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Chapter Text

In the depths of the empire, Eragon sat drawing patterns on the ground. He had just tried to transform a stone into water, with no luck. Their situation was dire. Without a way to source water, they could not cross the Hadarc desert. As he gouged the earth to make the river for the valley from his home, he became frustrated and wiped it away. A moment later, however, his eyes flicked back to gouge he had made. Straightening in surprise, he noticed that the furrow he had made was lined with moisture. Curiously, he scraped away more dirt and found a damp layer a few inches under the surface. 

“Look at this!” he said excitedly. A brilliantly sapphire dragon dipped her nose to look at the discovery. Eragon deepened the hole before summoning the water that was in the soil. With a faint trickle, the water rushed into the hole. Eragon smiled in triumph, but before he could cup the water in his hands to drink it, the smile turned into a frown. The water wasn’t stopping. He had released the magic, but it continued. He stumbled back, falling on his behind.

Eragon! Saphira exclaimed in alarm. 

It’s not me. He was just as confused. The water was behaving strangely, against all the laws of nature. It was building into a large ball rapidly. It stopped growing, then changed shape into something Eragon couldn’t quite figure out. Before he could even get up to distance himself… pop. 

Kneeling in front of him, her face mere inches from his, was a mesmerising woman. Her skin, impossibly pale, seemed to emit a gentle luminescence all its own, casting a soft light on her features. Her face was framed by a cascade of flowing long wavy hair that shimmered like the night sky. Her aqua eyes were striking, piercing through him with an intensity that left him immobilised, as if they held some kind of unspoken power.

Suddenly, a low warning growl rumbled from Saphira, snapping him out of his trance. Startled, he scrambled to his feet, taking several hurried steps back from the woman. Saphira quickly moved to his side, her sharp fangs bared in a protective stance. She stood poised, her unfamiliar robes billowing with her swift movements, revealing a stunning array of blue hues that danced like ocean waves as she shifted her weight.

“Who are you?” Eragon finally asked.

Be careful, she isn’t what she appears. Saphira’s concern traversed their link. Impressions travelled across. Female with magic, power and something otherworldly. 

The woman tilted her head at the question. “I am Kilf. You called me, did you not?”

Eragon could only look dumbfounded. Called her? Before he could say anything else, Murtagh strode into the clearing, sword in hand. Eyes locked on the woman.

“Who’s your new friend?” A hard edge to his jab at humour. 

“Friend?” Her voice trembled on the word, as though it were foreign. She tilted her head, scanning Eragon and Murtagh with cool, liquid eyes. Around them the forest held its breath.

Eragon’s brow furrowed. “I did not intend to summon you. I only wished to draw water from the soil.”

The woman’s gaze drifted to his dirt-caked boots. She lifted her hands and flexed long, graceful fingers as if rediscovering them. “I am water, at least in a sense.”

Murtagh’s grip tightened on his sword hilt. “Are you a magician or sorcerer? Or are you simply mad?”

She laughed softly, a sound like raindrops on stone. “None of those. I am, what used to be called, an Elemental. Water is my element. It has been a long time since I’ve been in physical form, in human years anyway. Your kind probably has long forgotten us.”

Eragon’s mouth went dry. “Us?”

“Yes.” She straightened, the pool at her feet settling into stillness. “Few remain, but we dwelt here long before dragons flew the skies.”

Murtagh exchanged a wary look with Eragon that said plainly: She’s lost her mind. Saphira’s snort rattled the leaves, and she lowered her head until her cobalt gaze met the woman’s without flinching. The Elemental’s lips curved in an unreadable smile. At last the dragon drew back, trembling.

Eragon swallowed. He felt Saphira’s thoughts skim his mind: She is what she claims—or believes herself so. Her mind is a deep well, brimming with magic older than any I have known.

The woman inclined her head and spoke in the Ancient Tongue. The syllables echoed with quiet power, binding her words to truth. “I mean you no harm.”

Eragon gave a nod to Murtagh to gesture that it was safe, but he did not fully sheath his sword.

Murtagh’s voice was as sharp as a flint.“What do you want?”

She paused, fingertips brushing a fern frond, droplets trembling. “To be. That is all.” Then, as though on impulse, she added, “You look as if you travel. May I join you?”

Eragon exchanged a glance with Murtagh. The wind stirred, and the forest seemed to lean in. In a low voice Murtagh murmured, “We need to talk,” and led Eragon twenty paces away.

Murtagh’s whisper was rough. “What happened? How did she get here and why do you seem to trust her all the sudden?” His eyes never leaving Kilf. 

Eragon folded his arms and explained how she came to be from water and what transpired when Saphira contacted her by mind. “Should we let her travel with us?” he finally asked. 

Murtagh seemed deep in consideration. Kilf was swaying slightly, humming an unfamiliar tune. “If we don’t take her, the soldiers will find her. She could tell them anything.”

If she is telling the truth, she can use magic and we don’t need another magic user on Galbatorix side. It feels as though she is important; I think it is wise to keep her close by. Saphira interjected. Eragon relayed the message to Murtagh. 

“Well, that’s settled then. She comes, but if she tries to use magic, it will be up to you and Saphira.” Murtagh said with finality. 

Eragon gave a hard nod. He had no idea what he should do if he had to face another magic user. 

Don’t worry, little one, I will swallow her whole if she tries. Saphira reassured. Eragon touched her side in appreciation. They returned to the clearing.

Eragon squared his shoulders. “You will travel with us. We are fugitives of the Empire—do not think to turn on us.” The woman inclined her head. “We head for the Ramr River, then into the Hadarc desert, and finally the Beor Mountains. We must reach the Varden.”

The elemental’s nose wrinkled. “Hadarc desert? That land belongs to Morgothal. I may not be of much help to you, my form will weaken there.” 

Murtagh stiffened. “Morgothal territory?”

She nodded. “Yes, another Elemental, of fire.”

Eragon bit back his questions. Every moment in this clearing was another chance for soldiers to descend. He turned to Murtagh. “We need to go. The soldiers will be on our heels if we stay any longer.”

Murtagh fetched two horses. “You can ride with me on Tornac,” he told the woman as they trotted out their horses. Before Murtagh could even get on the horse to help her up, she swung up effortlessly and settled into the saddle facing forward, her posture dignified and strange. 

 Murtagh scowled at her, then at Eragon. Eragon just shrugged his shoulders. She was a strange woman and didn’t seem to understand normal customs. Murtagh sigh in exasperation as he got on the horse, his arms wrapped around her to reach the reigns. This was going to be an interesting journey, to say the least. 

Chapter Text

They trudged through the night, the moonlight casting long shadows as they journeyed until fatigue forced them to halt. The humans, casting wary glances her way, kept their distance, a behavior she had come to expect. Her kind, though rarely seen, were met with suspicion, a response born from misunderstanding. Observing the group with keen interest, she mirrored their actions, hoping to blend in. As they unfurled their mats and settled down for sleep, she mimicked them by lying on the cold earth, closing her eyes, and regulating her breathing to a slow, rhythmic pace. Though she had no need for sleep, she recognised the importance of not standing out further. They were already on edge, whispers of recent hardships hanging heavy in the air.

She found their approach to problems intriguing. Lacking the magical prowess she was accustomed to, they exhibited resourcefulness. She watched with fascination as they secured the elf beneath the dragon’s belly using ropes and knots. Crude, perhaps, but undeniably effective.

Curiosity finally got the better of the younger male human. At least she thought he was male, Sindri showed her at one point. They were walking by the horses to give them a rest when Eragon asked,

“What is an Elemental?” He looked exhausted, but the question seemed to be eating him alive. Kilf gave careful consideration before answering.

“Elementals are a race of beings that are tied to their element in every way possible.”

“Do they use magic?”

“We control our element in the same way a dragon breathes fire. It is a part of us. There are magical properties with the elements, though. So my element is water and I have very good transformation abilities, which is magic.” 

Eragon looked thoughtful. Murtagh seemed to listen intently.

“Where did you come from? You appeared when I was drawing water from the ground.”

“I was in water form when I heard your call and was curious, so I changed into a human form. We’ve been part of these lands a long time. Long before we created your race.” Eragon looked blank, struggling to grasp the concept. He wasn’t the first to. Other races only had the one form so it must be a strange concept for them. 

“Wait, we created your race?” Murtagh interrupted. 

“Yes, Sindri created the humans with my help.” Wary that she would scare them, she kept the details to a minimum. 

“So where is this Sindri, creator of humans?” Murtagh snorted.

“In the earth.” She stated simply. She already knew that most races had forgotten their origins over time. Their lives were so fleeting. Murtagh just shook his head disbelievingly. 

Eragon was still curious. “How many others are there?”

Kilf gave a sad sigh. “Few, many were killed during the battle with the Titans.”

“Titan’s?”

“A race that sought destruction of everything. Bingers of chaos and death. They are no more. Only their descendants remain, but they are very tame.” 

“Who are their descendants?”Eragon’s eyes wide with burning curiosity. 

“I believe you call them Kull or Urgals.” 

Eragon’s face was a mix of shock and understanding. The older male was still just observing silently.

“Why haven’t we ever heard about any of this?” Eragon prodded.

“It happened a long time before we created your race. We do take physical for from time to time, but what seems like a short time for us is generations for you.” She explained calmly. 

There wasn’t any further discussion as they travelled, the silence stretching between them like a taut string. Eragon was deep in thought, his brow furrowed, while Murtagh cast wary glances at her. 

Their attention was sharply focused on avoiding soldiers, having narrowly escaped two ambushes. Both times, the dragon had saved them, her keen senses picking up the soldiers’ scent just moments before they were discovered.

The dragon attempted to communicate with Kilf through her mind, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. Kilf’s mind was vast and complex, a labyrinth of thoughts and memories. Instead of singular thoughts, Kilf managed to send a cascade of memories, vivid images and feelings about her origins. Conveying specific ideas proved challenging; it was easier to share a blend of impressions and sensory experiences than to rely on spoken words.

Kilf recalled Sindri explaining how humans and elves had forged a magical pact with the dragons, allowing them to bond. This notion had irritated Morgothal to no end. Observing the blue dragon and the young male, Kilf suspected they shared such a bond. She sensed a magical connection between them, and their synchronised movements and mutual understanding suggested a close relationship. Murtagh, however, chose to sleep on the opposite side of the camp from the dragon, perhaps out of a cautious instinct to avoid becoming her midnight snack.

They preferred to travel under the cloak of night to avoid soldiers, the stars their silent companions. When they were about five miles from the river, they paused to rest. As the time came to resume their journey, Eragon’s face was etched with concern as he glanced toward the elf, his eyes searching for reassurance in her sleeping form. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Murtagh over Tornac’s back.

“The elf.” Eragon replied. “Saphira is troubled that she hasn’t woken or eaten; it disturbs me too. I healed her wounds, at least on the surface, but it doesn’t seem to have done her any good.”

“Maybe the Shade tempered with her mind?” suggested Murtagh.

“Then we have to help her.”

Murtagh knelt by the elf. He examined her intently, then shook his head and stood. “As far as I can tell, she’s only sleeping. It seems as if I could wake her with a word or touch, yet she slumbers on. Her coma might be something elves self-induce to escape the pain of injury, but if so, why doesn’t she end it? There’s no danger to her now.”

“But does she know that?” asked Eragon quietly. 

Murtagh put a hand on his shoulder. “This must wait. We have to leave now or risk losing our hard-won lead. You can tend to her later when we stop.”

“One thing first.” said Eragon. Kilf watched him carefully wet her lips and face. He appeared genuinely concerned for the elf, his brow furrowed with worry. 

Closing her eyes, she concentrated and could almost feel the rhythmic pulse of life coursing through the elf’s veins. Her senses picked up an unsettling, sharp tang that indicated poison mingling with the blood. Time was ticking—would they uncover the danger before it claimed the elf’s life? Should she step forward and share what she knew? They hadn’t approached her for help, perhaps due to a lack of trust or belief in her abilities. Nonetheless, she resolved that if they failed to find a remedy, she would use her skills to keep the elf hanging onto life.

They reached the river. Murtagh tossed a branch into the torrent and watched it race away, bobbing along the water. 

“How deep do you think it is?” asked Eragon.

“I can’t tell.” He looked worried.

“Several miles deep at the centre.” Kilf answered. Both looked incredulously at her. 

“Well, if you’re the sorceress of water, why don’t you just make us a path!” Murtagh said irritably. 

“Ok.” She said as she stepped forward. “Probably best to go over rather than through. The horses are flighty creatures.” She started her forms, moving her arms in up cycling motions. The water came up and solidified to ice, creating a bridge. She stepped on and continued her stance and movements, creating more of the bridge as she moved along. “Well? Are you coming?” She asked as she looked back.

Oops. Perhaps she had overdone it, she thought, as she observed the wide-eyed, gaping expressions on their faces. Murtagh was the first to recover from the shock and cautiously nudged the newly formed bridge with his boot, as if testing whether it was solid. Their eyes met, filled with a mixture of disbelief and determination, before they continued forward. Saphira, with her powerful wings slicing through the air, carried the elf on her scaly belly, flying close by to offer guidance. They managed to coax the horses onto the bridge, grateful that Kilf had thoughtfully textured the surface to reduce slipperiness. Progress was painstakingly slow, each step deliberate and careful, yet she maintained her calm resolve. As they reached the other side, she released the bridge back into the rushing water, ensuring it dissolved seamlessly to thwart any pursuit by the soldiers. In the distance, dark plumes of smoke curled upward, a reminder of the urgency of their journey. It took a couple of hours to cross the river, but finally, they set foot on the opposite bank, exhausted yet relieved.

Chapter Text

Kilf felt the drain on her as soon as her newfound feet found the sand. The air lacked moisture, and the heat rolled over her. Ramr river was a fuzzy line behind them. 
“You’re sure we’ll find food for the horses out there?” the young one said in a slurred speech. He seemed fatigued.
“See those?” Murtagh pointed to the crags over the way. “Grass grows around them. It’s short and tough, but the horses will find them sufficient.”
“I hope you are right. Before we continue, let’s rest. My mind is as slow as a snail, and I can barely move my legs.”
Kilf sat cross-legged after they had settled down and gone to sleep, using the time to consolidate this form. Otherwise, she would return to her element. The sun was starting to rise and she could already sense the heat starting to rise. She briefly considered sending a request to Morgothal to aid her, but thought better of it. That cocky bastard would never let her live it down. 

The humans slept a very short time and continued when the sun was high in the sky. They were pushing so hard to run from the “empire” and to have the elf healed. What had they done to earn the pursuit of soldiers from this empire? Wasn’t the pairing of dragon’s and other species special? Shouldn’t Eragon and Saphira be higher in their social hierarchy than being hunted? Was it really any of Kilf’s business? It wasn’t her place to interfere with mortals. They had agreed on free will for all they had created. Still, it wouldn’t hurt if she observed the current state of affairs amongst the mortals. 
The pressure to dissipate built as the heat increased during the day and the longer she was in these conditions, but she resisted. As uncomfortable as it was to maintain this for in this environment, she would not leave the sides of these travellers quite yet. Her curiosity was not yet satisfied. She had been through worse.
As the sun began to set, they stopped once more for a break. The human’s skin had turned bright red in the areas that the sun touched. Was this normal for humans to have this reaction to sunlight? It seemed counterproductive when they were not nocturnal by nature. 

