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Chapter Text

Dusk was upon the Beor Mountains. Snow-capped mountain peaks sparkled crimson in the brilliance of the dying sunlight. Day-faring animals returned to their dens as night-dwellers went on the prowl. Those not so lucky were lifelessly carried back to caves in the talons of a dragon. In the lull between two very different times and worlds, an unusual stillness had settled over the world...

Not that all shared in the twilit tranquility.

Eridor, you're going to leave ruts in that floor if you continue pacing like- ERIDOR!

The King of the wild dragons snapped to attention, wrenching his gaze away from the cave entrance. His blue eyes, which burned so unnaturally bright in the growing darkness, softened apologetically as he gazed upon his mate.

Her scales were the color of sapphires, the same brilliant blue as her eyes. She was curled up in their nest, cradling her eggs with the experienced ease of a she-dragon who had seen countless hatchlings leave the birth-cave to start families of their own. Scars from past fights and hunts gone awry marred her formerly pristine hide. She was far from the delicate little yearling that had attracted males from all corners of Alagaesia, suitors Eridor had driven off tooth and claw at all hours of the day, but her beauty was timeless in his eyes.

I'm sorry, Safiri, it's just...

The Order's persistence? The disappearances? This strange nest? That one little upstart's new little group of Forsworn?

All of that. Eridor padded over to his mate's side. Being several years older than her, he was still close enough in size to entwine tails, draping one pale gray-membraned wing over her. It feels like the entire world is falling apart... and there's nothing I can do to hold it together.

Safiri rubbed her head against his, licking a little scar near the corner of his mouth. There's plenty of time to worry over the future, stoic one. Isn't this supposed to a time for celebration? A new clutch of eggs, the largest we've had in years...

Eridor nuzzled each of the three eggs fondly. His own scales were snow-white, but that seemed to have had little effect on the colors of his unborn offspring. Two of the shells were light blue, a perfect combination of his and Safiri's hues. The third was an emerald green, like that of Eridor's own mother. All three were male. The King of the wild dragons opened his mind to his unborn children, sending them thoughts of love and warmth.

The light blue eggs didn't reply, their half-formed minds still unable to comprehend the concept of mental communication. However, the little dragon in the green egg, pushed ever so slightly back against his father's mind.

Eridor rumbled contentedly deep in his throat. Mavalis, he murmured to the green-shelled egg. He then pressed his snout to each of the other two. Trinnean. Caradoc.

Safiri watched the tender exchange quietly, blue eyes brimming with memories and longing. They shouldn't have been alone in welcoming this newest brood to the world. Fully-grown sons and daughters from countless seasons prior should have surrounded them with new eggs of their own, should have filled the too-quiet air with their own roars and rumbles, should have been some of the many other extended relations inhabiting the neighboring mountains.

Instead, Safiri had laid her eggs in a nest she and Eridor had hastily carved from the rock, alone on a desolate peak that rang only with the howling wind.

Eridor glanced anxiously over at his mate. The sapphire she-dragon snorted, her tail tightening reassuringly around his. I know we hide here at the edge of the known world for our own safety, for the safety of our youngest. Our children, your nestmates, would keep our location secret to the bitter end. Vrael can't touch us here.

The snow-white dragon growled. It is not Vrael I worry about. The ancient pact binds him just as much as it does me. Despite the pleas of his council, he recognizes my decisions over all wild dragons as unyielding law, including those who can not yet speak for themselves. He looked softly down at his sons. The same can't be said, however, for those who go against everything the Riders seek to uphold.

Months ago, a new Rider had been found murdered in Ilirea, her young dragon nowhere to be found. Reports had determined the culprit to be Galbatorix, a former Shur'tugal who had gone mad after the death of his own bonded, and obsessed with vengeance after the council had denied him another. After slaughtering another Rider and dragon in cold blood, he had retreated into the wilderness and had been believed dead up until the very night chaos had erupted in Ilirea.

A young Rider by the name of Morzan had gone missing on the very same evening, and it had been determined it was he had allowed Galbatorix into Ilirea in the first place. Over the following months, other respected Shur'tugal, humans and elves alike, had defected to become the Wyrdfell, theForsworn.

Then the string of deaths and disappearances had started. Younger Riders who had left the safety of their cities behind had been found brutally murdered, the Eldunarya of their dragons ripped right out of their chests. Wild dragons were most vulnerable. First it had been solitary bachelors, then mated pairs without the protection of a larger family group, than entire small clans; everyone, from expectant mothers to the youngest hatchling, brutally slaughtered and missing their heart of hearts.

Safiri pressed their eggs closer to her chest. Vrael himself placed the enchantments upon this cave. We cannot be scryed or magically located. She snarled defiantly at an enemy she could see only in her mind's eye. We are King and Queen of the wild dragons, and no one shall touch our eggs!

Surely one of those damned traitors paid attention to their history lessons. If so, then they have everyone reason to tr-

A shadow not from the dusk fell upon the two dragons. Safiri positioned herself protectively over their eggs with a murderous snarl. Eridor's head snapped up, his eyes blazing dangerously... at least until he got a better look at the unexpected visitor.

The dragon standing in the cave entrance greatly resembled Eridor, right down to the unusual number of six horns crowning his head. Only, instead of being the purest white, his scales were stone-gray.

Jarshan? Eridor murmured, his relief quickly giving way to alarm as a chill crept down his spine. Brother, why are you so far from the others? Our nestmates, how are they? My sons, my daughters? So help me, if Galbatorix even dared to...

Jarshan had not budged an inch from the entrance. He watched his King and Queen solemnly, with the grim acceptance of an executioner about to carry out a sentence.

For the love of the First King, Jarshan, what's wrong with you! Safiri cried. She leaped to her paws, rushing over to her mate's younger brother to see what ailed him so. Or she would have, if she and Eridor hadn't suddenly found themselves unable to move.

The King of the wild dragons growled furiously, blue eyes like blazing suns in the twilight. Something unnaturally hot built up inside him, longing to be released, but his maw was sealed. His nostrils flared at the sudden stench of unfamiliar intruder intermingled with civilization. His sharp hearing suddenly detected a tail scraping against the rocks just outside the cave, an anxious growl, the squeaking of a leather saddle. The sound of a shattering heart, however, was only in his head.

Traitor! Eridor shrieked. Oath-breaker! Bond-breaker! Blood-breaker! My own nestmate, a servant of-

Jarshan cut him off with an enraged growl, eyes hard as stone. He opened his mind to both of the other dragons, feeling only stoic resolve for the unforgivable crimes he was about to commit against his own ruler, his own brother. Never a slave to humans, or to elves, Eridor! Never like you; agreeing to those terms of servitude, bowing to Vrael's every whim, handing over our unhatched children to slave-drivers, betraying Aiedail and the true members of our kind so blatantly!

Safiri's mind burned with the inferno she was unable to display. So you stand up for your beliefs by allying with a madman! By killing your own kin in cold-

Jarshan loomed over them both now. Eridor suddenly longed to see insanity in his brother's face, anything but the earnest conviction of a soul entirely convinced he was in the right. Our kind is notorious for our grudges, big brother, and our unceasing desire to see the wronged avenged. Do you honestly think your own life matters above all of the others so forcibly signed away by your orders? That the mothers who have their eggs pried away from them are any less important than your own? He growled, and any lingering bit of doubt in his heart of hearts was consumed by burning determination. I am acting upon our oldest and most sacred laws, those you gave up for your precious Riders.

