magic no others could consider?

Zhoom's olive eyes stared at him before widening in horror. "This is way above my pay grade. I was hired by one run of the mill tyrant, for a hundred people of no real importance." He shook his head at the madness of it all. "What sort of tyrant wants to bring back an ancestor that will just steal all the power from him?"

Eragon and Saphira frowned gravely at each other. The poor dragon's last warnings, the empty tomb, and a shrouded king who hide away from sun and the outside world spoke of something else entirely.

"Who ever said the first Sek-Duat died?" he retorted.

"His son did, you idiot. Sek-Duat the... second."

Saphira settled on his shoulders. "An undead king does sound above your pay grade," he noted calmly. "Guess this means you have to take even more from his coffers. Or just pluck it from his throne."

The ranger's nauseous expression eventually smoothed into a considering smirk. "It's certainly a hell of an interest rate."

All they had to do was send the rotting bastard back there. Eragon had put down a nascent sea god and survived against Saphira's undead brother. What was one puny corpse in comparison?