“How far do you think we went?” the young one asked. 
“I don’t know!” snapped Murtagh. “We don’t have enough water. And the horses have to drink.”
“I may be able to help.” offered Kilf, trying to calm the situation. Perhaps humans were as susceptible to heat as she was. They were made from a good deal of water, too. She went to a dip in the dunes and went into a stance, moving her hands and arms in fluid motions. Beckoning the water deep, deep in the ground. Where there was life, there was always water. A small pond gradually formed. The horses were the first to eagerly come forth and drink from it. Eragon and Murtagh knelt, filling water skins and splashing their dry faces as well. Their dry lips recovered, and the burns reduced. Murtagh looked at his reflection in the water and noticed how his skin had improved by using the water. He looked up at Kilf.
“Have you done something to the water?” with a slightly suspicious undertone. Kilf tilted her head.
“I did not think you were comfortable with the damaged skin, so I added healing properties.”
“Thank you.” Eragon said earnestly. 
“Thanks.” Murtagh muttered grudgingly. Saphira sniffed the water before deciding to drink. 
Kilf could feel her form wavering. She took a step into the water, A cool sensation rushed over her as she felt rejuvenated being with her element. With a sigh, Kilf reluctantly let the water leave the surface, sinking beneath the shifting sand. 
It was freezing when they rose the next day in the early hours. It gave Kilf a reprieve from the heat. The humans however did not seem to feel the same relief.
“Do you think it will be long before we leave the desert?” the young one asked.
Murtagh glowered.“We are only crossing a small section of it, so I can’t imagine that it will take us more than 2 or 3 days.” 
“But look how far we’ve already come.”
“Alright, maybe it won’t! All I care about right now is getting out of the Hadarac as quickly as possible. What we’re doing is hard enough without having to pick sand from our eyes every few minutes.” 

***

They continued their hardy travel through the desert, until about midday when they saw shapes ahead. Kilf recognised them as the mountains, they were Helzvog’s territory. It took the humans a little bit longer to figure out what they were, they didn’t seem to have seen them before. Eragon was the first to realise this and pointed this out to Murtagh. 
Murtagh peered closely at the horizon. He shrugged. “What, I don’t—” The words died in his mouth and gave way to slack-jawed wonder. Murtagh shook his head, muttering, “That’s impossible!” He squinted so hard that the corners of his eyes crinkled. He shook his head again. “I knew the Beor Mountains were large, but not that monstrous size!” 
“Let’s hope the animals that live there aren’t in proportion to the mountains,” said Eragon lightly. 
Murtagh smiled. “It will be good to find some shade and spend a few weeks in leisure. I’ve had enough of this forced march.” 
“I’m tired too,” admitted Eragon, “but I don’t want to stop until the elf is cured … or she dies.” 
“I don’t see how continuing to travel will help her,” said Murtagh gravely. “A bed will do her more good than hanging underneath Saphira all day.” 
Eragon shrugged. “Maybe … When we reach the mountains, I could take her to Surda—it’s not that far. There must be a healer there who can help her; we certainly can’t.” 
Murtagh shaded his eyes with his hand and stared at the mountains. “We can talk about it later. For now our goal is to reach the Beors. There, at least, the Ra’zac will have trouble finding us, and we will be safe from the Empire.”
The humans had both looked at Kilf when they were talking about healing, but didn’t ask for help. They were still wary of her. Such cautious creatures, or maybe Sindri made them this careful. 
The landscape changed and Kilf could feel her form steadily become stronger as they left the heat and dessert behind. Come evening, they camped by a stream which Kilf took full advantage of to dip her new feet in and reconnect while the humans were celebrating. 
It was only when a quiet settled over the camp did she decide to return, not realising the amount of time that had passed as there were now glittering stars in the sky. She noticed the younger human kneeling in front of the elf. His eyes were closed and after a minute his face began to grimace. She tilted her head. Perhaps he had tried to contact the elf uninvited. Not a very smart idea considering the elf had the upper hand with their minds capabilities. She wondered lazily over to him where Murtagh and Saphira were already crouched over. It wouldn’t be a good idea for her to go and interfere, it might frazzle both their minds. She sat, pulling her knees to her chest and just watched idly until the young one returned. 
“Are you alright?” Murtagh asked when he finally came round. “You’ve been kneeling here for almost fifteen minutes.”
“I have?” The young one blinked, oblivious to the passage of time.
Eragon stood, wincing as his cramped knees stretched. “I talked with Arya!” Murtagh frowned quizzically, as if to inquire if he had gone mad. Eragon explained, “The elf—that’s her name.”
He swiftly filled them in on what had transpired between him and the elf. 
“How far away are the Varden?” asked Murtagh.
 “I’m not exactly sure,” confessed Eragon. “From what she showed me, I think it’s even farther than from here to Gil’ead.” 
“And we’re supposed to cover that in three or four days?” demanded Murtagh angrily. “It took us five long days to get here! What do you want to do, kill the horses? They’re exhausted as it is.” 
“But if we do nothing, she’ll die! If it’s too much for the horses, Saphira can fly ahead with Arya and me; at least we would get to the Varden in time. You could catch up with us in a few days.” 
Murtagh grunted and crossed his arms. 
“Of course. Murtagh the pack animal. Murtagh the horse leader. I should have remembered that’s all I’m good for nowadays. Oh, and let’s not forget, every soldier in the Empire is searching for me now because you couldn’t defend yourself, and I had to go and save you. Yes, I suppose I’ll just follow your instructions and bring up the horses in the rear like a good servant.”
 Eragon looked bewildered by the sudden venom in Murtagh’s voice. “What’s wrong with you? I’m grateful for what you did. There’s no reason to be angry with me! I didn’t ask you to accompany me or to rescue me from Gil’ead. You chose that. I haven’t forced you to do anything.”
 “Oh, not openly, no. What else could I do but help you with the Ra’zac? And then later, at Gil’ead, how could I have left with a clear conscience? The problem with you,” said Murtagh, poking Eragon in the chest, “is that you’re so totally helpless you force everyone to take care of you!” 
 “Don’t touch me,” he growled. 
Kilf observed the humans intently standing at a distance. Were they going to split now?
Murtagh laughed, a harsh note in his voice. “Or what, you’ll punch me? You couldn’t hit a brick wall.” He went to shove Eragon again, but Eragon grabbed his arm and struck him in the stomach.
 “I said, don’t touch me!” Murtagh doubled over, swearing. Then he yelled and launched himself at Eragon. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs, pounding on each other. They were scrapping for a couple of minutes and before Kilf could consider doing anything, Saphira pinned both of them down. 
Eragon reluctantly turned his head toward Murtagh, tasting blood in the side of his mouth. Murtagh avoided his eyes and looked up at the sky.
 “Well, is she going to get off us?” 
“No, not unless we talk. … She wants me to ask you what’s really the problem,” said Eragon. Saphira growled an affirmative and continued to stare at Murtagh. By this point, Kilf was thoroughly amused. It was like a mother cat putting her kittens in place. She leaned over them both with a smile on her face. Murtagh shot her an angry glance, then grudgingly said louder, “I told you before: I don’t want to go to the Varden.” 
Eragon frowned. “Don’t want to … or can’t?” 
Murtagh tried to shove Saphira’s leg off him, then gave up with a curse. “Don’t want to! They’ll expect things from me that I can’t deliver.” 
“Did you steal something from them?”
 “I wish it were that simple.” Murtagh muttered.
Eragon rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Well, what is it, then? Did you kill someone important or bed the wrong woman?”
“No, I was born,” said Murtagh cryptically. He pushed at Saphira again. This time she released them both. They got to their feet under her watchful eye and brushed dirt from their backs. Kilf took a step back.
 “You’re avoiding the question,” Eragon said, dabbing his split lip. 
“So what?” spat Murtagh as he stomped to the edge of the camp. After a minute he sighed. “It doesn’t matter why I’m in this predicament, but I can tell you that the Varden wouldn’t welcome me even if I came bearing the king’s head. Oh, they might greet me nicely enough and let me into their councils, but trust me? Never. And if I were to arrive under less fortuitous circumstances, like the present ones, they’d likely clap me in irons.” 
“Won’t you tell me what this is about?” asked Eragon. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of, too, so it’s not as if I’m going to pass judgment.” 
Murtagh shook his head slowly, eyes glistening. “It isn’t like that. I haven’t done anything to deserve this treatment, though it would have been easier to atone for if I had. No … my only wrongdoing is existing in the first place.” He stopped and took a shaky breath. “You see, my father—” 
A sharp hiss from Saphira cut them off abruptly. 
 They followed her gaze westward. Murtagh’s face paled. “Demons above and below!” A league or so away, parallel to the mountain range, was a column of figures marching east. The line of troops, hundreds strong, stretched for nearly a mile. Dust billowed from their heels. Their weapons glinted in the dying light. A standard-bearer rode before them in a black chariot, holding aloft a crimson banner. 
“It’s the Empire,” said Eragon tiredly. “They’ve found us … somehow.” Saphira poked her head over his shoulder and gazed at the column. 
“Yes … but those are Urgals, not men,” said Murtagh.
 “How can you tell?” 
Murtagh pointed at the standard. “That flag bears the personal symbol of an Urgal chieftain. He’s a ruthless brute, given to violent fits and insanity.” 
“You’ve met him?” 
Murtagh’s eyes tightened. “Once, briefly. I still have scars from that encounter. These Urgals might not have been sent here for us, but I’m sure we’ve been seen by now and that they will follow us. Their chieftain isn’t the sort to let a dragon escape his grasp, especially if he’s heard about Gil’ead.”
 Eragon hurried to the fire and covered it with dirt. “We have to flee! You don’t want to go to the Varden, but I have to take Arya to them before she dies. Here’s a compromise: come with me until I reach the lake Kóstha-mérna, then go your own way.” Murtagh hesitated. Eragon added quickly, “If you leave now, in sight of the column, Urgals will follow you. And then where will you be, facing them alone?” 
“Very well,” said Murtagh, tossing his saddlebags over Tornac’s flanks, “but when we near the Varden, I will leave.”
So the humans were going to part. As they got ready to leave, Kilf felt saddened. They had a connection that would a shame to abandon. She looked towards the Beor mountains from the front of Tornac’s saddle in nostalgia, remembering the days she had been travelling with her own people. 
“Are you OK?” Murtagh asked as he was about to mount Tornac. “You look… sad.”
Kilf smiled half heartedly to him. “Just remembering something.” Murtagh looked at her quizzically, as if to pursue the topic further, but seemed to change his mind. He got onto the horse behind Kilf and they rode off.