Even in the midst of such soul-wrenching treachery, Eridor found the strength to mock. Are you expecting me to denounce everything I stand for, little brother? To suddenly see the light and beg you for the sweet release of death? A King dragon grovels to no one.

Indeed not. The stone-scaled dragon tenderly put a paw to Safiri's frozen face. Every fiber of her being fought against her invisible binds to try and tear that offending paw right off. Jarshan's regret suddenly resurfaced. Why did you have to choose him, Safiri? I would have provided for you and our hatchlings, I would have treated you like a queen-

In case you haven't noticed, I already am a Queen, Safiri broke in bluntly. Eridor beat you fairly for my attention, just as he defeated Vanilor for his crown. Her mind engulfed her mate's, drowning him with all of the love that would never see the morning's light. And I will never, ever regret my decision.

Jarshan lowered his head, revealing bone-white fangs as he did so. Fair enough.

Eridor's will broke. He whimpered like a hatchling calling for its mother, hopelessly thrashing against the binding spell as he groped against his brother's mind. Jarshan, brother, please! Not her! Not her! Not my Safiri-

Jarshan's claws raked hard and fast across his face. Paralyzed as the King of the dragons was, his pain receptors hadn't been dulled in the slightest. Selfish dog! As if I would let her suffer your death!

Quick as lightning, the gray dragon struck, his teeth burrowing deep into Safiri's exposed throat. Jarshan withdrew just as swiftly, a stream of scarlet following. The blood-splattered she-dragon was suddenly released from her enchantment, blindly kicking for a moment before finally falling still. Eridor could only watch in horror as his life-mate's luminous blue eyes glazed over with the finality of death. Her wondrous mind was suddenly extinguished like a candle before the winter wind, leaving a gaping void in his heart that brilliant soul had once occupied.

Safiri; his Queen, the mother of his children, the other half of his heart... was dead.

His anguish needed no roar; across Alagaesia, every single dragon clutched at their Eldunari in sudden shared agony.

Manic with grief and hatred, Eridor struggled against his bonds with renewed vigor. Coward! Traitor! MURDERER!

Jarshan said nothing. He tenderly brushed Safiri's face for a final time, a claw lingering over her eyelids before gently guiding them shut.

Blood and bones! Eridor shrieked. You shall rule over naught but blood and bones! With Aiedail as my witness, as a witness to your betrayal, no wild dragon shall follow you! Your only power shall be over their corpses!

Had the King of the dragons not been so lost in his madness, perhaps he would have noticed the twinge of guilty unease from his brother's mind. Jarshan turned pensively to the outside. Hm, it is sunset, I hadn't noticed. Rather symbolic, isn't it? This nightmare is almost over. A new dawn is on the horizon, one where dragons rule over dragons and men over men. Too bad you won't get to see it.

Eridor flicked his own gaze to the entrance of the cave, to a distant dawn he knew he'd never see. The stars were appearing overhead, silent sentinels to the mortal treachery below, the souls of so many fallen ancestors waiting to welcome him into their ranks.

Eridor just glimpsed a star he was certain had not been present the night before. This newcomer shone brighter than the others, and to a dragon's sensitive eyes, seemed haloed in a shade of unmistakable blue. Safiri...

All of his burning rage suddenly seemed to melt away. The King of the wild dragon looked upon his certain doom with something that went far beyond calm acceptance. You're wrong, Jarshan. Dawn shall come, and I shall be the one to bring it. I shall return, and I shall remember my vow. Safiri, our clan, our entire kind shall be avenged with your blood. And... I shall be the one to bring it to them.

Jarshan snapped. He struck with a viper's speed, spilling his own blood upon the ground. Jaws stained red with incriminating betrayal, the gray dragon recoiled from his own masterpiece, limbs trembling with adrenaline and barely-restrained hysteria.

King Eridor Bluefire, son of Vanilor and Ocurni, was dead. Free of his invisible bonds, the white dragon lay lifelessly on the floor. Even in death, his glazed-over eyes stared past his brother to the distant stars. How small he looked, so vulnerable and broken-

Formora calmly stepped in, surveying the carnage thoughtfully. Her angular features contorted into a sneer. "I take it you didn't get their Eldunarya."

Jarshan snarled, the ridge on his neck rising warningly. Safiri is among the stars, where she belongs. And as for my late brother... don't be tempted by the power he once wielded. He would have overrode your defenses in a heartbeat and strangled the sanity out of you.

The elf sniffed, gracefully making her way through the gore and to Safiri's cooling corpse. "You only say that because you're afraid your own royal power would be jeopardized. To the victor belong the spoils, do they not?" Formora knelt down, wrenching the single green-shelled egg she could spot from its mother's last embrace. "Only a single egg? I had only thought the wild dragons were being stringent with the Riders over the past few years."

We suffer from this strange blight just as much as your pets do, elf. Take it or leave it. Jarshan glanced outside, trying to ignore the accusing stars as he scanned the skies. My kin will feel this disturbance soon enough. It will be a long while before they calm down and accept their new King.

"And usurper." Tucking the single egg under her arm, Formora strode back to her dragon without a backwards glance.

The new King of the wild dragons lingered. Unwillingly, his eyes were riveted to two bloodied and battered forms as if he expected them to suddenly start breathing again. But this was no dream, no nightmare; Safiri's eyes would never open again, and Eridor had nowhere else to look but to the stars. After what felt like lifetimes, Jarshan turned away and left their cooling corpses to decay.

Yet, even as the two dragons slipped, one a usurper and another the bonded of a traitor, stealthily into the night, all of Alagaesia became aware of their crimes. Wild dragons everywhere clutched at their heart of hearts and screamed at the loss of something almost as important as their own life-mate. Even those bonded to Riders, who lacked such a primordial connection to their King, trembled fiercely and fought the urge to roar.

King Eridor and his queen had long since gone cold when a dragon finally arrived to personally confirm the inconceivable, and to discover Jarshan's stale scent all over the cave. However, no one else needed to know about what she had discovered beneath Safiri's corpse.

Elsewhere, the eldest of the royal couple's surviving sons and daughters gathered in the Spine with the oldest and wisest members of their kind. United for the last time in their grief and fury, the wild dragons funneled their combined magics into one last potent strike. Killing Galbatorix or any of his Forsworn was beyond their raw power. So was harming Jarshan, a fellow son of the mighty King Vanilor, protected from their wrath by his own royal blood.

But, where the humans and the elves were out of reach, their dragons were not. Let such murderers oath-breakers suffer the loss of a part of their soul, to feel the mind of their bonded partner wither and die as the nameless bastards they were as the inside. Let those treacherous dragons die as mere beasts.

Then, those who shared blood viciously turned against each other. There was a power vacuum to be filled, and any royal dragon worth their crown of horns would dare to fill it. Like wolves, the Forsworn were always there to pounce upon the weak. In their insufferable pride, no one noticed when their kith and kin started vanishing in the middle of the night, their nests found scattered and blood-spattered.

With no one around to make the wild dragons listen, Vrael found himself facing rebellion and outright anarchy in even the remotest parts of the Spine and Beor Mountains. And not a single un-bonded dragon trusted the Riders anymore; not after their enchantments failed to have saved Eridor, not after having granted Galbatorix such devastating power in the first place, and certainly not for ancient mistakes they stubbornly refused to forget.