Chapter Text

They stopped at a pond to let the horses drink. The stress in the group was building again as the human had realised their enemy was on this side of the desert as well. Kilf heard the familiar sound of the steely rasp of a sword being unsheathed. It was Murtagh behind her with his long sword held ready. Eragon had drawn his as well. Murtagh pointed at a hill ahead of them, where a tall, brown-cloaked man sat on a sorrel horse, mace in hand. Behind him was a group of twenty horsemen. No one moved. 
“Could they be Varden?” asked Murtagh. Eragon surreptitiously strung his bow. 
“According to Arya, they’re still scores of leagues away. This might be one of their patrols or raiding groups.”
 “Assuming they’re not bandits.” Murtagh swung onto Tornac and readied his own bow.
“Should we try to outrun them?” asked Eragon, draping a blanket over the elf. 
“It wouldn’t do any good,” said Murtagh, shaking his head. “Tornac and Snowfire are fine war-horses, but they’re tired, and they aren’t sprinters. Look at the horses those men have; they’re meant for running. They would catch us before we had gone a half-mile. Besides, they may have something important to say. You’d better tell Saphira to hurry back.” The band of men watched them from the hill. 
Eragon said in a low voice, “If they threaten us, I can frighten them away with magic. If that doesn’t work, there’s Saphira. I wonder how they’d react to a Rider? So many stories have been told about their powers. … It might be enough to avoid a fight.” 
“Don’t count on it,” said Murtagh flatly. “If there’s a fight, we’ll just have to kill enough of them to convince them we’re not worth the effort.” His face was controlled and unemotional. “ If there is a fight, you need to stay still so I don’t catch you.” He added to Kilf. She dipped her head in acceptance.
The man on the sorrel horse signalled with his mace, sending the horsemen cantering toward them. The men shook javelins over their heads, whooping loudly as they neared. Battered sheaths hung from their sides. Their weapons were rusty and stained. Four of them trained arrows on Eragon, Murtagh and Kilf. Their leader swirled the mace in the air, and his men responded with yells as they wildly encircled them. Murtagh’s grip got tighter around Kilf. 
The moment they were thoroughly surrounded, the leader reined in his horse, then crossed his arms and examined them critically. He raised his eyebrows. “Well, these are better than the usual dregs we find! At least we got healthy ones this time. And we didn’t even have to shoot them. Grieg will be pleased.” 
Kilf didn’t like this human, his tone betrayed greed. 
“Now as for you two,” said the leader, speaking to Eragon and Murtagh, “if you would be so good as to drop your weapons, you’ll avoid being turned into living quivers by my men.” The archers grinned suggestively; the men laughed again.
Murtagh’s only movement was to shift his sword. “Who are you and what do you want? We are free men travelling through this land. You have no right to stop us.” 
“Oh, I have every right,” said the man contemptuously. “And as for my name, slaves do not address their masters in that manner, unless they want to be beaten.” 
Slavery? Wasn’t that practice eradicated centuries ago with Sindri’s last visit? Kilf thought with a crease between her brows. 
The lines deepened on the leader’s face. “Throw down your swords and surrender!” The slavers tensed, staring at them with cold eyes as neither Eragon nor Murtagh lowered his weapon. “Or I am going to have to mark your pretty little lady.” He gestured at Kilf in front of Murtagh. Kilf could feel him tense behind her and about to retort before a rustle noise behind them took their attention away. One of the slavers had pulled the blanket off Arya, revealing her face. He gaped in astonishment, then shouted, 
“Torkenbrand, this one’s an elf!” The men stirred with surprise while the leader spurred his horse over to Snowfire. He looked down at Arya and whistled. “Well, ’ow much is she worth?” someone asked. 
Torkenbrand was quiet for a moment, then spread his hands and said, “At the very least? Fortunes upon fortunes. The Empire will pay a mountain of gold for her!” The slavers yelled with excitement and pounded each other on the back. Kilf felt a prickle of annoyance at such a crude value placed on a living being. 
Murtagh then smashed his elbow into a slaver’s face, knocking the man out of his saddle, and jabbed his heels into Tornac. With a toss of his mane, the war-horse jumped forward, twirled around, and reared. Murtagh brandished his sword as Tornac plunged back down, driving his forehooves into the back of the dismounted slaver. The man screamed. Kilf clutching the creatures mane to steady herself. 
Before the slavers could gather their senses, Eragon scrambled out of the commotion and raised his hands, invoking words in the ancient language. A globule of indigo fire struck the ground in the midst of the fray, bursting into a fountain of molten drops that dissipated like sun-warmed dew. A second later, Saphira dropped from the sky and landed next to him. She parted her jaws, displaying her massive fangs, and bellowed. 
“Behold!” cried Eragon over the furor, “I am a Rider!” He raised Zar’roc over his head, the red blade dazzling in the sunlight, then pointed it at the slavers. “Flee if you wish to live!” The men shouted incoherently and scrambled over each other in their haste to escape. In the confusion, Torkenbrand was struck in the temple with a javelin. He tumbled to the ground, stunned. The men ignored their fallen leader and raced away in a ragged mass, casting fearful looks at Saphira.
Torkenbrand struggled to his knees. Blood ran from his temple, branching across his cheek with crimson tendrils. Murtagh dismounted, leaving Kilf at the reigns, and strode over to him with his sword in hand. Torkenbrand weakly raised his arm as if to ward off a blow. Murtagh gazed at him coldly, then swung his blade at Torkenbrand’s neck. 
“No!” shouted Eragon, but it was too late. Torkenbrand’s decapitated trunk crumpled to the ground in a puff of dirt. His head landed with a hard thump. Eragon rushed to Murtagh, his jaw working furiously.
 “Is your brain rotten?” he yelled, enraged. “Why did you kill him?”
 Murtagh wiped his sword on the back of Torkenbrand’s jerkin. The steel left a dark stain. 
“I don’t see why you’re so upset—” 
“Upset!” exploded Eragon. “I’m well past that! Did it even occur to you that we could just leave him here and continue on our way? No! Instead, you turn into an executioner and chop off his head. He was defenceless!” 
Murtagh seemed perplexed by Eragon’s wrath. 
“Well, we couldn’t keep him around—he was dangerous. The others ran off… without a horse, he wouldn’t have made it far. I didn’t want the Urgals to find him and learn about Arya. So I thought it would—” 
“But to kill him?” interrupted Eragon. Saphira sniffed Torkenbrand’s head curiously. She opened her mouth slightly, as if to snap it up, then appeared to decide better of it and prowled to Eragon’s side. 
“I’m only trying to stay alive,” stated Murtagh. “No stranger’s life is more important than my own.” 
“But you can’t indulge in wanton violence. Where is your empathy?” growled Eragon, pointing at the head. 
“Empathy? Empathy? What empathy can I afford my enemies? Shall I dither about whether to defend myself because it will cause someone pain? If that had been the case, I would have died years ago! You must be willing to protect yourself and what you cherish, no matter what the cost.” 
Eragon slammed Zar’roc back into its sheath, shaking his head savagely. 
“You can justify any atrocity with that reasoning.” 
“Do you think I enjoy this?” Murtagh shouted. “My life has been threatened from the day I was born! All of my waking hours have been spent avoiding danger in one form or another. And sleep never comes easily because I always worry if I’ll live to see the dawn. If there ever was a time I felt secure, it must have been in my mother’s womb, though I wasn’t safe even there! You don’t understand—if you lived with this fear, you would have learned the same lesson I did: Do not take chances.” He gestured at Torkenbrand’s body. “He was a risk that I removed. I refuse to repent, and I won’t plague myself over what is done and past.”
Eragon shoved his face into Murtagh’s. “It was still the wrong thing to do.” He lashed Arya to Saphira, then climbed onto Snowfire. 
“Let’s go.” Murtagh guided Tornac around Torkenbrand’s prone form in the bloodstained dust. He looked to Kilf, as if measuring her reaction. Her face was serene. Unbothered by the dead body before her. She had more blood on her hands than they could know. 
***
The tension between the two humans was stifling. Even when they set up camp, there was none of the usual chatter. The next morning, Eragon left with Saphira and the elf to fly. Kilf took Snowfire’s reigns. She had figured out how to ride from watching them since joining them on their journey. 
“He is still quite young and hasn’t seen a lot yet.” Kilf stated, breaking the silence for the first time since leaving camp. Murtagh snorted. She sighed. “Thank you for considering my safety yesterday.”
Murtagh looked at her seriously. “What do you think of all… this? You seem to be merely content to be an observer and put yourself in dangerous positions. This isn’t a safe journey for a woman.”
Kilf let out a hearty laughter that left Murtagh looking at her in bewilderment. Wiping the tears away, she replied, “I haven’t laughed like that for centuries! An elemental warrior in danger? From Titan spawn and a rag-tag group of humans? There would still be Titans roaming if we were so frail.” 
Murtagh seemed utterly peeved. “Oh so mighty warrior, where, pray tell, were your skills in battle when we chased away the rag-tag group of humans?” Sarcasm dripping in his voice. 
Kilf tilted her head. “Do you want me to start interfering with your journey?”
“No, just help. If you-” He was cut off by Eragon and Saphira landing. When they landed, Murtagh asked, exasperated, “What now?”
 “The Urgals are overtaking us,” said Eragon. He pointed back toward the column’s camp. 
“How far do we still have to go?” asked Murtagh, putting his hands against the sky and measuring the hours until sunset.
 “Normally? … I would guess another five days. At the speed we’ve been travelling, only three. But unless we get there tomorrow, the Urgals will probably catch us, and Arya will certainly die.” 
“She might last another day.”
“We can’t count on it,” objected Eragon. “The only way we can get to the Varden in time is if we don’t stop for anything, least of all sleep. That’s our only chance.” 
Murtagh laughed bitterly. “How can you expect to do that? We’ve already gone days without adequate sleep. Unless Riders are made of different stuff than us mortals, you’re as tired as I am. We’ve covered a staggering distance, and the horses, in case you haven’t noticed, are ready to drop. Another day of this might kill us all.” 
Eragon shrugged. “So be it. We don’t have a choice.” Murtagh gazed at the mountains. 
“I could leave and let you fly ahead with Saphira. … That would force the Urgals to divide their troops and would give you a better chance of reaching the Varden.” 
“It would be suicide,” said Eragon, crossing his arms. “Somehow, those Urgals are faster on foot than we are on horseback. They would run you down like a deer. The only way to evade them is to find sanctuary with the Varden.”
“I’ll escape later,” said Murtagh abruptly. “When we get to the Varden, I can disappear down a side valley and find my way to Surda, where I can hide without attracting too much attention.” 
“So you’re staying?” 
“Sleep or no sleep, I’ll see you to the Varden,” promised Murtagh.
Kilf gave him a wry smile before they carried on with their ride. This human was growing on her.
***
They took turns leading the horses while others slept overnight. When it was Kilf’s turn, she let them sleep a lot longer, as she didn’t need it. Using her senses, she was following the water pathways to their source. Eragon had mentioned a waterfall at the entrance of the Varden. She held the reigns of both of the horse’s, their owners slumped asleep in the saddles. She sent a steady stream of energy to the mounts as they gladly trotted after her, their weariness melting away.
It was only when the first rays of sunlight did Murtagh finally stir. He squinted in the light at Kilf. “Why didn’t you wake me for your turn?” He asked groggily. 
“There was no need.” Kilf looked back up at him with a simple smile. 
The humans were pleased to see that the Urgals were far behind when they stopped for a brief break. 
“This is the last day,” said Eragon, yawning widely. “If we’re not reasonably close to the Varden by noon, I’m going to fly ahead with Arya. You’ll be free to go wherever you want then, but you’ll have to take Snowfire with you. I won’t be able to come back for him.” 
“That might not be necessary; we could still get there in time,” said Murtagh. He rubbed the pommel of his sword. 
Eragon shrugged. “We could.” He went to Arya and put a hand on her forehead. 
They were forced to go through an old dense forest in order to evade the Titan spawn. There were a lot of different species of plants that would have kept Sindri happy for a hours studying them. The trees were old and would have told stories if you listened. 
“The Varden are hidden at the end of this valley. If we hurry, we might get there before nightfall.” Eragon said to them both. 
Murtagh grunted, hands on his hips. “How am I going to get out of here? I don’t see any valleys joining this one, and the Urgals are going to hem us in pretty soon. I need an escape route.”
 “Don’t worry about it,” said Eragon impatiently. “This is a long valley; there’s sure to be an exit further in.” He released Arya from Saphira and lifted the elf onto Snowfire. “Watch Arya—I’m going to fly with Saphira. We’ll meet you up ahead.” He scrambled onto Saphira’s back and strapped himself onto her saddle. Kilf took Snowfire’s saddle once more.
“Be careful,” Murtagh warned, his brow furrowed in thought, then clucked to the horses and hurried back into the forest, Kilf following suit. 
As Saphira jumped toward the sky, Kilf turned her head back to Murtagh, “You sounded concerned.”  
He only grunted in reply before asking. “Where are you going from here?” 
“It depends on what happens.” Kilf said distractedly, looking at the aged trees. “I am merely observing. I have no allegiance to any of the ‘Empire’ or the ‘Varden’. At the beginning, I had no intention of interfering with your affairs. That being said, my very presence here will probably cause some interference, regardless. It would be nice to help, as you put it earlier.”
Murtagh seemed deep in contemplation. The journey continued in this manner until he stopped abruptly, getting off his horse to examine the floor. There was a very large wolf’s print embedded in the ground. Just at that time Eragon and Saphira landed. Eragon looked pale and unwell. Murtagh went over to him when he didn’t dismount from Saphira.
“What’s wrong?” He sounded angry, worried, and tired at the same time.
“… I made a mistake,” said Eragon truthfully. “The Urgals have entered the valley. I tried to confuse them, but I forgot one of the rules of magic, and it cost me a great deal.” 
Scowling, Murtagh jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I just found some wolf tracks, but the footprints are as wide as both of my hands and an inch deep. There are animals around here that could be dangerous even to you, Saphira.” He turned to her. “I know you can’t enter the forest, but could you circle above me and the horses? That should keep these beasts away. Otherwise, there may only be enough left of me to roast in a thimble.” 
“Humour, Murtagh?” asked Eragon, a quick smile coming to his face. His muscles trembled, making it hard for him to concentrate. 
“Only on the gallows.” Murtagh rubbed his eyes. “I can’t believe that the same Urgals have been following us the whole time. They would have to be birds to catch up with us.” 
“Saphira said they’re larger than any we’ve seen,” remarked Eragon. 
Murtagh cursed, clenching the pommel of his sword. “That explains it! Saphira, if you’re right, then those are Kull, elite of the Urgals. I should have guessed that the chieftain had been put in charge of them. They don’t ride because horses can’t carry their weight—not one of them is under eight feet tall—and they can run for days without sleep and still be ready for battle. It can take five men to kill one. Kull never leave their caves except for war, so they must expect a great slaughter if they are out in such force.” 
“Can we stay ahead of them?”
 “Who knows?” said Murtagh. “They’re strong, determined, and large in numbers. It’s possible that we may have to face them. If that happens, I only hope that the Varden have men posted nearby who’ll help us. Despite our skill and Saphira, we can’t hold off Kull.”
 Eragon swayed. “Could you get me some bread? I need to eat.” Murtagh quickly brought him part of a loaf. It was old and hard, but Eragon chewed on it gratefully. Murtagh scanned the valley walls, worry in his eyes. Eragon knew he was searching for a way out. 
“There’ll be one farther in.” 
“Of course,” said Murtagh with forced optimism, then slapped his thigh. “We must go.” 
“How is Arya?” asked Eragon. Murtagh shrugged. “The fever’s worse. She’s been tossing and turning. What do you expect? Her strength is failing. You should fly her to the Varden before the poison does any more damage.” 
“I won’t leave you behind,” insisted Eragon, gaining strength with each bite. “Not with the Urgals so near.” 
Murtagh shrugged again. “As you wish. But I’m warning you, she won’t live if you stay with me.”
 “Don’t say that,” insisted Eragon, pushing himself upright in Saphira’s saddle. “Help me save her. We can still do it. Consider it a life for a life—atonement for Torkenbrand’s death.” 
Murtagh’s face darkened instantly. “It’s not a debt owed. You—” He stopped as a horn echoed through the dark forest. “I’ll have more to say to you later,” he said shortly, stomping to the horses. He grabbed their reins and trotted away, shooting an angry glare at Eragon. The rider and dragon lept for the sky again. 
To see what Eragon would do to stay by Murtagh’s side was heartwarming, but it could cost them. Kilf reached out to the elf again. Not much time left. She could also sense the Titan spawn getting closer. What should she do if there was a fight, or the elf was close to demise? Should she help or would the others see it as an interference with the pact? Even Titan spawn had the right to a fair fight. The humans had made a series of decisions which had led them to this situation, probably not knowing, but this is where they put themselves. 
She couldn’t help but feel that standing by and not acting would be wrong. So, she decided there and then that she would ‘help’ as Murtagh had put it and face the consequences later. It wasn’t as if she was going to make that much of a difference, just a ripple. Besides, all the Elementalist’s owed her a debt anyway, after each of them came to her for help when they created all these beings. 
She was dragged out of her musings by the undeniable smashing sound of stone falling from a great height. Both Murtagh and Kilf exchanged cautious glances. Was that the young one? They both looked and there was no mistake, a certain blue dragon was indeed dropping large boulders down on the Titan spawn.
“They are certainly resourceful.” Kilf remarked, amused. Murtagh just chuckled. The noise from the dropping boulders echoed and continued on until night fell. They soon found Eragon landed by a river, awaiting them. Without even stopping, the young one rejoined their march on foot.
“I saw you dropping rocks with Saphira—ambitious. Have the Kull stopped or turned back?” 
“They’re still behind us, but we’re almost at the head of the valley. How’s Arya?” 
“She hasn’t died,” Murtagh said harshly. His breath came in short bursts. His next words were deceptively calm, like those of a man concealing a terrible passion. “Is there a valley or gorge ahead that I can leave through?”
Eragon looked apprehensive. “It’s dark,” he began evasively, dodging a low branch, “so I might have missed something, but… no.” Murtagh swore explosively and came to an abrupt stop, dragging on the horses’ reins until they halted as well. 
“Are you saying that the only place I can go is to the Varden?”
 “Yes, but keep running. The Urgals are almost upon us!” 
“No!” said Murtagh angrily. He stabbed a finger at Eragon. “I warned you that I wouldn’t go to the Varden, but you went ahead and trapped me between a hammer and an anvil! You’re the one with the elf’s memories. Why didn’t you tell me this was a dead end?” Eragon bristled at the barrage and retorted, 
“All I knew was where we had to go, not what lay in between. Don’t blame me for choosing to come.” Murtagh’s breath hissed between his teeth as he furiously spun away. Kilf could see they were both incredibly tense from their body language. She continued her calm demeanour, ready this time to break up a fight if needed this time. There just wasn’t the time to be faffing now. Eragon put his hands on his hips, impatience rising.
“What’s your quarrel with the Varden? It can’t be so terrible that you must keep it hidden even now. Would you rather fight the Kull than reveal it? How many times will we go through this before you trust me?” 
There was a long silence. 
 “Murtagh,” said Eragon earnestly, “unless you wish to die, we must go to the Varden. Don’t let me walk into their arms without knowing how they will react to you. It’s going to be dangerous enough without unnecessary surprises.” 
Finally, Murtagh turned to Eragon. His breathing was hard and fast, like that of a cornered wolf. He paused, then said with a tortured voice, “You have a right to know. I… I am the son of Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn.”
The reaction of shock and disbelief from Eragon was palpable. For once, the young one had no questions. Saphira barrelled her way through the trees, defensive aggression dripping from her.
Now Kilf was confused. 
“I’m really sorry, but who is this person you speak of?” Now Murtagh also had a matching expression of disbelief to Eragon. It was almost comical. She buried the urge to laugh, probably not the best time for laughter.
“He was the rider who helped Galbatorix to betray the riders, part of the thirteen forsworn!” Eragon answered, coming out of his shocked state. “You are his heir?” asked Eragon, surreptitiously reaching for Zar’roc. Kilf would have to find out more on this Galbatorix and these forsworn at a later point. Her ignorance of recent history could alienate them.
 “I didn’t choose this!” cried Murtagh, anguish twisting his face. He ripped at his clothes with a desperate air, tearing off his tunic and shirt to bare his torso. “Look!” he pleaded, and turned his back to them. 
There, against Murtagh’s tanned and muscled skin, was a knotted white scar that stretched from his right shoulder to his left hip—a testament to some terrible agony.
“See that?” demanded Murtagh bitterly. He talked quickly now, as if relieved to have his secret finally revealed. “I was only three when I got it. During one of his many drunken rages, Morzan threw his sword at me as I ran by. My back was laid open by the very sword you now carry—the only thing I expected to receive as an inheritance until Brom stole it from my father’s corpse. I was lucky, I suppose—there was a healer nearby who kept me from dying. You must understand, I don’t love the Empire or the king. I have no allegiance to them, nor do I mean you harm!” His pleas were almost frantic. Eragon uneasily lifted his hand from Zar’roc’s pommel. 
“Then your father,” he said in a faltering voice, “was killed by…”
 “Yes, Brom,” said Murtagh. He pulled his tunic back on with a detached air. 
A horn rang out behind them, prompting Eragon to cry. “Come, run with me.” Murtagh shook the horses’ reins and forced them into a tired trot, eyes fixed straight ahead, while Arya bounced limply in Snowfire’s saddle. Saphira stayed by Eragon’s side, easily keeping pace with her long legs. “Your tale is hard to believe. How do I know you aren’t lying?”
“Why would I lie?”
 “You could be—” 
Murtagh interrupted him quickly. “I can’t prove anything to you now. Keep your doubts until we reach the Varden. They’ll recognise me quickly enough.” 
“I must know,” pressed Eragon. “Do you serve the Empire?”
 “No. And if I did, what would I accomplish by travelling with you? If I were trying to capture or kill you, I would have left you in prison.” Murtagh stumbled as he jumped over a fallen log.
 “You could be leading the Urgals to the Varden.” 
“Then,” said Murtagh shortly, “why am I still with you? I know where the Varden are now. What reason could I have for delivering myself to them? If I were going to attack them, I’d turn around and join the Urgals.” 
“Maybe you’re an assassin,” stated Eragon flatly. 
“Maybe. You can’t really know, can you?”
The curiosity was gnawing at Kilf as she jogged with them. She held it in, though. It wasn’t important right now. 
The forest ended, and Murtagh pulled the horses to a stop. They were on a pebble beach directly to the left of the mouth of the Beartooth River. The deep lake Kóstha-mérna filled the valley, blocking their way. The water gleamed with flickering starlight. The mountain walls restricted passage around Kóstha-mérna to a thin strip of shore on either side of the lake, both no more than a few steps wide. At the lake’s far end, a broad sheet of water tumbled down a black cliff into boiling mounds of froth.
 “Do we go to the falls?” asked Murtagh tightly. 
“Yes.” Eragon took the lead and picked his way along the lake’s left side. The pebbles underfoot were damp and slime covered. There was barely enough room for Saphira between the sheer valley wall and the lake; she had to walk with two feet in the water. 
They were halfway to the waterfall when Murtagh warned, “Urgals!”
 By the shore of Kóstha-mérna, where they had been only minutes before, hulking figures streamed out of the forest. The Urgals massed before the lake. One of them gestured at Saphira; guttural words drifted over the water. Immediately, the horde split and started around both sides of the lake, leaving Eragon and Murtagh without an escape route. The narrow shore forced the bulky Kull to march single file. 
“Run!” barked Murtagh, drawing his sword and slapping the horses on their flanks. Saphira took off without warning and wheeled back toward the Urgals. 
“No!” cried Eragon. Saphira dived at the Urgals, bellowing fiercely. They tried to scatter but were trapped against the mountainside. She caught a Kull between her talons and carried the screaming creature aloft, tearing at him with her fangs. The silent body crashed into the lake a moment later, an arm and a leg missing. The Kull continued around Kóstha-mérna undeterred. With smoke streaming from her nostrils, Saphira dived at them again. She twisted and rolled as a cloud of black arrows shot toward her. Most of the darts glanced off her scaled sides, leaving no more than bruises, but she roared as the rest pierced her wings.
Kilf separated from the group to run to the centre of the lake, sprinting on the water as if it was land, sending ripples across the water. The Titan spawn must not know who she was anymore. If they had, they would run the other way. She started with her poses, arms swaying and stepping into a full circle. Tentacles of water raising from around the edges of the shore, dragging the Titan spawn down to their watery grave. She watched there bodies disappear into the depths, the curse she had placed on them an aeon ago was still in place. Lifting her arm up, she provided a water shield to Saphira every time there was a volley of arrows heading her direction. The power building in Kilf as the water sprayed her, running through her hair. Raising the shoreline, a wave swept through their ranks and dragged them down into the water. The air filled with the roar of the Kull and the waves clashing against the earth.
She could sense that the humans were close by the waterfall. The Kull had made her the main target along with Saphira. Try as they might, none of their arrows or spears could land a hit as water whipped around her at the right time. They dare not enter the water or else they would perish. It was an incredibly one sided fight. Why did they continue? Wouldn’t it be wiser to regroup and think of a different tactic? Even if there was an army with spare to lose, this seemed pointless, unless they were planning to wear them out. In which case, there wouldn’t be any left if they were trying that with Kilf. Saphira would also give them a run for their money, as dragons were notorious for their stamina. 
There was a cry of anger from the Titan spawn which made Kilf look round. Saphira was flying over to the other side of the waterfall. She provided cover for her when a volley of arrows came for her. She then put a wall of water on each side to stop the Urgals from advancing further towards the humans. There was a couple who braved going through but were dragged down to join the rest in the building watery grave. She then turned to redirect the waterfall, but she could only see Murtagh. Where was the young one? She sensed a body in the water, too small to be Titan spawn. It was sinking. 
She immediately dropped into the water and headed towards Eragon. Before she could even think about lifting him out, a small figure grabbed the young one. Kilf stopped abruptly, her hair coming in the way of her face. It was a dwarf. She recognised the features as he stared at her in awe before swimming to the air. Kilf floated after him. She did not know whether dwarves were friend or foe to humans, but he was pulling Eragon to safety. 

Chapter Text

Music: The last of her kind- Peter Gundry

Kilf emerged from the water to find two massive stone doors in the cliff, leading to a broad tunnel nearly thirty feet tall. A line of flameless lamps filled the passageway with a pale sapphire light that spilled out onto the lake. Saphira and Murtagh stood before the tunnel, surrounded by a grim mixture of men and dwarves. At Murtagh’s elbow was a bald, beardless man dressed in purple and gold robes. He was taller than all the other humans—and he was holding a dagger to Murtagh’s throat. Kilf placed her hands up in a peaceful gesture. 

“Stop! If you use magic, I’ll kill your lovely friend here, who was so kind as to mention you’re a Rider. Don’t think I won’t know if you’re drawing upon it. You can’t hide anything from me.” Eragon tried to speak, but the man snarled and pressed the dagger harder against Murtagh’s throat. “None of that! If you say or do anything I don’t tell you to, he will die. Now, everyone inside.” He backed into the tunnel, pulling Murtagh with him and keeping his eyes on Eragon. They all entered the tunnel. All the dwarves amongst the humans were staring curiously at Kilf, especially the one that she had seen in the water. They were muttering amongst themselves. The humans and dwarves were working together? Unusual, she thought they had always kept to themselves. 

“This way!” snapped the bald man, bringing Kilf out of her trail of thought. He stepped back, keeping the dagger pressed under Murtagh’s chin, then wheeled to the right, disappearing through an arched doorway. The warriors cautiously followed him, their attention centred on Eragon and Saphira. They led the horses into a different tunnel. They swept past a sculpture of a peculiar animal with thick quills. The corridor curved sharply to the left, then to the right. A door opened, and they entered a bare room large enough for Saphira to move around with ease. There was a hollow boom as the door closed, followed by a loud scrape as they secured a bolt on the outside. The walls, floor, and ceiling were made of polished white marble that reflected a ghost image of everyone, like a mirror of veined milk. One of the unusual lanterns hung in each corner. 

“There’s an injured—” Eragon began, but a sharp gesture from the bald man cut him off. 

“Do not speak! It must wait until you have been tested.” He shoved Murtagh over to one warrior, who pressed a sword against Murtagh’s neck. The bald man clasped his hands together softly. “Remove your weapons and slide them to me.” A dwarf unbuckled Murtagh’s sword and dropped it on the floor with a clank. The young one followed suit, albeit reluctantly. 

“Now step away from your dragon and slowly approach me,” commanded the bald man. Puzzled, Eragon moved forward. When they were a yard apart, the man said, 

“Stop there! Now remove the defences from around your mind and prepare to let me inspect your thoughts and memories. If you try to hide anything from me, I will take what I want by force… which would drive you mad. If you don’t submit, I will kill your companion.”

 “Why?” asked Eragon, clearly aghast. 

“To be sure you aren’t in Galbatorix’s service and to understand why hundreds of Urgals are banging on our front door,” growled the bald man. So Galbatorix was an enemy of this Varden then? “No one may enter Farthen Dûr without being tested.”

 “There isn’t time. We need a healer!” protested Eragon. 

“Silence!” roared the man, pressing down on his robe with thin fingers. “Until I examine you, your words are meaningless!” 

“But she’s dying!” retorted Eragon angrily, pointing at Arya. Kilf had to admit he was determined.

“It will have to wait! No one will leave this room until we have discovered the truth of this matter. Unless you wish—” The dwarf who had saved Eragon from the lake jumped forward. 

“Are you blind, Egraz Carn? Can’t you see that’s an elf on the dragon? We cannot keep her here if she’s in danger. Ajihad and the king will have our heads if she’s allowed to die!” The man’s eyes tightened with anger. After a moment, he relaxed and said smoothly,

 “Of course, Orik, we wouldn’t want that to happen.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Arya. “Remove her from the dragon.” Two human warriors sheathed their swords and hesitantly approached Saphira, who watched them steadily. “Quickly, quickly!” The men unstrapped Arya from the saddle and lowered the elf to the floor. One of the men inspected her face, then said sharply, “It’s the dragon-egg courier, Arya!” 

“What?” exclaimed the bald man. The dwarf Orik’s eyes widened with astonishment. The bald man fixed his steely gaze on Eragon and said flatly, “You have much explaining to do.” Eragon returned the intense stare.

 “They poisoned her with the Skilna Bragh while in prison. Only Túnivor’s nectar can save her now.” The bald man’s face became inscrutable. He stood motionless, except for his lips, which twitched occasionally. 

“Very well. Take her to the healers and tell them what she needs. Guard her until the ceremony is completed. I will have new orders for you by then.” The warriors nodded curtly and carried Arya out of the room. 

“Enough of this. We have wasted too much time already. Prepare to be examined.” 

Finally, Eragon bowed his head. “I am ready.” 

“Good, then—” He was interrupted as Orik said abruptly, “You’d better not harm him, Egraz Carn, else the king will have words for you.” The bald man looked at him irritably, then faced Eragon with a small smile. 

“Only if he resists.” He bowed his head and chanted several inaudible words. Creep. They proceeded to have the ‘examination’. The young one looked to be in pain, the hairless one had a look of concentration on his face. Was it always like this when humans communicated by mind? The connection he tried with the elf was similar. But then again, he conversed with the dragon the same way, without signs of pain. Saphira had shared that with her during her travels. 

Eragon shuddered, swayed, then fell toward the floor. Orik caught him at the last second, lowering him to the cool marble. He exclaimed,

“You went too far! He wasn’t strong enough for this.” 

“He’ll live. That’s all that is needed,” answered the bald man curtly. There was an angry grunt. 

“What did you find?” Silence. “Well, is he to be trusted or not?” The words came reluctantly. 

“He … is not your enemy.” There were audible sighs of relief throughout the room. Eragon’s eyes fluttered open. He gingerly pushed himself upright. “Easy now,” said Orik, wrapping a thick arm around him and helping him to his feet. Eragon wove unsteadily, glaring at the bald man. A low growl rumbled in Saphira’s throat. This human better watch his back with all this contempt he’s creating, Kilf mused.

The bald man ignored them. He turned to Murtagh, who was still being held at sword point. “It’s your turn now.” Murtagh stiffened and shook his head. The sword cut his neck slightly. Blood dripped down his skin. “No.” 

“You will not be protected here if you refuse.” 

“Eragon has been declared trustworthy, so you cannot threaten to kill him to influence me. Since you can’t do that, nothing you say or do will convince me to open my mind.” Sneering, the bald man cocked what would have been an eyebrow, if he had any. 

“What of your own life? I can still threaten that.” 

“It won’t do any good,” said Murtagh stonily and with such conviction that it was impossible to doubt his word. The bald man’s breath exploded angrily. 

“You don’t have a choice!” He stepped forward and placed his palm on Murtagh’s brow, clenching his hand to hold him in place. Murtagh stiffened, face growing as hard as iron, fists clenched, neck muscles bulging. He was obviously fighting the attack with all his strength. The bald man bared his teeth with fury and frustration at the resistance; his fingers dug mercilessly into Murtagh. Orik scowled darkly as he watched the combatants. 

“Ilf carnz orodüm,” he muttered.

“Enough!” Kilf bellowed, she felt the familiar rage rising, like a snake about to strike. She raised her arm, reaching into the blood of the mortals veins, and threw him across the room. As he hit the ground, an echoing thud resounded the stillness. She looked at her hand. When was the last time she acted out of anger? Murtagh was looking confused at Eragon, but it soon dawned on him it had actually been Kilf when Eragon shook his head. The bald one was scrambling back to his feet.

“Kill her!” He spat out the orders, trying to adjust his robes to resume his authoritative stance. The guards had let go of Murtagh in the confusion, he came to the front of Kilf, between her and the line of soldiers. Was Murtagh… protecting her? Wouldn’t a human die in this situation? Faced against so many others? She extracted the water from the air and created a thin, long stream of water entwined around them. It would not hurt the humans or dwarves, it was just a visual that barrier to stop them advancing with Murtagh in the throw. She could smell blood from his earlier wound. She placed her hand on the back of his neck to heal the wound, an ethereal light passed between her hand and his neck. When she released him he turned to her with his hand on his neck, his face was painted with pure awestruck. She needed to defuse this situation now. With palms faced out, she addressed the warriors with the weapons pointing at her, stepping in front of Murtagh and effectively exchanging places.

“I mean you no harm. It was out of place for me to damage the bald one.”

Well, that didn’t help. Said bold one looked ready to spit feathers. “How dare you! Who the do you think you are, woman? With your cheap magic tricks to dare disturb an examination.” He seethed, pointing at her with his long index finger.