Tensions erupted between wild and bonded for the last time. Further divided, neither side stood a chance as the scavengers slowly closed in.

Up above, the stars watched the unfurling disaster with their usual apathy.

So engrossed in their woes, no one below noticed the shining blue-haloed newcomer celestial ranks... or the even larger star right beside it that burned the purest white, both patiently waiting out a night both were certain was finite.

Chapter Text

The city of Doru Araeba may have been currently untouched by the chaos breaking out on mainland Alagaesia, but its inhabitants were anything but relaxed. More Riders than usual were patrolling the capital's outskirts, on the watch for anything suspicious as they did their best to keep within sight and mental contact of one another.

It had been several weeks since a distraught daughter of King Eridor and Queen Safiri had confirmed the both of their horrifying murders. Dragon Riders that had investigated the scene had discovered the royal couple had been magically incapacitated at the time of their deaths. Their fatal injuries, while dragon-made, were too clean to have been inflicted in a fair fight. The scent of Jarshan, one of Eridor's nestmates, had been fresh all over the cave. None of his surviving siblings had seen him since.

Wild theories abounded about the unbelievable tragedy. Those too proud to admit a wild dragon had willingly betrayed his own brother suggested that Jarshan had been captured by the Forsworn. With the location of Eridor's hiding place tortured out of him, he had been dragged there to witness the murders and then hauled off again to serve as a valuable hostage. Others were not so oblivious: Jarshan had betrayed his own flesh and blood for a power that would make him rival the Dragon Riders, and they now bellowed for his blood.

Vervada personally bet on the latter. She herself had witnessed the devastating power known as the King's Wrath when Vanilor had ruthlessly slaughtered pack of Lethrblaka that had been preying on younger dragons. Power of such godlike proportions could have driven even the most loyal companion mad with ambition.

The dark violet-scaled dragon shifted uncomfortably in her nest. She had been assigned to the nursery, a dragon-hold exclusively for expectant mothers or for those with un-bonded eggs and hatchlings.

Vervada couldn't say she liked her accommodations. The intricately-carved walls were a far cry from the rough sides of her own cave, marked with the scratch-marks of hatchlings who had first sharpened their claws and horns under her watchful gaze. The straw-filled bowl she rested in couldn't have been more different than the nest she had personally carved out stone with her life-mate. Fleetingly she wished herself back home, to the cave that had been hers since her first ever brood, with Magorian at her side.

But Magorian, her cherished life-mate, was dead and gone. He had been so for months now. And their cave, where Vervada had laid her eggs for years, was no longer safe. Dragons in the area had been disappearing in alarming numbers, their rotting corpses left behind broken and battered.

Magorian himself had been one of the first casualties of the Forsworn attacks. They had chosen to live outside of the stifling company of a clan. When Vervada had woken up in the dead of night, clutching at her heart of hearts and screaming her grief to the heavens, she realized the price they had paid for such freedom from clan obligations.

From what she could piece together from the memories of the animals that had witnessed Magorian's death, her mate had been ambushed by a red-scaled dragon no more than several years old. Despite Magorian's superior size and strength, the red dragon's Rider had sealed his fate. When his wings had been magically broken, he had purposefully crashed head-first rather than try to land and fight. Better that he ascend to the stars as a free spirit than be bound to his Eldunari like so many others.

Sometimes Vervada wished her will had been weaker, that her mate's death could have resulted in her own, or that she had willingly flung herself into the abyss like he had so defiantly done. Yet Vervada was the Storm-Cleaver, a she-dragon who had thrown herself into the fiercest gales and thunderclouds in her rebellious youth. Her life, even without her cherished Magorian, would be hers to fight for until the bitter end.

When a Rider's dragon had dared to come amongst his wild fellows at the beginning of the mating season, single females had greeted his courtship attempts with bared fangs and blazing plumes of fire. But the male had been tenacious, continuing to present gifts of prey that would be flung to the scavengers, meeting older and more experienced challengers that chased him off with news scars, and all without bringing his Rider with him for protection.

Vervada had admired Iormungr's recklessness. Such daring could almost make her believe he was as wild as herself. When he had held her own against her in a fair fight, she had accepted his advances. Why not? Her children by Magorian were all grown and gone, dead or with families and troubles of their own. She had no siblings, no clan, to draw upon for company and comfort.

Iormungr could never hope to fill the hole Magorian had left behind, but his presence meant Vervada no longer woke up crying the name of her first precious mate, or found herself hovering over the dark seas and wondering what was keeping her from slipped into the dark depths and joining him. Iomungr was gentle and caring, and loved her as much as he ever could. With a Rider first and foremost in his mind, and a dead dragon in Vervada's, they had fulfilled the other's desires to a point that worked for them.

Vervada glanced down at the single egg in her tender embrace. Its shell was a beautiful shade of sapphire blue, close to the same shade of its father's, and contained a lively little female.

That egg also happened to be her first live one in seasons.

The violet she-dragon craned her head to glance at her other eggs. These reeked of decay, the offspring inside dead before they were even laid. Vervada wished she could blame her lingering grief over Magorian on this horrible tragedy, the sudden and agonizing loss of her King while her eggs had been developing.

But no, she mused to herself, pushing the lifeless shells of failed life away, I am only one of many in this position.

Each nesting season had seemed to bring fewer live eggs into the world, fewer hatchlings that would survive to adulthood to start families of their own. Despite her and Magorian's valiant efforts, their couplings had not yielded a single live egg in years. Many she-dragons had not even conceived at all. Despite Doru Araeba's size, Vervada had the nursery entirely to herself.

Pushing the lifeless eggs away with her tail, Vervada halfheartedly glanced out toward the heavens. As if any stars will fall to-

Her sharp eyes just managed to glimpse the blue-ringed that fell from its heavenly perch with impossible speed, falling right towards Vroengard as it disintegrated against the blackness of the night sky.

The unborn female shifted violently in her egg, her crude mind strongly pushing up against Vervada's. Just as quickly, she stilled.

Her mother gaped down, searching her daughter's mind long and hard for a trace of the familiar soul she was certain had just fell to earth. My Queen, is that you?

Only the familiar silence of an unborn dragon's consciousness answered her. Despite that, there was a strong undercurrent of familiarity to her mind, something Vervada detected only because the King and Queen of the wild dragons were tied so strongly to their subjects.

Queen Safiri Freyjasdaughter had been reborn.

Vervada raised her head up at the sudden scraping of scales on stone. Hello, Iormungr.

Even by fickle wild dragon standards, Iormungr was a fine male. He was broad and powerful, with scales a shade of blue just lighter than his new daughter's. But there was a very un-dragonlike aura about him, from the way he held his head to the gentleness and naive outlook on life that could be found only in the mind of one bonded to a human being. A leather saddle still clung to his back, evidence he had only quickly stopped to let Katalya off before arriving.

A messenger reported you had started to lay. I came as quick as I-

Iormungr got one good look at the misborn eggs just as he inhaled the stench of decay. He keened sorrowfully, taking a few indecisive steps forward, torn between touching them and recoiling in horror. Our... eggs. Are all of them like...

Vervada silently nosed the single surviving egg forward. Her mate immediately rushed forward, cradling the egg in one paw as he gazed upon it lovingly.

A daughter, he whispered in awe. I have a daughter.

The tenderness of the moment soon faded for Vervada. Sooner or later Iormungr would ask what fate should befall their egg. Should their daughter hatch on her time and live however she chose, or be giving up to the Order to one day choose a Rider of her own?

It was very obvious what her mate's opinion on the matter would be. Iormungr had been fretting over things for months. Galbatorix's Forsworn were steadily cutting down the Riders themselves, and there was just not enough eggs to replenish their shrinking ranks. How many other she-dragons had Vervada shared this nursery with before they had steadily moved out, having either laid their eggs prematurely or having only dead ones? Iormungr himself had admitted to her that only one egg was left in all of Doru Araeba: many courtiers had been discovered murdered and their precious cargo shattered by magic, and even more wild dragon mothers had demanded the bonding spells be lifted and their eggs returned.

Once, Vervada would have bared her fangs at the thought of forsaking any of her eggs. Any decision she made about it would be final, for she was their actual mother. Her and Magorian had one simple philosophy: Riders' dragons eggs became Riders' dragons and wild dragon eggs stayed wild.

But Magorian was dead now, one of many victims of an enemy that preyed viciously upon their kind. Vervada had abandoned her territory for fear of her own life. The Riders sorely needed new recruits to refresh their ranks. So long as her daughter remained in the safety of a group, who was to say she wouldn't be safer amongst powerful magicians and far larger dragons?

My Queen, Vervada murmured privately to the spirit she was so certain slumbered inside her daughter's egg. Out of all possible clutches, you chose to be reborn as the only viable egg on all of Vroengard. I think you have made your intentions quite clear, and I shall follow orders.

She had no true idea why Safiri had chosen to be reborn in such chaotic times, or why she had abandoned her mate to fall from the stars and return as a Rider's dragon, but Vervada did not question this unspoken command. Eridor had chosen his Queen for a reason, and Vervada was not one to doubt both of their judgments.

Take her, Vervada muttered to her mate.

Iormungr blinked in disbelief. Undoubtedly he was wondering why such a proud she-dragon would give up her only daughter of the brood without a fight. But-

She cut him off with a growl that brooked no argument. You and I both know the wild dragons are being slaughtered out there. I will not subject our daughter to Magorian's fate.

The Rider's dragon looked bewilderingly down at the sapphire egg. Should we name her?

No. In time, she shall choose her own name. I very much doubt our daughter would allow her Rider to call her something demeaning. Vervada couldn't help her hoarse, rumbling chuckle. She has inherited my good taste, after all.

Finally, Iormungr bowed his head, tenderly picking the egg up in his jaws. The Dragon Riders and I thank you for your contribution.

As her second mate flew away into the silent night, Vervada knew in her heart of hearts that egg would be the last she would ever bear. But, even though her daughter's loyalties would first and foremost belong to a Rider, she would be safe.

The violet she-dragon climbed to her paws, hurling herself from the nursery and her dead eggs and into the cool night air. Vervada snapped her wings open at the last possible second, heaving herself against gravity's fatal embrace to go soaring into the stars. Under her deafening roar came the frightened yelps of several Riders as they tumbled out of bed.

What else was left now that her daughter's future was secured? There would be no hatchlings to raise come springtime. Iormungr's devotion for Katalya was above all else. His time would be spent protecting his comrades from the Forsworn and finding their daughter a worthy Rider of her own. Vervada would return then, to make sure her child grew up with a proper dragon's dignity.

For the near future, there was nothing but the rugged mountains of the Spine. Places where not even the Forsworn would dare to tread, sons and daughters to check up on, countless other distant kith and kin that may already be among-

The stars above were suddenly blotted out in a lethal shadow of ragged wings and ivory claws that gleamed in the moonlight. Not even the Storm-Cleaver stood a fighting chance when Shruikan's fangs dug in.

The black sky was just beginning to lighten, the very first hint of the approaching dawn. The remaining stars (oh, how few there were left now) were fading before the light of the rising sun. However, one star, far brighter and radiant than its fellows, continued to sparkle. At the first rays of daylight it only began to shine ever brighter.

Far below the lightening sky, in a small cottage bordering the wild mountains of the Spine, came agonized screams and shouted curses. The shrieks continued to grow in strength as the stars retreated for the day.

Finally, just as the sun itself cleared the horizon, a final scream pierced the air. At this concluding cry, the brilliantly white star fell from its place in the heavens just as the last of its comrades vanished. Even as it dissipated, its radiant essence aimed right for the cottage. Had any wild dragons been left to witness the event, they would silently welcomed an ancestor back to earth as all trace of the star vanished from view.

The first wailing of a baby followed immediately.

With her light brown hair a tangled mess and her sweat-soaked skin unnaturally pale, Selena looked like a nightmare. However, nothing could dampen her radiant beam. Brown eyes watering, she gazed tenderly down at the newborn that slumbered peacefully in her arms.

Oh, how precious her child looked, how much he reminded her of an infant Murtagh. So what if he was red and wrinkled, strained just as much from that difficult birth as she was? He already had a tiny tuft of light brown hair that would no doubt thicken and darken with age. Regardless of his dubious paternity, he was her child, one she would bite off Galbatorix's head for to protect.

Despite the joy of welcoming new life into the world, the birth was bittersweet. As much as she wanted to, Selena could not stay. She had been missing from Morzan's estate for five months, and undoubtedly he was still hunting her. With he and his dragon away, Selena would quickly return to grab Murtagh and finally bring him to the safety of Garrow and Marian's small cottage. She would leave tomorrow, to reunite with both of her precious sons as soon as possible.

"Oh, what a handsome little lad he is!" Marian cooed even as she clutched her son tighter. Roran, only two and a half years old, gurgled happily and reached a pudgy out to his new cousin. "I have no doubt he'll become quite the lady killer."

Selena smiled knowingly. "Perhaps," she allowed. And I have no doubt of it. Morzan had his own brutally handsome looks, the commanding presence that made a ruthless killer to please him. And, even grayed and bearded, Brom had a certain appeal to him.

To this day, Selena had no idea about why she had fallen so hard for the rebel agent that had been posing as a gardener. She had simply clicked with Brom on a primal level that beyond anything she had felt for Morzan. No blackmail, torture, or murder had been necessary to please Brom. When they could both let their masks off, they needed only to be themselves to feel content. Brom had valued her opinion and input on his plans, had taken the time to listen to her own never-ending list of troubles, had been tender in ways Morzan could never express.

Well, up until I showed him my preferences.

When her sons were safe and secure, she vowed to find out what had happened to Brom, and rekindle that impossibly-fulfilling relationship.

Her newborn stirred fitfully. Selena opened her mind to him, sending him soothing visions of the calm seas and sky, her own happy memories of Murtagh laughing gleefully as she made funny faces toward him. Working better than rocking or a lullaby ever could, the memories soothed the newborn back to peaceful stillness.

You need a name, and a special one at that. Your father, whomever he is, was once one of Vrael's Dragon Riders. Surely one of their sons needs to be called by something he can be proud of!

As a response, the infant yawned and blearily blinked open his eyes. They were startlingly blue, and seemed to glow with a radiant light all their own. Selena couldn't help the shiver that traveled down her spine. Set into her son's newborn face was the gaze of a weary and wise old man.

Those eyes were not the ice-blue of Morzan's, nor were they just as cold. But neither were those eyes Brom's warm sky-blue. Selena could only describe the impossible shade as the flame of magical blue fire Brom had once summoned for her. No newborn should have eyes like that.