This human really differed from the ones she had travelled with. Kilf thought little of him. He was arrogant, without actually having any power to support it. She straightened to her full form and proudly announced, “I am Kilf. The Elementalist of water. Conqueror of the Titans. Mother of blood. Who are you, little man?” 

The effect was almost simultaneous. All the dwarves dropped to their knees and bowed their heads, chanting in unison,

“Please forgive us, oh mighty goddess!” The humans were left standing befuddled. 

“What do you think you are doing?!” the bald one was asking Orik.

“Hold your tongue and show some respect! She is the Goddess of water!” He spat out in response before turning back to Kilf in a respectful tone. “I am Orik, the adopted son of Hrothgar and a member of the Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. May I ask, oh great one, what did we wrong to deserve your punishment? Or to have you grace us with your presence?”

“I have not come to punish. I was summoned by the young rider and wish to observe the beings of this realm. Please stand.” The dwarves have been keeping a record of her, but it seemed skewed. Was she a goddess to them? All the dwarves slowly raised to their feet but their heads remained bowed. The bald one observing, calculating. He had effectively lost over half of his warriors and was weighing the situation. With his hands clasped behind his back, he addressed Kilf,

“I didn’t realise what your… station was. I apologise, but you must submit to an examination before entry to the Varden. If you are who you say you are, then that should be no issue.” There was an uproar from the dwarves. She raised her hand and instant silence fell. 

“I do not advise for humans to interact with our minds, as it can damage their own.” The bald man snorted at this. “If you still wish to continue, you may. However, you are not to carry out your examination on Murtagh. I will take responsibility for his actions.” Dwarvish mutterings filled the hall.

“My lady, this is beneath you -”

“It is fine.” Kilf interrupted Orik. With a swish of her hand, the water dropped to the floor. She stepped towards the bald one, the same as Eragon had done, stopping just before him.

“Very well. Prepare to be examined.” The bold one eyed her warily.

Kilf nodded. Closing her eyes. She felt the presence of the bald one, like a crab at the edge of the ocean. She wasn’t about to let him enter her “mind” entirely. He would just get lost. She directed a stream of information to him, trying to make it singular and as chronological the best she could. Memories of days old, the fight of the Titan’s, the creation of other beings, being summoned and travelling with the other two males. She left out the conversation that they had around Murtagh’s identity. It wasn’t her place to say, and he had already demonstrated that it was worth more than his life. When she stopped the stream, the presence seemed disoriented, slowly receding from her mind.

 The bald man stared at Orik for a moment, his face indecipherable, then looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes. A peculiar stiffness set into his shoulders while his lips moved soundlessly. An intense frown wrinkled the pale skin above his eyes, and his fingers clenched, as if they were throttling an invisible enemy. For several minutes he stood thus, wrapped in silent communication. When his eyes opened, he snapped at the warriors. 

“Leave, now!” As they filed through the doorway, he addressed them coldly, “Because I was unable to complete my examination, you will all remain here for the night. He will be killed if he attempts to leave.” Indicating at Murtagh, briefly casting a fearful glance at Kilf. With those words, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, pale scalp gleaming in the lantern light. 

“I’ll make sure the best food is brought. Is there anything that you desire, my lady? You are welcome to stay anywhere in our lands.” Orik addressed Kilf. 

She shook her head. “I wish to stay with my travelling companions.”

 “Very well, you need but knock if your require anything.” He bowed deeply. 

The bolt was secured once again on the outside of the door. Murtagh, eyes glazed and empty, leaned against the far wall and slid to the shiny floor. 

“Are you all right?” asked Eragon. Murtagh nodded jerkily. Kilf went and knelt neatly beside him. He gave her a curious look before decidedly shrugging it off. 

“Did he get anything from you?” Eragon asked Murtagh.

“No.” 

“How were you able to keep him out? He’s so strong.” 

“I’ve … I’ve been well trained.” There was a bitter note in his voice. Silence enshrouded them. Eragon’s gaze drifted to one of the lanterns hanging in a corner. 

“I didn’t let them know who you are.” 

Murtagh looked relieved. He bowed his head. “Thank you for not betraying me.” He looked to Kilf. She shook her head.

“They didn’t recognise you.” Eragon asked.

“No.” 

“And you still say that you are Morzan’s son?” 

“Yes,” he sighed. Eragon proceeded to heal the wounds on Saphira. 

Murtagh muttered to Kilf, “Thanks. For healing my neck.” Kilf smiled and nodded in response. “You didn’t say you were a goddess.” He half laughed, somewhat nervously. Eragon had his head turned, all too obviously listening in to the conversation while healing Saphira. 

“I’m not. At least, I don’t think so.” Kilf pondered. What made someone a god to begin with? Murtagh looked as if he was going to ask further, but was interrupted by Eragon. Who, as usual, was full of questions. 

“Why are you here?” 

“What?” 

“If you really are Morzan’s son, Galbatorix wouldn’t let you wander around Alagaësia freely. How is it you found the Ra’zac by yourself? Why is it I’ve never heard of any of the Forsworn having children? And what are you doing here?” His voice rose to a near shout at the end. Murtagh ran his hands over his face. 

“It’s a long story.” 

“We’re not going anywhere,” rebutted Eragon. 

“It’s too late to talk.” 

“There probably won’t be time for it tomorrow.” 

Kilf and Murtagh exchanged knowing glances. Eragon was relentless in his curiosity. Murtagh wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees, rocking back and forth as he stared at the floor. “It’s not a—” he said, then interrupted himself. “I don’t want to stop… so make yourself comfortable. My story will take a while.” Eragon shifted against Saphira’s side and nodded. Saphira watched both of them intently. Murtagh gave his life story, gaining confidence the more he spoke. Whilst Kilf did not quite understand who all the people were, the general story was easy enough to understand. He was struggling under his Father’s shadow and the fact that he had ties with the enemy king of the Varden. 

Eragon ran a finger over Saphira’s hard scales, watching the light reflect off them. 

“So why don’t you join the Varden? They’ll distrust you for a time, but once you prove your loyalty, they’ll treat you with respect. And aren’t they in a sense your allies? They strive to end the king’s reign. Isn’t that what you want?”

 “Must I spell everything out for you?” demanded Murtagh. “I don’t want Galbatorix to learn where I am, which is inevitable if people start saying that I’ve sided with his enemies, which I’ve never done. These,” he paused, then said with distaste, “rebels are trying not only to overthrow the king but to destroy the Empire… and I don’t want that to happen. It would sow mayhem and anarchy. The king is flawed, yes, but the system itself is sound. As for earning the Varden’s respect: Ha! Once I am exposed, they’ll treat me like a criminal or worse. Not only that, suspicion will fall upon you because we travelled together!” 

“It isn’t that bad,” Eragon said, sounding optimistic. Murtagh snorted derisively and looked away. “I’m sure that they won’t be—” 

His words were cut short as the door opened. The smell of food wafting through.

“Finally!” grumbled Murtagh, standing to receive the food to then be frozen in place with shock as rows of dwarves entered the chamber. There was a long table decorated coming through with a luxurious chair. When they placed it by Kilf, bowing all the time in her direction, plates of all kinds of food came through, including a roast hog with an apple in its mouth. An ornate bed also followed, its royal blue silk bedding looked comfortable. One dwarf kneeled before Kilf.

“I hope that you will find this satisfactory, my lady. We could not bear the thought of you sleeping on the ground.”

“I appreciate your hospitality.” Kilf responded in kind, hand on heart. The dwarf looked as though he would cry.

“If that is all, we shall leave you to eat and rest in peace, my lady.” The dwarves all filed out of the room and the door shut once again. 

“I hope you will both join me. I can’t eat all this. Saphira, would you like the hog?”

It would be rude to decline such an offer. Saphira said to all of them as she snaked her head to the hog to take it off the table. Both the men hesitated for a moment, but the temptation of a good meal was too much and they both digged in before returning to their respective positions. It had been a long time since Kilf had eaten nice food. This body didn’t need it but could still taste it. Sindri used to make some of the best meals when they were travelling. 

“Have the dwarves always treated you this way?” Eragon asked between mouthfuls.

“This is the first time that I have met dwarves since their creation.”

“What did you mean by ‘mother of blood’ when we first arrived.” Murtagh asked darkly. 

“It was a title given to me before Gûntera ascended. When all my comrades created beings, they came to me for help. Each element is too… isolating on their own to create beings with their own will. They each had some of my hair to create blood for the beings”

“Who is Gûntera?” Eragon chipped in.

“He was our leader in the war against the Titans. A strong Elementalist of both light and dark who ascended long ago after he grew the elves. He was once dear to me.” She paused, lost in memories.

“You have mentioned others before?” Murtagh asked softly.

“Yes, there were seven of us left after the Titan’s rose. The others apart from myself and Gûntera were Helzvog, the Elementalist of stone and who crafted dwarves. Sindri, the Elementalist of earth and mother to humans. Then there were two brothers, Morgothal of fire and Urûr of air. They combined to create the dragons with the hair I gave them.” 

“How do you create other beings?” Eragon asked in awe. Kilf let out a hearty laugh and explained.

“It is one of the most complex magical acts that I have ever seen and have not done it myself. I probably would be a poor fit to teach you how it is done. Even if I had, you would need more than your lifespan to learn it. A more important question would be, why? We did it, as the Titans had destroyed everything and the Elementalists were bound for extinction.”

Eragon looked deep in thought at this question. Kilf looked over to Murtagh, he looked at her with an expression that was.. sad? Pitying? 

“I’m going to sleep,” Murtagh announced suddenly, putting down his bowl without another word. 

“Oh. Good night,” said Eragon. He sounded as if he didn’t want it to be the end of the discussion, but was too tired to ask more questions. He lay next to Saphira, his arms under his head. She curled her long neck around him, like a cat wrapping its tail around itself, and laid her head alongside his. One of her wings extended over him like a blue tent, enveloping him in darkness. A smile tugged at Kilf’s lips, what a lovely relationship. Kilf looked at the bed the dwarves had sent her, but lay near Murtagh. If they were sleeping on the floor, she would join them, as she had with her comrades many moons ago. 

She lay like this for several hours, listening to all of their breathing. The dwarves came and collected the food and table, using magic to silence their movements. She continued in her ‘sleeping’ state through it all until Murtagh woke up a couple of hours later from the noises Saphira made in her sleep. 

“Why didn’t you sleep in the bed they sent? It would have been more comfortable.”

“I don’t need to sleep.” She said simply.

“So you have been lying down with your eyes closed this whole time for no reason when we set up camp?!” Murtagh sounded incredulous. 

“Would you have been more comfortable if I had sat awake when you slept?”

He considered her words for a moment before responding. “Fair point. Did they take the food last night? I didn’t hear them.” He stretched and sat leaned against the wall. Kilf followed suit, sitting not far.

“They did, they used magic so they would not disturb us.” There was a comfortable silence between them as they observed the sleeping dragon.

“Do you realise” Murtagh broke the silence. “that if everything you say is true, it will change everything. Not just here, but for all the races. This ongoing fight could easily end if you stepped in.”

Kilf tilted her head, amused. “Oh, and when another conflict rises, I should nanny you all and put it all to right? How do you plan on growing as a species if I interfered in every squabble?”

Murtagh shrugged. “Well, what are you doing here now? Do you really expect me to believe that the ‘mother of blood’ would answer the call of us? Even if he is a Rider, that doesn’t add up.”

“There are other… reasons.” Kilf said hesitantly. Murtagh was about to press for more information, but Kilf cut him at the pass. “I cannot say more on the matter right now. But rest assured, I am here to help, as well as to learn. And who knows, maybe one day, if the situation calls for it, I will need to intervene.” 

Murtagh nodded, sensing that Kilf had said all she was willing to share for now. He leaned back against the wall and watched the dragon sleeping peacefully. It was strange to think of such a powerful creature as vulnerable, but there she was, curled up like a kitten. Kilf watched him silently, thinking to herself.

Murtagh was a complicated man, Kilf thought. He had seen and done things that most people could barely imagine, and yet he still had a heart. She had seen it in the way he had assisted Eragon and Saphira, in the way he treated her with respect despite her alienating ways. There was pain in his eyes, though.

“We all have our demons, but I don’t believe you should inherit your father’s.” Kilf said softly.

Murtagh’s face radiated in obvious relief. “Thank you.”

Kilf was surprised. “You are my ally, yes?”

They were interrupted by Eragon coming out from Saphira’s wing. “How long have you two been awake?” asked Eragon in a hushed voice. 

“Awhile. I’m surprised Saphira didn’t wake you sooner.” Murtagh joked.

 “I was tired enough to sleep through a thunderstorm,” said Eragon wryly. He sat on the other side of Murtagh and rested his head against the wall. “Do you know what time it is?” 

“No. It’s impossible to tell in here.” 

“Has anyone come to see us?”

 “Not yet.”

Not long after Saphira lifted her head and blinked to clear her eyes. She sniffed the air, then yawned expansively, her rough tongue curling at the tip. She positioned herself near the door and settled down to wait, tail flicking. There was a weary but comfortable atmosphere, until the young one started pacing. During his pacing he stopped to look at one of the lanterns. Kilf smiled to herself. He really was curious about the world around him. 

The door opened, and a dozen warriors marched inside. The first man gulped when he saw Saphira. They were followed by Orik and the bald man, who declared, 

“You have been summoned to Ajihad, leader of the Varden. If you must eat, do so while we march.” Eragon and Murtagh stood together, watching him warily. 

“Where are our horses? And can I have my sword and bow back?” asked Eragon. 

The bald man looked at him with disdain. “Your weapons will be returned to you when Ajihad sees fit, not before. As for your horses, they await you in the tunnel. Now come!” As he turned to leave, Eragon asked quickly, 

“How is Arya?” The bald man hesitated. 

“I do not know. The healers are still with her.” He exited the room, accompanied by Orik. 

One of the warriors motioned. “You go first.” Eragon went through the doorway, followed by Saphira, Kilf and Murtagh. They returned through the corridor they had traversed the night before, passing the statue of the quilled animal. When they reached the huge tunnel through which they had first entered the mountain, the bald man was waiting with Orik, who held Tornac’s and Snowfire’s reins. “You will ride single file down the centre of the tunnel,” instructed the bald man. “If you attempt to go anywhere else, you will be stopped.” When Eragon started to climb onto Saphira, the bald man shouted, 

“No! Ride your horse until I tell you otherwise.”

Murtagh mounted Tornac behind Saphira, extending a hand to Kilf. She accepted, amused, as he seemed to be accepting her habit of sitting with him on his horse. 

A dwarf approached them, dipping his head as he addressed Kilf. “My lady, we do have more comfortable means of travel.” He indicated to an ornate palanquin.

Kilf shook her head. “I am content here.”

“As you wish my lady.” He bowed deeply before retreating. She felt Murtagh shift his weight in the saddle behind her. She turned to give him a curious look. His cheeks were slightly flushed and he looked away. Was Murtagh uncomfortable with her on his horse?