Marian also noticed the oddness, but she was far from concerned. "All babies have blue eyes, Selena. Not to worry; he'll likely wind up with brown eyes just like yours."

"Aye," Selena whispered distantly, unable to wrench her gaze away from her child's. "Brown eyes. Just like mine."

Murtagh had also changed to brown eyes, and true to Marian's claims, they had eventually turned to a shade of brown. But even then his eyes had been dark blue, nowhere close to his little brother's inhuman shade.

The newborn stared unblinkingly up at her, head cocked quizzically to the side as he studied her each and every move. Selena stared just as intensely back, mesmerized by his timeless eyes. His vaguely familiar, awe-inspiring, timeless eyes...

Oh, she was almost positive she had seen these eyes before. Back before (before what?), when she had been younger, far younger than she was now. She had been hiding with someone infitely precious to her, straining just to catch a glimpse of him before-

Selena swayed alarmingly to the left, and it was only by an inhuman force of will that she kept upright, her arms never once loosening from around her son.

"You should lie down, dear." Marian set Roran down, anxiously coming toward the bed. "The birth was difficult. You lost quite a bit of blood and you really shouldn't be pushing-"

"I'm fine," Selena said in a curt tone far too close to her own terrifying tone as Morzan's lapdog, the irritability only further surfacing when Marian had tried to take her son away. "Just let me think of a name. A worthy name..."

Before all else, her thoughts turned to the names of those who had been ancient legend long before her grandparents had been born. Such an old soul deserves an old, noble name. You're lucky Brom taught me so much of the days before the King. Hm... Roslarb is far too humiliating, Roran would beat you up right now if I called you Galzra, and Vrael just sounds stuffy.

Thoughtfully, Selena glanced out the window. Dawn was breaking, setting the sky alight in brilliant hues of flame. Inspiration suddenly struck.

What was that first Rider's name? Erik? No, it was longer. Errikin, Erikor? Erid- Ah, Eragon ! It was he who ended the ancient war with the dragons, my son, and helped to create the pact responsible for your existence. I trust you will do your namesake justice.

Her newborn blinked, almost as if considering the name's worthiness. She almost expected him to comment on it, but he only yawned and closed his eyes. Sleeping, he looked just like any other baby.

Selena smiled tenderly, stroking his cheek with a finger. "Eragon. His name is Eragon."

"Hm," Marian mused, picking a wriggling Roran back up as she mouthed the word to herself. "A strange name, but an oddly fitting one."

The two women conversed for a while about their children, at least until Selena paled alarmingly and was finally talked into handing her baby to her sister-in-law.

Unbeknownst to either of them, the fire in Eragon's eyes spluttered out as the force Selena had mistaken for an epiphany willingly slipped into oblivion.

Mere days later, the servants of Morzan's estate would discover their mistress on the doorsteps delirious with fever. By her soaked clothes, it was painfully apparent that Lady Selena had refused to seek shelter from the torrential rainstorms.

Exhaustion and sickness would soon take their toll. In the end, the healers would be forced to drug Selena to prevent her from harming herself and others from accidentally lashing out with her magic. Let it be said that she struggled against the inevitable to the bitter end, screaming for her children and Brom even as her lucidity faded in and out.

With her last breath, the servants had witnessed her trying to plead for something. Her relief, her revenge? Galbatorix couldn't have cared less; for Murtagh, the only son of two such brutally effective individuals, soon came into his unchallenged custody.

Elsewhere, as Selena exhaled for the last time, a newborn wailed his grief for the stormy skies. Marian did her best to comfort little Eragon, for most infants hated the roar of thunder, and again wondered where his absent mother had run off to.

Chapter Text

Enveloped in the comforting darkness of her egg, the dormant she-dragon one day to be known as Saphira Bjartskular felt something vaguely resembling contentment. She had no concept of time, for she existed outside of it, unchanging and eternal for so long as she remained unhatched. Safe from the ravages of time and the strange infinity that engulfed her own little world, she slumbered on through the ages.

The only sign of an outside, proof that her reality was only a miniscule fragment of truth, were the minds that came and went. And she remembered each and every single one of them. Why would she not? The constrictive confines of her universe didn't even allow her to move. Those brief contacts from an outside she was too fearful to enter were all the stimulation her mind had.

First and foremost had been the consciousness she instinctively knew as Mother. Mother had cherished her as all mothers did their broods, willing to throw her own life away for the well-being of one egg. The little she-dragon sensed her dam was stranger than most.

Words could not resonate with a mind that had no understanding of language. She who was one day to be called Saphira had far preferred the wonderfully complex emotions sent across their link. Only 'Safiri' had held her attention for the briefest of moments before she too had dismissed it. What use was the past to a creature untouched by time? What use was a mother who had not visited her egg in the longest time?

Then there had been Father. He had shared Mother's love for her, and loved Mother in a completely different way, but even they paled in comparison to the loyalty and affections he felt for his Rider.

Something had been done to her egg. Ancient magic once used to bind two warring races together thrummed through every fiber of being. What had once been a question of having nourishment and security was now simply waiting for a destined Rider of her own.

Hundreds of minds had been presented to her, their intentions and most secret desires hers to bring forth. She had rejected countless candidates for their greed in craving godlike power, their arrogance in thinking her a mindless beast to be controlled, their tendency to deceive their own loved ones for their own personal gain, a thousand other innate flaws of mankind she could not tolerate tied to her heart and soul.

Even with her meticulous standards, potential Riders had been left. Their dedication, valiance, humility; a thousand virtues she would not mind influencing her decisions. Each and every single one of those precious few could have gone down as noble legends.

Each and every single one, she had still rejected.

The little she-dragon found all hopefuls lacked something she craved for in return. Only the slightest bit of impossible memory remained imprinted on her newborn soul, a warmth not even the most articulate could define. Whatever had been forgotten, she wanted it back, and would wait out the centuries for that completeness to return. Her resolve remained unwavering even as the wave of potentials came in ever greater numbers, their fear and mounting desperation tainting all other admirable qualities.

Oh, even then, she knew a dark storm had been looming just on the horizon. Unlike the others, however, she had the blissful oblivion inside her own private haven to retreat to.

Deaf to the pleas and pressures of the outside world, the little she-dragon slumbered on.

She did not awaken until Father's brilliant presence was smothered, his last conscious seconds spent screaming for his Rider. Others; dragon, elf, and human alike, all cried out in the same fear, agony, defiance. Eventually, all were silenced.

Her attempts to return to slumber were always rudely interrupted by harsh minds that sharply prodded her back into semi-awareness. She did her best to throw them off, instinctively knowing a blood-traitor's Rider when she felt one. For the first time, that vague yearning for something more became outright defiance in hatching for those that had slaughtered her kith and kin. Something unique to her un-hatched soul had truly emerged.

Excepting the stream of unacceptable potentials, she had little constant companionship. Mad Shruikan ranted and raved to himself, a prisoner to a master who wanted only to see her mother monsters just like him. His Forsworn and their beasts had gradually diminished over the decades, but the she-dragon had felt something vaguely like satisfaction when Formora had stopped appearing.

The two other eggs in her presence slumbered whenever she was awake. The older of the two males had always been extraordinarily picky, and had refused hatching for fickle reasons entirely unknown to her. Something was simply different about the younger. Unbeknown to their captors, Mavalis had been long-since dormant, never once stirring for a single possible Rider. For him, it was not a question who, but when...

When her surroundings yet again shifted, and with even more strangers to passively observe, the not-yet-Saphira had found herself apathetic toward another new generation of aspiring Riders. Her vague memory of something had vanished entirely as of late, and like Mother and Father and countless others, seemed highly unlikely to ever return. Falling back into dormancy, she awakened only very rarely at the insistence of a pushy candidate, and just as harshly rejected them.

Until the she-dragon was once more roused by an explosion and a collision that rammed her head into the shell of her egg.

Time suddenly became real, a hazy past and a distant future that veered off on crossroads she could no longer see. Yet the present was everywhere and everything; the overwhelming darkness, the cramped limbs, the hammering of a heart eager to embrace the wild unknown.

Mere moments later, young hands pressed against the confines of her now-prison, and the she-dragon stirred in familiarity. He was softer now, without his regal majesty, but his heart of hearts was undeniable.

At long last, she had found her something, her Eridor, and nothing could ever part them again.

Like a rat, Eragon was trapped in a narrow alley, with certain death advancing upon him. The two Urgals, weapons raised, had eyes that glittered with a predator's ruthless anticipation for the end of an easy hunt. Against such killers his bow and arrows were laughable toys.

On the outside, his brown eyes desperately searched for an escape. Could he dodge between the Urgals and make it back to Brom? Not without being skewered. Were the walls climbable? For something with claws or wings.

On the inside, a deep and secret part of Eragon's mind remained un-possessed by panic. He did not have the cowardice to flee, nor the common sense to even consider it a choice.

He had been younger back then, itching for independence and inflated with an adolescent's reckless cockiness. How could Father dare keep him contained within family territory like an overgrown hatchling? How could Mother continue to baby him?

The borders had called to him with false promises of freedom and adventure, and away he had flown for it, like an idiot. The low-lying clouds had refused to dissipate, and like a blind idiot, away he had shattered his leg and tore his wing.

The painful collision with solid rock had been anything but freedom. Crippled and far beyond familiar landmarks, he hadn't been proud enough to avoid crying for his parents like a lost hatchling. His plaintive calls and the scent of fresh blood had been the siren song for a pack of horse-sized Shrrg. Such monstrous wolves had found a delicacy in young dragons, and one completely unable to fight back or flee must have been a buffet.

Like any good child of King Vanilor, he had snarled in the face of certain death, and hoped his clan would discover some mutilated mongrels alongside his half-eaten corpse.

With this thought, something hot and heavy had begun to build up inside him. It had consumed his fear and hopelessness, leaving only new-found strength to surge into his weary limbs. Instinctively opening his jaws, he had unleashed his first ever breath of fire upon his enemies. He had reeled back in shock at the burst of the distinctive blazing blue distinctive of his line, but had kept it up even as the air filled with yelps and whimpers.

Father had discovered him injured and aching, but alive, gnawing on one of the charred corpses of his kills to try and make a meal out of it.

Eragon inhaled and exhaled slowly, half-expecting to see flames on his breath. An incredible inferno was building up inside, one he was certain would consume him if he contained it for too long.

The Urgals faltered, suddenly sensing a sharp change in the air, like mounting energy for a lightning bolt. They suspiciously eyed their prey, realizing how his brown eyes had so strikingly changed colors. Two orbs of blazing blue glared straight back at them, alight with hatred and... triumph?

No. More. Death.

Eragon raised his bow, a word jumping unbidden to his lips.

"Brisingr!"

Crackling with azure light, the arrow flew toward his targets. With razor-sharp precision, it collided with an Urgal's forehead, radiant energy exploding out on impact. The wreath of fire eagerly devoured the other threat as it spread outward, passing harmlessly over its winded summoner before dissipating against the walls of the alley.

Eragon groaned, suddenly swooning as his feet as the fiery power evaporated, leaving him feeling as if he had run for an entire day without rest. Unbeknown to him, the brilliant blue of his eyes dimmed back to a dull and watery brown. Knees buckling, the young man still little more than a child laid back against the alley-walls, and prostrated himself before fate's nonsensical twists and turns.

Within, the exhausted part of the soul that still belonged to Eridor Vanilorsson retreated deep into a dormant state, determined to not stir again for a very long time.

Brushing brown wisps of her curly mane away from her ageless face, Angela smirked knowingly at the fortunes of fickle fate spread out before her. She lightly touched the ancient bones with delicate fingers topped with criminally-sharp nails painted a venomous shade of green. Perhaps it was just a trick of the hazy firelight (perfect for creating an air of mystique and disarming skeptical customers), but the herbalist's hazel eyes flashed inhuman green for the briefest of moments.

"Well, well, well," she murmured. "Turns out you weren't a complete waste of my time, little Eragon."

Solembum nimbly leaped up onto the table, glancing casually down at what had once been the knuckle bones of an ancient she-dragon. Of course not, he purred smugly. Werecats don't show themselves to just anyone, you know. Had our little guest been only a mere Dragon Rider, I wouldn't have wasted my time.

Angela rolled her eyes, flicking one of the werecat's ears. "Oh, don't be so persnickety, Solembum. How often do you see Riders around anymore?"

I was kitted during the Order's prime, Angela. I could go the rest of my very long life without seeing another Rider and die happy. They all got to be so boring after the first few centuries.

"Even Alagaesia's last hope of deliverance?"

Other eggs that could be freed, better Riders that could be chosen. Honestly, why did the she-dragon have to go with the thickest farm-boy this side of the Spine?

"Bone calls to bone, solemn-one, and a soul can recognize a kindred spirit across the vast echoes of space and time. These old bones o' mine haven't failed me yet." Angela's impish grin widened at her companion's flat stare. "Don't tell me your eyesight is going in your old age."

Who helped you set up shop here in the first place, pointed out Teirm was your best chance of finding others? Solembum demanded testily. You wanted to plop down right in Urubaen, and get yourself beheaded in front of the entire damned city for witchcraft. Don't tell me you could have ever found that old man if I hadn't pointed him out for you, or that woman without my agreement! The witch hid her cackle as a cough when the werecat's fur started bristling. That brat was probably only a hatchling that got himself swooped up by a hawk minutes out of the egg, or a cocky yearling who accidentally killed himself for trying to impress a pretty female-

With hands deft from countless years of swindling, Angela drew several more knuckle bones from her sleeve, tossing them with the others. "Honestly, Solembum, of course I never intended to show Eragon his entire future. That would just be cheating."

Solembum's crimson eyes narrowed as he crouched down to study the entire reading closer. Impossible.

"Knowing wild dragons, just highly improbable. If any creature could so blatantly defy nature, I'd bet all my money on them." A pause. "And at least we know his future's far more interesting than dying valiantly in battle or slaying the tyrant king and living happily ever after with that royal little crush he's bound to meet."

Had Eragon not been so gullible, perhaps he would have seen more of the puzzle than what she had handed to him.

The oak, the potential to live forever, or at least live a long and fulfilled life. The lightning bolt, the death of a loved one, more than one of them. The blossom, the love of a woman of noble birth, be it reciprocated or not. The tree and hawthorn root, betrayal from a family member, specifically by one considered a brother. The freedom to choose one's own destiny, a liberating and enslaving hand. Solembum sniffed. Nothing unexpected for an immortal Dragon Rider rubbing shoulders with powerful people and who will one day decide the fate of Alagaesia.