The bald man examined their small line, then gestured at the warriors, who divided in half to surround them, giving Saphira as wide a berth as possible. Orik and the bald man went to the head of the procession. After looking them over once more, the bald man clapped twice and started walking forward. Eragon tapped Snowfire lightly on his flanks. The entire group headed toward the heart of the mountain. Echoes filled the tunnel as the horses’ hooves struck the hard floor, the sounds amplified in the deserted passageway. Doors and gates occasionally disturbed the smooth walls, but they were always closed. As Kilf swayed with the horses motion, she admired the craftmanship of the tunnel. It would have made Helzvog proud. 

After some time the bald man stopped and raised a hand. He turned to Eragon. “You will ride upon your dragon now. Do not attempt to fly away. There will be people watching, so remember who and what you are.” Eragon dismounted Snowfire, and then clambered onto Saphira’s back. 

The bald one and Orik retreated to either side of Saphira, staying far enough back so she was clearly in the lead. Kilf and Murtagh behind them. 

“Now walk to the doors, and once they open, follow the path. Go slowly.” The bald one instructed them.

Without warning, the doors swung outward on hidden joints. As the rift widened between them, rays of sunlight streamed into the tunnel. It was difficult to make out what was through the doors with Saphira in front but she did manage a glimpse. They were inside a massive volcanic crater. Its walls narrowed to a small ragged opening so high above. A soft beam of light fell through the aperture, illuminating the crater’s centre, though it left the rest of the cavernous expanse in hushed twilight. The crater’s far side, hazy blue in the distance, looked to be nearly ten miles away. Giant icicles hundreds of feet thick and thousands of feet long hung leagues above them like glistening daggers. Farther down the crater’s inner walls, dark mats of moss and lichen covered the rock. There was a wide cobblestone path extending from the doors’ threshold. The path ran straight to the centre of the crater, where it ended at the base of a snowy-white mountain that glittered like an uncut gem with thousands of coloured lights. It was less than a tenth of the height of the crater that loomed over and around it, but its diminutive appearance was deceiving, for it was slightly higher than a mile. Long as it was, the tunnel had only taken them through one side of the crater wall. 

Kilf gasped, making Murtagh turn to her. “It is where we had the last battle with the Titans!” Now it was full of so much life. She could feel tears coming to her eyes.

As Eragon stared ahead, she heard Orik say deeply, “Look well, human, for no Rider has set eyes upon this for nigh over a hundred years. The airy peak under which we stand is Farthen Dûr—discovered thousands of years ago by the father of our race, Korgan, while he tunnelled for gold. And in the centre stands our greatest achievement: Tronjheim, the city-mountain built from the purest marble.” 

She could see Eragon do a tentative wave before bowing his head down before the masses of people.

A single cheer broke the silence. Someone clapped loudly. For a brief second the crowd hesitated, then a wild roar swept through it, and a wave of sound crashed over them. 

“Very good,” said the bald man from behind Eragon. “Now start walking.”

Eragon and Saphira moved forward as the horse kept pace with them. She could see Saphira billow smoke from her nostrils to the delight of the children. When they were in sight of all the people, she felt Murtagh stiffen behind her. The crowd must be getting to him. She wasn’t sure what she could do to settle his nerves, it was too loud to say anything. She settled on giving him a light squeeze on his hand that held the reign. He seemed to take a breath after but remained tense. 

The humans looked hardy and prepared for battle at a moments time, even the children. The dwarves were offering deep bows to her as she passed. 

When they reached Tronjheim’s base, Saphira paused to see if the bald man had any instructions. When none were forthcoming, she continued to the gate. The walls were lined with fluted pillars of blood-red jasper. Between the pillars bulked statues of outlandish creatures, captured forever by the sculptor’s chisel. The heavy gate rumbled open before them as hidden chains slowly raised the mammoth beams. A four-story-high passageway extended straight toward the centre of Tronjheim. The top three levels were pierced by rows of archways that revealed grey tunnels curving off into the distance. Clumps of people filled the arches, eagerly watching Eragon and Saphira. On ground level, however, the archways were barred by stout doors. Rich tapestries hung between the different levels, embroidered with heroic figures and tumultuous battle scenes. A cheer rang in their ears as Saphira stepped into the hall and paraded down it. Eragon raised his hand, eliciting another roar from the throng, though many of the dwarves did not join the welcoming shout. The mile-long hall ended in an arch flanked by black onyx pillars. Yellow zircons three times the size of a man capped the dark columns, coruscating piercing gold beams along the hall. Saphira stepped through the opening, then stopped and craned back her neck, humming deeply in her chest. They were in a circular room, perhaps a thousand feet across, that reached up to Tronjheim’s peak a mile overhead, narrowing as it rose. The walls were lined with arches—one row for each level of the city-mountain—and the floor was made of polished carnelian, upon which was etched a hammer girdled by twelve silver pentacles, like on Orik’s helm. The room was a nexus for four hallways—including the one they had just exited—that divided Tronjheim into quarters. The halls were identical except for the one opposite . To the right and left of that hall were tall arches that opened to descending stairs, which mirrored each other as they curved underground. The ceiling was capped by a dawn-red star sapphire of monstrous size. The jewel was twenty yards across and nearly as thick. Its face had been carved to resemble a rose in full bloom, and so skilled was the craftsmanship, the flower almost seemed to be real. A wide belt of lanterns wrapped around the edge of the sapphire, which cast striated bands of blushing light over everything below. The flashing rays of the star within the gem made it appear as if a giant eye gazed down at them. 

The bald man walked in front of Saphira and said, “You must go on foot from here.” There was scattered booing from the crowd as he spoke. A dwarf took Tornac and Snowfire away as Kilf and Murtagh dismounted. Eragon dismounted Saphira but stayed by her side as the bald man led them across the carnelian floor to the right-hand hallway. They followed it for several hundred feet, then entered a smaller corridor. Their guards remained despite the cramped space. After four sharp turns, they came to a massive cedar door, stained black with age. The bald man pulled it open and conducted everyone but the guards inside.

They entered an elegant, two-story study panelled with rows of cedar bookshelves. A wrought-iron staircase wound up to a small balcony with two chairs and a reading table. White lanterns hung along the walls and ceiling so a book could be read anywhere in the room. The stone floor was covered by an intricate oval rug. At the far end of the room, a man stood behind a large walnut desk. His skin gleamed the colour of oiled ebony. The dome of his head was shaved bare, but a closely trimmed black beard covered his chin and upper lip. Strong features shadowed his face, and grave, intelligent eyes lurked under his brow. His shoulders were broad and powerful, emphasised by a tapered red vest embroidered with gold thread and clasped over a rich purple shirt. He bore himself with great dignity, exuding an intense, commanding air. When he spoke, his voice was strong, confident: 

“Welcome to Tronjheim, Eragon and Saphira. I am Ajihad. Please, seat yourselves.”

 Eragon slipped into an armchair next to Murtagh followed by Kilf, while Saphira settled protectively behind them. Ajihad raised his hand and snapped his fingers. A man stepped out from behind the staircase. He was identical to the bald man beside him. Eragon stared at the two of them with surprise, and Murtagh stiffened. Kilf raised and eyebrow.

 “Your confusion is understandable; they are twin brothers,” said Ajihad with a small smile. “I would tell you their names, but they have none.” Saphira hissed with distaste. Ajihad watched her for a moment, then sat in a high-backed chair behind the desk. The Twins retreated under the stairs and stood impassively beside each other. Ajihad pressed his fingers together as he stared at Eragon, Kilf and Murtagh. He studied them for a long time with an unwavering gaze. Kilf met his gaze directly back.

One of them hurried to his side. Ajihad whispered in his ear. The bald man suddenly paled and shook his head vigorously. Ajihad frowned, then nodded as if something had been confirmed. He looked at Murtagh. 

“You have placed me in a difficult position by refusing to be examined. You have been allowed into Farthen Dûr because the Twins have assured me that they can control you and because of your actions on behalf of Eragon and Arya. I understand that there may be things you wish to keep hidden in your mind, but as long as you do, we cannot trust you.”

 “You wouldn’t trust me anyway,” said Murtagh defiantly.

Ajihad’s face darkened as Murtagh spoke, and his eyes flashed dangerously. “Though it’s been twenty and three years since it last broke upon my ear … I know that voice.” He stood ominously, chest swelling. The Twins looked alarmed and put their heads together, whispering frantically. “It came from another man, one more beast than human. Get up.” Murtagh warily complied, his eyes darting between the Twins and Ajihad. “Remove your shirt,” ordered Ajihad. With a shrug, Murtagh pulled off his tunic. “Now turn around.” As he pivoted to the side, light fell upon the scar on his back. “Murtagh,” breathed Ajihad. A grunt of surprise came from Orik. Without warning, Ajihad turned on the Twins and thundered, “Did you know of this?” The Twins bowed their heads. 

“We discovered his name in Eragon’s mind, but we did not suspect that this boy was the son of one as powerful as Morzan. It never occurred—”

 “And you didn’t tell me?” demanded Ajihad. He raised a hand, forestalling their explanation. “We will discuss it later.” He faced Murtagh again. “First I must untangle this muddle. Do you still refuse to be probed?”

 “Yes,” said Murtagh sharply, slipping back into his tunic. “I won’t let anyone inside my head.” 

Ajihad leaned on his desk. “There will be unpleasant consequences if you don’t. Unless the Twins can certify that you aren’t a threat, we cannot give you credence, despite, and perhaps because of, the assistance you have given Eragon. Without that verification, the people here, dwarf and human alike, will tear you apart if they learn of your presence. I’ll be forced to keep you confined at all times—as much for your protection as for ours. It will only get worse once the dwarf king, Hrothgar, demands custody of you. Don’t force yourself into that situation when it can easily be avoided.” 

Murtagh shook his head stubbornly. “No … even if I were to submit, I would still be treated like a leper and an outcast. All I wish is to leave. If you let me do that peacefully, I’ll never reveal your location to the Empire.” 

“What will happen if you are captured and brought before Galbatorix?” demanded Ajihad. “He will extract every secret from your mind, no matter how strong you may be. Even if you could resist him, how can we trust that you won’t rejoin him in the future? I cannot take that chance.”

 “Will you hold me prisoner forever?” demanded Murtagh, straightening. 

“No,” said Ajihad, “only until you let yourself be examined. If you are found trustworthy, the Twins will remove all knowledge of Farthen Dûr’s location from your mind before you leave. We won’t risk someone with those memories falling into Galbatorix’s hands. What is it to be, Murtagh? Decide quickly or else the path will be chosen for you.”

Finally Murtagh spoke, the words slow and distinct. “My mind is the one sanctuary that has not been stolen from me. Men have tried to breach it before, but I’ve learned to defend it vigorously, for I am only safe with my innermost thoughts. You have asked for the one thing I cannot give, least of all to those two.” He gestured at the Twins. “Do with me what you will, but know this: death will take me before I’ll expose myself to their probing.” 

Admiration glinted in Ajihad’s eyes. “I’m not surprised by your choice, though I had hoped otherwise. … Guards!” The cedar door slammed open as warriors rushed in, weapons ready. Ajihad pointed at Murtagh and commanded, “Take him to a windowless room and bar the door securely. Post six men by the entrance and allow no one inside until I come to see him. Do not speak to him, either.” The warriors surrounded Murtagh, watching him suspiciously. 

As they did Kilf stood and placed herself beside him. “Wherever he goes, I shall too.” 

Ajihad studied her seriously. “With your relationship with the dwarves, I cannot order you to be locked away. You have been examined and found trustworthy. You need not do this.”

“I insist.” She replied simply.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot allow it.” He indicated to the guards to take Murtagh, one place an arm between them. Irritated by this point, she transformed into a more liquid state and walked past the guards arm, her form going around it, forming once more when she had passed him.

“I insist.” She repeated. There were gasps around the room and the guard was looking at his arm as if it had been transformed. 

Ajihad’s eyes twinkled. “Never have I ever seen magic like this, especially without an incantation. Very well. Let her accompany him, there is nothing we can do to stop her. If she wishes to leave the cell alone, she can. However, I would like to request an audience with you when you wish it.” 

Kilf tilted her head in agreement and escorted Murtagh to his cell.

Chapter Text

They reached a grey door. The cell was warm and well lit, with a washbasin in one corner and a writing desk—equipped with quills and ink—in another. The ceiling was extensively carved with lacquered figures; the floor was covered with a plush rug. A stout bed was against the wall. One of the dwarf guards addressed Kilf before closing the door,

“If you wish to leave, you only need to knock my lady.” He then retreated bowing. Murtagh and Kilf looked at each other. This definitely caught them both off guard at the state of the “cell”. 

“You didn’t need to do this” he muttered, averting his gaze. 

Kilf looked at him, her brow furrowed. She knew he was brave, but this situation was beyond his control and unjust.

Murtagh mustered up all the words of assurance he could and began to speak. “Kilf, I am okay here, I promise. Besides, there is only one bed.” He said as he rubbed the back of his head. “You shouldnt be here, you havent done anything wrong.”

“Neither have you.” Kilf retorted. Murtagh’s eyes softened. 

Kilf didn’t need to sleep but still, she had other duty’s to fulfil. She had inherited the title of leader of the Elementalists when Gûntera ascended. She was a representation of the few Elementalists left and had chosen to walk this earth, now she must deal with the politics and formalities. The so called cell and Ajihad’s behaviour towards Murtagh didn’t suggest that he was in danger from that faction. However, she didn’t have a full grasp of how the dwarves perceived him. But there was something she could do to negate any hostility. 

She pulled a hair from her head and clasped her hands around it. Murtagh looked at her quizzically. A radiant white light seeped through her fingers, illuminating the room with an ethereal glow. When she opened her hand there was a silver ring with a aqua orb embedded in it.

“Take this.” Kilf said as she passed it to Murtagh. “If you need me, all you need to do is say my name. It will offer you some protection as well. There are some things I must take care of.”

He gingerly touched the ring with tender reverence. Murtagh looked genuinely touched as he placed it on his middle finger on his left hand.

“I will wear it always.” He promised. Kilf nodded satisfied. She turned to knock on the door, her hand lingering in front of it before she knocked. She glanced back at Murtagh after she did. He looked sad? The grey door opened with the dwarf bowing as she left the room. The sound of the door closing behind her left her feeling empty for some reason. She addressed the dwarf,

“Please may I have an audience with the dwarven King.” More of a demand than a request, her voice carried an unmistakable edge that brooked no refusal. The dwarf’s face lit up and replied enthusiastically, 

“It would be an honour.” He blew on a horn and two more dwarves came. He spoke dwarvish to them very quickly. One ran off and the other addressed Kilf,

“If you would like to follow me, my lady. I will take you to our King.” She followed him through a series of halls and corridors. Other dwarves were bowing and looking on in awe as she passed by. 

Once they entered Tronjheim’s central chamber, the dwarf led the way to one of the two descending stairways that flanked the opposite hall. They started down the right-hand staircase, which gently curved inward until it faced the direction they had come from. The other stairway merged with theirs to form a broad cascade of dimly lit steps that ended, after a hundred feet, before two granite doors. A seven-pointed crown was carved across both doors. Seven dwarves stood guard on each side of the portal. They held burnished mattocks and wore gem-encrusted belts. As they approached, the dwarves pounded the floor with the mattocks’ hafts. A deep boom rolled back up the stairs. The doors swung inward. A dark hall lay before them, a good bowshot long. The throne room was a natural cave; the walls were lined with stalagmites and stalactites, each thicker than a man. Sparsely hung lanterns cast a moody light. The brown floor was smooth and polished. At the far end of the hall was a black throne with a motionless figure upon it. 

“King Hrothgar awaits you my lady.” The dwarf bowed and left. Kilf continued to the throne at the end of the room, treading softly. In the recesses between the stalagmites and stalactites rested large statues. Each sculpture depicted a dwarf king crowned and sitting on a throne; their sightless eyes gazed sternly into the distance, their lined faces set in fierce expressions. A name was chiselled in runes beneath each set of feet. All were rulers of days gone past Kilf mused. The dwarf king himself sat like a statue upon a raised throne carved from a single piece of black marble. It was blocky, unadorned, and cut with unyielding precision. Strength emanated from the throne, strength that harked back to ancient times when dwarves had ruled in Alagaësia without opposition from elves or humans. A gold helm lined with rubies and diamonds rested on Hrothgar’s head in place of a crown. His visage was grim, weathered, and hewn of many years’ experience. Beneath a craggy brow glinted deep-set eyes, flinty and piercing. Over his powerful chest rippled a shirt of mail. His white beard was tucked under his belt, and in his lap he held a mighty war hammer embossed on its head. Kilf stood straight and made it clear that she saw him as an equal, with a tilt of her head. Her position would be akin to a queen in mortal terms if she understood them correctly.

The King stood, with hammer in his hands, and knelt on the floor. 

“There have been many that have passed through these halls, but none as yourself. I am honoured that you have graced me with your presence.”

Kilf stood baffled, did she misread the power of her station?

“Please rise.” Kilf was not accustomed to this. Her own people would not kneel to her. The dwarf king rose and sat back on the throne. Placing the hammer once again on his lap.

“We have a gift for you, it has been sent for from one of the clans. It should be here by tomorrow if you would do us the honour us by accepting.”

“I will, it will also be my honour to accept.” Kilf placed a hand on her chest as she said this. “ I have come to make a request of you.” 

The dwarven King tilted his head in acknowledgement, “If it is in my power to grant, then I shall.” 

“I would like the guaranteed safety of Murtagh.” 

The Kings bushy eyebrows furrowed. “I shall grant your wish but might I ask why?”

“He is my ally and is now the friend of the Elementalists.” 

“Very well, no dwarf shall harm him or suffer my wrath. I had heard from the report from Orik that you had referred yourself as an Elementalist.” The word was deliberately pronounced, as it seemed to be unfamiliar to him. “Forgive me but it seems we are woefully ignorant in the ways of the gods. Tales of yourself and others have been passed down for many generations but it is not a term we are familiar of, neither are any of the other titles you hold.” 

Kilf wondered if Helzvog has left something for the dwarves about them, it would be something he would do. 

“I too, am ignorant of the history of these lands for all the races as I have slumbered in the depth of the ocean, for quite some time it would seem. May I recommend an exchange of knowledge? I can share my knowledge of the Elementalists if I am in turn taught about the history of these lands.” she suggested. 

The King’s eyes lit up with joy, “It would be an incredible honour. I will seek our best historical scholar for this who can rectify the information we have and impart his knowledge to you.” Kilf nodded satisfied with the arrangement. “I will also arrange for your accommodation to be shown to you.” He shouted something in dwarvish and a dwarf entered the hall bowing. “He will show you your accommodation, the gift and scholar will be available tomorrow. If there is anything else you desire, you need but ask.” 

“Thank you. I will await for tomorrow.” Kilf tilted her head once more before turning to follow the dwarf.

The accommodation that she had been taken to was lavish. It was below Tronjheim’s central chamber and was very spacious. There was a four poster bed with silk bedding and furniture that was beautifully crafted. There was an adjacent room with a round dwarf-made pool of water with Lavender floating in it. The stonework surrounding it was intricate with embed gemstones. Kilf placed her foot in the water, it was warm and felt similar to sea water. She decided that she would rest in the pool. She stepped into the water until she was fully submerged and released her form. It was so relaxing to be one with water again, even if it was temporary. 

Thoughts were flowing through her mind, pondering on everything that had happened. The lands had drastically changed from when she last stepped foot on them. The being’s created from her own people had expanded and evolved, creating kingdoms. Kingdoms that were a complicated structure with opposing interests and conflict. Tronjheim was a perfect example and it was just one aspect of the different power struggles of the land. Two very different races sharing resources and space but with two very distinct leaderships working in tandem. Yet despite the inequality, the hardship and complexity, they still grew into where they were today. 

Despite their forced march, she missed travelling with Eragon, Saphira and Murtagh. It was much simpler. 

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, the lack of sunlight and her perception of time made it difficult to guess.  A knock at the door disturbed her trail of thought. 

She rose from the water, the flow of the water faded into smooth skin, limbs elongating gracefully into human form. Her robes fluttering once more. “Come in.” She responded clearly. 

A flurry of female dwarves came in a neat line. One stepped forward. “I am Yaggola Detraesli, it is my honour to be your appointed lead lady in waiting.” She dipped into a deep curtsy, her braided hair like a thick rope dangling forward. “The Scholar is ready when you wish to see him. I have come to see if you require food for this morning? Or perhaps a change of clothes? We have several dresses that you can choose from.” She indicated to the other ladies in waiting who were carefully holding out multiple fine dresses to choose from, neatly folded. Kilf walked along the dresses, stopping now and then to trace her fingers on lace patterns or vibrant silk. They were all very different styles and made from quite a few different type of materials.

She must be trying to discern what style of clothing is my taste. Kilf mused.

“This is the one I would like to wear.” She finally settled on a simple blue dress with an off shoulder design and fitted sleeves. 

“Certainly my lady.” She gave instructions to the other ladies in waiting .

It was odd, to dress this way. For so long, Kilf just used her magic to change her appearance to whatever she pleased, whenever she pleased without much thought. Now, she was going to wear something she couldn’t change form of. The cotton and silk foreign against her body. 

The dwarven ladies were gentle but well practiced as they helped her into her dress. A stool had been brought in to help with lacing the dress. Kilf sat at the vanity dresser as Yaggola expertly tamed her hair into a half updo with her nimble fingers. Kilf gazed at the unfamiliar visage in the mirror, she looked like a human noble lady. 

She declined the offer of any food, she was curious about what she was going to learn with the scholar. 

“As you wish, my lady.” She frowned slightly at Kilf’s refusal of food. “If you would like to follow me and I shall show you to the library.” 

Many times on the way did dwarves kneel before her as she passed, she would stop and dip her head as a way of acknowledgment. This made the journey painfully slow, even by Kilf’s standard but she felt it was important to show respect.

They library was both vast and ornate. There were books as far as the she could see in chiselled out cavities along the marble walls, there was a scent of old parchment and worn leather. The spines of books varied in colour and texture, some worn and others gleaming new, nestled in niches like treasured artifacts.

Yaggola led her away from the main library to a set of ornate double doors, steps echoing through the library. She knocked on the polished brass. The doors swung open inwards steadily as dwarves on the other side pulled them. Inside was a large private study. There was a large dark oak desk towards the end of the room with an elderly dwarf stood in front of it in spectacles that glinted in the lamplight. He wasn’t the only dwarf present. There were at least a dozen other dwarves in front of two tables lining the sides of the study, standing in hushed reverence. 

They knelt in unison and the elderly dwarf addressed Kilf.

“It is an honour to meet you lady Kilf. I am Arazem Detraesli, it would be my utmost pleasure to provide the information you seek.” 

Chapter Text

Kilf settled into an overstuffed burgundy armchair that nestled before an imposing oak desk facing the room, its surface marred with marks of history. Her delicate hands, warmed by the comforting heat of a porcelain cup filled with berry tea that exuded a sweet, tangy aroma. The soft glimmer of the unique lanterns cast a warm glow across her skin. 

One by one, the dwarven scribes—clad in intricately embossed tunics and bearing quills tucked into leather pouches—stepped forward to introduce themselves. Their voices, low and measured, mingled with the rustle of parchment as they sought permission to bear witness to the momentous revelation that was about to unfold. Kilf’s remained stoic, with the knowledge that her next words might upend centuries-old traditions and shake the very foundation of the dwarves’ beliefs, so each syllable was guarded behind a veil of cautious resolve. Each of the scribes returned to desks lining the walls, parchment lay ready.

Turning her attention to the inquiries she had prepared, Kilf’s voice took on a steady cadence as she engaged Arazem who stood across the desk, his calm demeanour exuded the confidence of a scholar well-versed in his craft. Every answer he offered was thoughtful, each word deliberate and precise. Arazem’s fingertips danced over the spines of ancient books and unfurled scrolls, selecting the appropriate document with the quiet efficiency of a man who cherished his research. Spread across the polished oak was an enormous map, its parchment marked by settlements that had sprouted up over time; familiar lands were interwoven with traces of historical battles, like the scorched remnants on the burning plains. Yet, amid the intricate geography, Kilf couldn’t help but notice the conspicuous absence of any reference to the Titans—a detail that tugged at her mind. 

I suppose it was before their time, she murmured softly, her eyes scanning the parchment as if in search of forgotten truths.

Hours slipped by in a quiet symphony of inquiry and reflection. Yaggola, ever the diligent attendant, ensured that Kilf’s cup was never empty—replenishing it with fresh, aromatic tea—and offering a small assortment of biscuits and seasonal fruit arranged neatly on a carved wooden tray. Kilf picked a few pieces with polite appreciation, though her thoughts remained enmeshed in the gravity of her research.

At last, when the reservoir of her own questions felt well and truly sated, Kilf leaned forward and, with a deliberate exhale, spoke: “Thank you for being so patient with my questions. I shall return the favour now and tell you of my people.”

Her voice carried the weight of history as she presented a concise yet vivid tapestry of the elementalists’ past—a past intricately woven with the influence of the Titans. She described how, in earlier times, elementalists thrived in many numbers, each tethered to the element of their birth. Some, like her own grandmother, could only command the existing ice, a slender thread of power that required precise control. The Titans, she explained, were inherently destructive forces, often igniting brutal conflicts among them. Over time, her people began to revere those elementalists whose prowess in battle commanded both respect and fear, and a unique culture blossomed around these formidable warriors. Courtship and alliances were predicated on the strength of one’s elemental bond—a trait determined at birth—and one’s ranking, a public tally of battles fought and victories earned. Kilf herself bore a high rank, a legacy from a long line of celebrated warriors. She had been arranged to become Gûntera’s mate, he had been the leader of the Elementalist’s with the rare trait of two divine elements. 

Then came the fateful day of the blood sun. In a cataclysmic convergence, the Titans marshalled their power and unleashed a devastating force that obliterated everything in its path—even many from among their own. In the aftermath, remnants of the Titans fragmented into beings known as Urgals. Nearly all of Kilf’s kin were lost, spared only by those who could ascend and the six survivors: Gûntera, Helzvog, Morgothal, Sindri, Urûr, and Kilf. Whatever the Titans had done had irrevocably altered the very core of the remaining elementalists, igniting a relentless hunt that culminated in a final, brutal confrontation in Farthen Dûr. Mourning the shattered lands, these survivors set about recreating life itself by moulding new beings; the blood in these creatures pulsed with a trace of Kilf’s own essence. In time, Gûntera ascended into an elevated state while the others receded into a deep slumber, each becoming one with their element.

When her tale concluded, a pensive hush fell over the chamber. The only sound was the rhythmic scratching of a dozen quills against parchment as Arazem wrestled with his thoughts. Slowly, he set aside his writing and looked at Kilf, his eyes wide with awe and reverence. “It has been truly humbling to hear the origins of our gods,” he declared in a tone that resonated with ancient wonder.

Kilf tilted her head, a hint of melancholy in her gaze. “Yet you still wish to refer to us as ‘gods’?” she asked softly.

Arazem’s measured response came with quiet conviction: “What else would you call a being that can create life in such a manner? Is that not the very essence of what you define as a god?”

The subtle shift in Kilf’s posture conveyed both resignation and inner conflict. She had long hoped that the stark truth of her people’s history might alter how they were perceived, but the weight of tradition proved unyielding. 

I’ve done the best I can, she thought tinged with sorrow, and there is little I can do if that is the stance they choose to take. She wrestled with her own uncertain identity—barely recognisable from the person she had been before the day of the blood sun.

Arazem interjected, his face furrowed with deep lines of grief. “You have my condolences on the loss of your people. I cannot even fathom such a tragedy.” Kilf offered a solemn nod. “We shall revise our historical records and the scriptures held within the temples to reflect your account. And if ever you wish to glean more knowledge, my understanding—and all the extensive writings preserved by the dwarves—will always be at your disposal, my lady.”

A gentle smile graced her lips as she replied, “I appreciate the offer, and I will certainly take you up on it in time.” With that, she rose gracefully from her chair, smoothing the delicate folds of her dress, her thoughts now shifting to responsibilities that lay beyond these scholarly walls. “I must take my leave, for I do not wish to keep the king waiting. He is expecting my presence.”

As she strode toward the doorway, the gathered dwarves stood as one to bow in a display of deep respect, their eyes glistening with unspoken devotion. 

Just then, Yaggola’s voice, laced with concern, broke the silence as they walked the hallway. “I have arranged for a warm, hearty meal to be served in your quarters, my lady. Would you not consider taking a break to dine?” 

The words struck Kilf with the sudden impact of a cold slap. “Yaggola,” she replied, her tone both amused and resolute, “I do not require food, nor do I ever truly need sleep. Still, when the time comes for the dwarves and humans to rest, I find solace in the quiet embrace of water within my chambers.” 

Yaggola’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Truly, my lady?”

“Yes, truly. So please, do not trouble yourself unduly. However,” she added with a light chuckle that softened the gravity of her revelation, “I would be delighted to sample the meal you’ve organised for me.”

Kilf made her way through the grand halls of the dwarven palace, her thoughts swirling with the weight of the revelations she had just shared. It was a relief to finally disclose the truth about her people, but she couldn’t shake off the lingering uncertainty about how they would be perceived moving forward. As she reached her chambers, Yaggola bustled around, preparing the meal that had been arranged for her.

The scent of roasted meats and savoury herbs filled the air, making Kilf’s stomach churn in an odd mix of nostalgia and unfamiliarity. She watched as Yaggola laid out the feast before her, a colourful array of dishes that looked delectable yet foreign to her newly transformed senses. Despite knowing that she no longer needed sustenance in the same way, Kilf felt a strange curiosity tug at her, prompting her to reach out and pick up a piece of fruit.

The taste was a mere whisper against her tongue, a distant echo of sensations long forgotten. It brought back memories of simpler times, of laughter and warmth shared with her family before everything had changed. Kilf’s gaze flickered to Yaggola, who watched her with a mix of concern and fascination.

“I may not require sustenance like I once did, but I can still appreciate the effort put into this meal,” Kilf said softly, offering a small smile to reassure her companion. Yaggola’s eyes softened at the gesture, a glimmer of understanding passing between them.

“It is an honour to serve you, my lady,” Yaggola replied, bowing slightly before stepping back to give Kilf some space. 

Kilf looked back at her, bemused, “Will you not join me?”

“That is not appropriate, my lady.” Yaggola responded firmly. 