Vibrant-green nails gently tapped the truths Angela had chosen to keep secret. "A mirror," she mused. "Eragon's life shall strongly echo that of his past. Whether or not they'll suffer the same demise, though, I cannot say." Thoughtfully, she picked up the final piece of the puzzle. "What do you make of this?"

A white orb in black? Bah, that's just the sign of a rebirth... only the bone doesn't say that.

"Black and white, coming together to create gray. Past and present colliding at unnatural levels. Will their strengths benefit the other, is one side doomed to fade away, or shall they remain in such a state forever?" Angela smirked, flipping the knuckle bone in her hand. "Knowing Eridor's stubbornness, I can't say for sure."

The boy was a King? The final King of the wild dragons!

"The once and future." Angela threw her revelations down to the table, suddenly looking down at a worthless pile of blank and yellowed bones.

The werecat sniffed. And what do you mean by that?

"I'm not exactly sure," the witch chirped brightly. "Can't have the whole story spoiled now. My life is boring enough as it is." She paused, the cheerfulness falling from her face. "But I know that clueless little boy was once King Eridor, and that his story will not merely end in triumph or tragedy over the Mad King."

White and black...

"Indeed," Angela muttered darkly. "Legend says Eridor vowed vengeance upon his murderer. We have our hero, but where's the villain?"

Chapter Text

Soaring through low-lying clouds, Saphira remained unspotted by anyone in Dras-Leona. Not that this helped her two passengers. Despite their thick tunics and the heat she emanated, the freezing water droplets stuck to their skin and sapped them of warmth. When Roran had complained about conditions, Saphira had silenced all protests by calmly asking on whether he preferred joining Katrina in a cell to rescuing her.

Clutching the neck spike before him even tighter in anticipation, Eragon scanned the ground. Through the clouds, his hawk-like gaze detected the sprawling city below, and the even more distant swath of silvery-blue that was Leona Lake. Ahead loomed the black mountain of Helgrind, steadily growing larger and ever more imposing with each wing-beat.

Somewhere in that forsaken fortress was Katrina, the beloved Roran had not seen since her capture in Carvahall. In there with her were the Ra'zac, those who had robbed Eragon of his uncle and fatherly mentor, along with their demonic parents.

Long ago, Eragon had sworn vengeance on them for Uncle Garrow. It had been the catalyst toward truly beginning his destiny as a Dragon Rider. It had been the reason Brom had taken a dagger intended for him.

Sensing his anxiety, Saphira craned her head around, fixing one giant blue eye on her Rider. Her warm concern soothed the butterflies in his stomach. Are you all right, little one?

Eragon leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her powerful neck as best he could, keeping his words private so Roran wouldn't doubt his readiness. I will be.

The Ra'zac have robbed you of the two people you loved most in the world, Eragon. Your last encounter did not end well. She paused at painful memories. Are you worried?

Eragon shook his head defiantly. Back then I was weak. Too weak to save Garrow, too weak to save Brom. But I'm strong now, strong enough to kill their murders and the monsters that spawned them. I have magic that could do the job without me having to lay a finger on them, strong enough to heal all those in Helgrind the Ra'zac harmed. I have you, Saphira. This time I can win, and without the expense of someone else's life.

Beneath him Saphira hummed, the sound resonating deep into his heart and soul. I am with you, little one, as always.

Eragon smiled at her before turning back to check at his cousin.

Roran was still clinging to him like a drowning man would a life-line, but he no longer stared down at the ground or muttered about the cold. His determined gaze never left Helgrind and one hand had subconsciously crept to his hammer. Eragon didn't need to read his mind to know his thoughts and fears.

"She's alive," he murmured softly. "Katrina is a valuable prisoner. Galbatorix would never allow her to die, not if it meant losing a hostage he could hold over me and Saphira. You'll see her again, Roran, very soon."

"Aye," Roran agreed, voice cracking with emotion. "Very soon. Still..." His brown eyes hardened. "You're not the only one with a bone to pick, Eragon. I want to crack the skulls of those bastards wide open."

"That is true," his cousin agreed carefully, "but you must run off and find Katrina the moment we land, before the Ra'zac discover you're here with us. She needs to be found quickly if... something goes wrong."

Spying Roran's mutinous look, Saphira butted in. Peace, Roran. Brave and skilled you may be, but your need for vengeance is blinding your common sense! The Ra'zac have devoured tougher prey than you, and a hammer and all the love in the world can't change the fact they'll make you into dinner. Find and save your mate. She needs you far more than we do.

The young man's shoulders slumped in guilty defeat. "You're both right. Katrina is important now, not what happened in the past..."

Eragon grabbed his adopted brother by the arm, pointedly locking eyes with him. "Garrow was my father too, Roran, in all the ways that matter. I swear to you his death will not be in vain."

Saphira dove out the clouds, and for the first time Helgrind became clearly visible. Upon closer examination, Eragon realized the rock was entirely barren and devoid of caves or any other entrances. Saphira circled numerous times but even with three pairs of eyes scanning every inch of the black mountain, they were no closer to their rescue.

Frustration mounting, Eragon was just about to suggest smashing into the mountain and hoping for the best when something small caught his eye.

Concealed in the shadows was a little flower that bloomed precariously on a narrow crag. By all rights it should have never taken root there, defying the laws of nature by flourishing where no sunlight would ever reach it, yet there it stood.

"There!" Eragon pointed. "Unless flowers just like growing on evil mountains."

Saphira stopped circling, cupping her wings as she shifted into a hover. She and Roran followed his finger, gaping in disbelief at the unnatural flower.

"Impossible," Roran muttered. "How could a plant ever grow up here without soil and sunlight?"

It has to be magic, Saphira decided. Perhaps a sign to a secret entrance?

Eragon gripped his hawthorn staff tightly. It was no Zar'roc, but no other blade in the Varden's armory had felt quite right, and he had strengthened the wood with enchantments. Good enough for bashing a creature's head in.

Saphira landed on the narrow ledge that logically should have never fit her, but her head went right through what looked like solid rock. She gave a growl of surprise and trepidation, but padded onward as her passengers readied themselves for combat.

Inside the mountain now, Eragon looked around the cavern. Razor-sharp stalactites dangled dangerously from the ceiling that looked ready to impale an unsuspecting victim. Stalagmites rose up to join them, forming the jagged fangs of a monstrous maw ready to close down on all three of them. The only lightning came from the sunlight that streamed through magical illusion. Five small passageways stretched on into the darkness, along with the only big enough to fit Saphira's size.

Roran had jumped from the saddle the moment Saphira had entered Helgrind. Hammer in hand, he was racing down the nearest passage before Eragon could respond.

Every hair on the back of his neck prickling in unease, Eragon dismounted, keeping an eye out for anything prowling the shadows.

However, he spotted no dark shapes creeping in the corners. It was eerily silent, the only sounds being his she-dragon's heavy breathing and the far-off drip-drop of water.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon glimpsed something erupting from a pitch-black tunnel just before he landed on his back. Saphira's roar of surprise was joined in by a Lethrblaka's piercing shriek.

The Dragon Rider blinked dazedly, snapping out of it as the weak sunlight glinted off metal. He raised his staff just in time to block the sword that came whizzing by him. Glancing up into the hideous face of the taller Ra'zac, he snarled, kicking the creature off him with all the strength he could muster.