Not wanting to make her uncomfortable, Kilf dropped the subject. She ate what she hoped would be a polite amount and then requested to see King Hrothgar.

Once again she stepped through the magnificent throne hall. There was a mutual greeting between herself and the King. His eyes alight as a two dwarves presented an ornate silver wrought chest to Kilf. She studied it briefly, tilting her head. They released the clasp and there sitting in the violet silk bed was a azure hilt with a moonstone embedded in it. Kilf let out a small gasp as she wrapped her fingers around the familiar metal. A wave of nostalgia washed over her as she lifted it from the chest. Just how long had it been since she held her weapon? It had clearly been tended to for many centuries.

“We have been keeping it since it was found centuries ago. Never did we imagine that it’s owner would come to claim it again.” Hrothgar looked pensive. “It saddens me to say we never found the blade to accompany it.”

“Thank you for keeping this, it was always a treasure to me.”  Kilf said in gentle aww. The dwarves that had held the chest stepped away cautiously. “It doesn’t have a blade.” She added simply. She then channelled her very being into the hilt. Shimmering silver liquid came from the hilt that formed into a blade. The dwarves were watching in awe. “I have always preferred my weapon to be able to adapt.” Kilf explained. It shifted again into a whip that she brought over her head to crack around the room. Kilf felt a sense of familiar exhilaration as she arched her body to bring the whip round. When it had settled, the form retracted into the hilt. “It is good to be reunited with Naidala.” Kilf cooed. Joy radiant on her features. 

Hrothgar nodded. “It is a sight to behold, one that I am fortunate enough to see in my lifetime. None of the craftsmen we have could replicate it” Kilf studied his features, noting for the first time the edge of weariness. She tried to recount the time she had spent in the library but was unable to definitively say how long she had been there. Was in nighttime?

“I must depart, as I do not wish to take more of your time, your highness.” Kilf dipped her head respectfully. “I am grateful to be reunited with Naidala. If the dwarves ever require my aid, then please only ask it of me.”

Hrothgar shook his head. “We are honoured by your presence, so do not hesitate to request my presence when you so wish.” He stood to bow to Kilf. “I wish you a pleasant night, Lady Kilf.” She returned the gesture in kind.

When she had exited the throne room, Yaggola instantly greeted her with a bow.

“Yaggola.” Kilf said gently. “Please could you tell me when the dwarves and human’s are sleeping in future so I do not interrupt them.”

Her eyes widened. “But my lady, nobody would ever turn you away for an audience, regardless of the hour.”

“Please, at least just let me know. Even if that is the case, I do not want to be perceived as rude.” She thought about how irritable Murtagh and Eragon had been without sleep. Her lip twitched, almost smiling to herself. No, she didn’t want to disturb anyone’s sleep. 

Chapter Text

Ajihad studied her from his desk. She had requested a meeting with him as soon as Yaggola had come to tell her the humans were now awake. He had requested an audience the last they saw each other so she dutifully responded, so not to disrespect a powerful figure in Farthen Dûr. It seemed that he was already abreast of the information she had shared yesterday with the dwarves. Yaggola stood dutifully behind her. Kilf had caught her once or twice frowning at Ajihad. Especially when he directly pursued with his questioning. 

“So, what do you intend to do now?” Ajihad said in a stern voice.

“I wish to be able to continue my observations.” Kilf admitted. “However, it would seem I have less leeway than I originally intended when I came here.” 

Ajihad murmured. “Your presence and the revelation of a new race… well, it changes a great deal of things. Even if you posses few subjects, your magic prowess is larger than the Varden or Surda. Perhaps even the Empire. There will be many wishing to create connections the Elementalists.”

Kilf frowned. “I understand why you would see them as subjects but please do not refer to them as such. They are trusted comrades. Warriors in arms that have faced certain death by my side. Whilst I cannot refute that they have chosen me to carry on in Gûntera’s stead, I do not view them as less.”

Ajihad placed a hand on his chest. “I apologise. It was not my intention to offend.” Kilf dipped her head in acceptance of his apology. He then straightened himself. “Getting more to the point, the Varden would like to enter into a truce with the Elementalists.”

Kilf crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes in deep thought. After a long pause she opened her eyes again, addressing Ajihad in a clear voice. “That is not something that I can decide for my people alone. I would need to summon them to council collectively. Even then, a decision may not be reached in your lifetime due to the pact.”

Ajihad raised an eyebrow. “The pact?” 

“Yes. One that was made after the races were created. It impairs us from interfering with the free will of the being’s created. That would also include our influence.” Kilf emphasised. “However, I can individually offer a truce between myself and the Varden if that is acceptable?”

Ajihad’s eyes twinkled. “You certainly have a knack for negotiation. It would be an honour to enter a truce with yourself. I will make the necessary arrangements and bring this proposition forward before the council.”

Kilf nodded, satisfied, before asking. “And what of Murtagh?” 

Ajihad’s face darkened briefly. “That is a thorny subject which I have no answers for. He refuses to be inspected, so his situation will not change.” He gave a brief pause before tentatively probing. “It would seem that you have requested his safety from Hrothgar. I have to ask, what is driving you to such lengths? For a man that, from what I have gathered, you have known only for a short while?”

Kilf gazed up to the intricately carved ceiling. Why was she so concerned for a human? She couldn’t quite fathom it herself. Slowly, she murmured. “It would be a shame that a being with such skill and heart were to wither away.” 

Ajihad sighed. “I have already met with him and understand what you mean. Is that why you gave him that ring? He didn’t have it on when he was detained.” His dark eyes burning with curiosity. 

Kilf offered a silent nod. “They are usually given to those considered an ally of the Elementalists.” 

“The unique relationship you have with the dwarves,” Ajihad cast a brief glance at Yaggola, “means that it is unlikely that anyone will harm him. You have now also given him a title as such, so politically, my hands are tied. He will not come to any harm whilst I lead the Varden.”

“Thank you.” Kilf said with sincerity. “I appreciate your candour.” 

Ajihad chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to fool a goddess.” 

***

The clang of steel rang out, and Kilf’s sapphire-blue dress trailed behind her like a wave as she slipped toward the sound. At her side, Yaggola padded so silently, she might have been her shadow. Before them lay a wide sparring ground, its dirt floor pitted with footprints and stained dark by spilled water and sweat. Dozens of dwarves and humans circled wooden posts or duelled—yet not a single woman stood among them. Kilf tilted her head, curiosity flickering, until a flash of iridescent blue scales drew her gaze upward.

Saphira’s wings folded neatly along her sides, her blue eyes fixed on the combat below. Kilf approached, skirts whispering against the cold flagstones, and saw Eragon and an elf trading blows in the centre ring. The elf—slender, with dark hair and eyes of emerald—moved with deliberate restraint, coaxing Eragon to push himself harder with each pass.

“My lady—” A gravelly voice rumbled at Kilf’s elbow. She turned to find Orik. He bowed slightly, eyes wide. Kilf pressed a finger to her lips. Without a word, Orik nodded in understanding, awe still etched into every wrinkle of his face.

Saphira’s mind came a gentle question, and Kilf let images of the last two days spring into the dragon’s awareness—until Saphira’s approval shimmered between them like a heat haze.

Eragon’s chest heaved as sweat darkened his tunic, muscles coiling beneath his skin. He swept through sword forms; the elf met each stance, tiptoeing back, luring him forward. Time and again the elf sidestepped potential strikes, hair flicking as she studied his rhythm. Until, with a blur of steel and an inhuman lunge, her blade’s tip hovered at Eragon’s chin. He froze, breath caught in his throat.

“You have passed,” she murmured, voice cool as mountain water. A roar of approval broke from the watching throng. Kilf offered a gentle, polite clap. 

When their attention waned from Eragon and Arya, did they notice Kilf’s presence. At once, the dwarves dropped to one knee, steel-toed boots thudding softly on the earth. The humans, bewildered, glanced from face to face.

Arya, standing just beyond the ring, caught Kilf’s eye— narrowing in suspicion. 

Kilf inclined her head in greeting. “Please continue as you were,” she said, voice smooth as a calm lake. Reluctantly the dwarves rose and resumed their bouts, all the while throwing curious glances back her way.

Eragon approached, uncertain. His brow furrowed at the hem of Kilf’s dress—a tapestry of swirling blues that spoke of nobility. Kilf smiled, step light and teasing. “I see you’ve recovered from our journey,” she said, voice warm and lilting.

A low snort drifted down from above. Saphira’s amusement rumbled through Kilf’s mind. Eragon cracked a half-hearted grin, glancing at Saphira.

Before either could speak, Arya stepped forward. “Are you the goddess of water I’ve heard about?” Her tone was sharp, challenging.

Yaggola bristled beside Kilf. Kilf drew a breath, face serene. “I am Kilf, Elementalist of Water,” she replied softly. Arya’s gaze flickered, narrowing as ripples of curiosity—and maybe doubt—spread across her features. A ghost of a smile came to Kilf’s face, it was very much in Gûntera’s personality to create such… pragmatic beings.

Arya lifted her chin. “I have never heard or seen of an Elementalist. You appear human.”

“Would you like me to appear as another race?” Kilf responded, thoughtfully tilting her head. Kilf’s question hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in silk. Arya’s emerald eyes narrowed, searching Kilf’s face for any hint of deception. Orik shifted restlessly at Kilf’s side. Kilf met Arya’s gaze unflinchingly, her expression serene yet impenetrable. “I am not here to deceive,” Kilf said softly, her voice carrying a faint echo of distant waves. 

Arya’s lips tightened into a thin line, her posture rigid and defensive. She glanced over at Eragon, who watched the exchange with a furrowed brow. The tension in the sparring ground had shifted palpably, whispers rippling through the onlookers like a breeze through autumn leaves.

“Your words hold weight, Kilf,” Arya said at last, her tone guarded. “But trust is not easily given in these troubled times.”

Kilf inclined her head in acknowledgment, a gesture of respect tinged with understanding. “I offer no illusions, only the truth as I know it,” she replied calmly.

Arya studied Kilf for a long moment, as if weighing her words and assessing her intentions. Then, with a small nod, she seemed to come to a decision.

“Very well,” Arya said finally, her voice carrying a note of cautious acceptance. “Prove yourself to us, Elementalist of Water.”

Kilf lifted a slender finger to her chin, brow furrowed. Shifting her form into that of an elf—tall ears, angular cheekbones—or even a stout dwarf would have been trivial. But she needed something more, something that stretched beyond mortal enchantments. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then let a slow smile spread across her lips.

Turning, she addressed Yaggola, Kilf’s voice was soft enough that only the closest could hear, yet every head in the courtyard leaned forward. “I do not wish to ruin this dress you have lent me,” she said, fingers brushing the hem of her pale-blue gown. “I will shift out of it. Would you hold it for me?”

Yaggola dipped his head, fingers curling around the fabric with reverent care. “Of course, my lady. It is yours to do with as you wish.”

Kilf faced Arya again, lifted her arms, and exhaled. The hem of her gown slithered off her hips and pooled at Yaggola’s feet like spilled water. Midair, in place of Kilf’s human form, hovered a sphere of liquid light, water spun by unseen current, glimmering with ripples of sapphire. It grew, stretched, coalesced. First it formed a neck, then shoulders, then strong, clawed limbs. The surface hardened into scales that shone pale blue, catching beams of sunlight like polished gems. Within seconds, a dragon the size of Saphira herself stood where Kilf had been, wings tucked against her flanks and eyes aglow.

When the dragon spoke, her voice rolled over the crowd like distant thunder. “Is this proof enough, elf?”

Arya’s breath caught. Her eyes darted from the dragon’s serpentine neck to the glittering horns atop her head. Then she squared her shoulders, lips parting as she began a chant in the ancient language. Her right hand snapped upward, fingers weaving patterns in the air, searching for hidden wards or illusionary magic.

Saphira edged forward, nostrils flaring as she studied the newcomer’s flanks. A slender, forked tongue flicked from between her teeth. The transformed dragon lowered her great head and pressed her muzzle against Saphira’s crown, a gesture of friendship. The two beasts stood nose to nose, scales brushing, and a soft glow pulsed around them.

You truly smell and appear as another dragon, Saphira rumbled.

Kilf’s jaws flexed in acknowledgment. I can transform into any being to whom I am blood mother, she explained. But my powers have their limits. I do not possess Morgothal’s flames in this form. She beat her folded wings once, the movement betraying a flicker of disappointment.

“That’s not possible…” Arya muttered, her chant dissolving into silence. She took a step forward, palm flat against the cool expanse of Kilf’s scaled shoulder. Her brow creased in wonder and suspicion both.

The dragon lowered her head until her pale-blue eye aligned with Arya’s. “This is the magic of my people,” Kilf said. Her voice was quieter now, intimate, resonating in Arya’s chest. “We do not need to speak the ancient language. Magic flows through our veins like blood. I have no reason to deceive you. I seek only to protect the life that thrives in these lands. Will you accept our race, Arya the elf?”

Arya’s hand fell away. She straightened, the wind stirring her dark hair, and folded her arms across her chest. “I would first ask a personal audience,” she replied. “I wish to understand more.”

“Very well.” Kilf’s tone shifted again, carrying the authority of a queen. Water lapped at her talons for a moment before she drew it up into herself, shrinking, coiling, until her form melted into a pool of liquid light. The glow subsided. In its place stood the woman in blue robes once more, serene and composed. “I will arrange for one tomorrow, as I already have somebody to see today.” 

***

“For now, there won’t be any changes,” Kilf stated in a calm, steady voice as she settled onto the narrow, creaky single bed. Murtagh sat across from her on a wooden chair by the desk, his brow furrowed deeply, absorbing every word as she recounted the intricate negotiations that had unfolded over the past few days.

His gaze lingered on the silver ring encircling his finger, a gift from her, its surface catching the dim light. “You don’t need to do all this,” he mumbled, a mix of gratitude and uncertainty in his voice.

“No,” Kilf acknowledged, her eyes meeting his with a reassuring look. “But I want to. There are very few I consider true allies.” Her lips curled into a gentle smile, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Besides, it never hurts to have someone skilled with a sword in the heat of battle.” She added, hoping her words would comfort Murtagh, knowing from experience that people often questioned generosity that lacked apparent reward.

Murtagh straightened in his chair, a newfound resolve in his posture. “Then my sword is yours if you ever need it,” he offered with sincerity, his voice firm.

“Speaking of battles,” Kilf began, her voice softening, “the scar on your back wasn’t earned in an honourable fight. So, I was wondering if you’d like me to remove it?”

Murtagh’s eyes widened in shock, his mind racing with disbelief. “Is that... possible?” Kilf nodded, her expression confident. He lowered his gaze to the worn stone floor, thoughts swirling in his mind. “I’m not sure,” he admitted quietly, uncertainty lacing his words.

A faint knock echoed through the small room, capturing their attention. The door swung open, revealing Eragon, who paused, taking in the scene before him. “Sorry if I’m interrupting anything…” he said, a hint of hesitation in his voice.

Kilf shook her head, rising to her feet with a graceful movement. “I was just leaving.” She turned to Murtagh, her expression soft. “There is no rush for a decision, so take as much time as you need.” She gave Eragon a polite nod and stepped out of the cell, leaving the room in a thoughtful silence.