Eragon jumped to his feet, looking wildly about. The shorter Ra'zac and the Lethrblaka had surrounded Saphira. She lashed out with claws and jaws, not having the room to swing her tail in such an enclosed space. Instead of resorting to a costly fight, Saphira directed a torrent of flame at the Lethrblaka farthest from her Rider. The devastating fire that would have incinerated most any living creature merely bounced right off, leaving the Lethrblaka virtually unharmed.

Just as the Lethrblaka lunged forward again, Eragon raised his staff to parry another blow from the tall Ra'zac. He held out his hand, reflexively shouting his signature spell as his ruthless opponent surged forward.

"Brisingr!"

No blue flames came blazing to his aid. Eragon glanced down at his palm in confusion. The Ra'zac laughed hoarsely at his helplessness, black eyes glittering.

"Fool!" it rasped. "Did you honessstly think your ssspellsss would work here?"

Eragon and the tall Ra'zac remain locked in a struggle that neither seemed able to end. Without his magic, the Dragon Rider could rely only on his superhuman agility and strength. Against a Ra'zac, his enhanced abilities only made it an equal match. Parrying and delivering blows, it merely seemed a question of who could last the longest.

Saphira faced far tougher odds. Her flames useless, the narrow space gave her no room for defense. The agile Lethrblaka tauntingly remained just out of reach of her lashing paws and leaped out of the way just as her fangs came snapping down on the thin air they had just occupied. Her scales absorbed most of the damage, but their sharp beaks still managed to leave her bleeding from their mocking bites.

Inevitably, Eragon started to feel his own strength beginning to wane, and he cursed himself for leaving the belt of Beloth the Wise utterly depleted. The Ra'zac continued on just as ruthlessly, even speeding up with renewed vigor as he left more dents in his prey's armor and cuts on his exposed skin.

Saphira panted heavily, her movements slow and sluggish. Blood gushed from numerous wounds, spilling to the floor or dying sapphire scales scarlet.

At long last, a Lethrblaka slipped past her defenses. It evaded her snapping jaws, lunging to bury its cruel beak into her exposed neck. There was a moment of stillness as the Lethrblaka struggled on her scales, and then a triumphant shriek as it sprang away in a new burst of blood.

Saphira screamed, a terrible sound Eragon did not think dragons capable of producing. Through their connection, he felt her unbearable agony and screamed with her. Pouncing, the taller Ra'zac shattered his staff, sending him flying across the cavern.

Paralyzed with pain, Eragon could only watch as Saphira teetered, straining to stay conscious. Eyes rolling back into her head, the she-dragon went limp. The ground beneath him shuddered as she thumped to the ground, shuddered, and fell still.

His cries were drowned out by the victorious calls of the entire foul family.

"At lassst!" the shorter Ra'zac hissed. "Galbatorix ssshall have his ssshe-dragon back, with her Rider asss a bonusss!"

Eragon lay still, unable to wrench is eyes from Saphira's limp form. He scarcely heard the Ra'zac's declaration. He was only dimly aware of his own pain or the fact that Roran was next. Unseeingly, he gazed past his beloved she-dragon, and to phantom visions that had haunted his nightmares until he had stopped sleeping normally.

He was back in Horst's home, gazing upon Garrow. His uncle was peaceful for the first time since the fire, as if he were merely asleep. Only, his chest wasn't rising and falling...

There was Brom, pale and weak in the face of death, having just revealed that, once upon a time, he had been a Rider too. "Guard Saphira with your life," he had rasped with some of his final breaths, "for without her it is hardly worth living." Shortly after, he too succumbed, yet another victim of the Ra'zac...

A sapphire she-dragon lay before him, her once-shining eyes holding only death. Even with her murderer standing right above him, he was powerless to reach up and take his vengeance, only to have the one thing he cherished above all else ripped away...

Garrow. Brom. He had lost two true fathers to the monsters celebrating before him. Both times they had suffered for him, both times he had been too weak to prevent their deaths.

Now Saphira lay before him, vulnerable in a way she had never been before, for at least hatchlings could flee and the eggs had their shells. She was to suffer a fate worse than death if she were to ever be brought to Galbatorix. Her body would live on to mother monsters, aye, but her essence, her soul, the very inner fire that made her his Saphira, would be broken beyond repair by Shruikan's ravaging claws.

And, whether bound by oath or drugged in a cell, he would hear his Saphira scream.

Slowly but surely, that horror was burned away by righteous anger. Righteous anger, anger toward those who had harmed his loved ones, and anger for himself at failing to protect them, rose up hot and heavy. The same fire that had unlocked his magic that fateful day in Yazuac rekindled, rejuvenating his weary limbs and washing away the self-pity.

With iron resolve, Eragon rose to a kneeling position, and relinquished control to the voice telling him to burn...

The taller of the two Ra'zac found its celebration cut short by a small scuffling sound. Reluctantly, it turned away from the glorious sight of a downed she-dragon to investigate.

The she-dragon's Rider was stubbornly attempting to rise to his feet. Why were humans so obsessed with their petty ideas of vengeance?

The Ra'zac had admittedly forgotten about the bothersome human. It had assumed sending something that small and feeble flying across the cavern had been enough to knock him out. But no, because humans were just one of those infuriatingly defiant pests that refused to accept defeat.

The Ra'zac hissed in exasperation. Could this one see that his stupidity would get him nowhere?

King Galbatorix had given the family strict orders that both the she-dragon and her Rider were to be brought to him alive. Supposedly one would die without the other, or at least lose their mind. But this one was so annoying. Perhaps the Ra'zac could snap his neck right now, and pretend it an accident done in the heat of battle? Galbatorix only truly desired the she-dragon, and only for her body so he could make yet more wretched dragons. So what if the Ra'zac broke her will a little earlier than planned?

The faltered, sensing a foreboding change in the air.

The Dragon Rider had not risen to his feet, but remained crouched like a predator braced for the kill. His flat teeth were bared much like the she-dragon had snarled. His eyes were brilliant blue, a burning blue, and locked hatefully on the Ra'zac.

The family all hesitated uneasily before him. Their contradictory instincts both urged them in for the kill and to flee. And not many creatures preyed on their kind, not since-

"Imposssible!" the taller Ra'zac hissed. He raised his sword, preparing to get rid of the nuisance once and for all.

The human pest growled.

"No. More. DEATH!"

The Rider's last words were lost in a deafening bellow that sent stalactites raining to the floor.

The taller of the two Ra'zac caught a glimpse of white, before feeling an extreme heat his master's wards should have protected against.

It was engulfed by fiery blue, and then by empty darkness.

Chapter Text

Coming out of blissful oblivion, the first thing Saphira did was growl at the throbbing pain in the back of her head. Squeezing her eyes shut, she did her best to keep still to try and not disturb the scab on her neck

So the Lethrblaka had bested her, leaving her just injured enough to pass out from the blood loss. Was she in Urubaen now? Were Thorn and Shruikan standing over her, ready to fight to see who forcefully fathered her first clutch of eggs?

As the pain subsided, Saphira shifted her limbs, finding them unshackled and the rocky ground beneath them familiar. Good, still free and in Helgrind (not so good). Someone must have overpowered her tormentors when she had been unconscious. Roran, perhaps? Not unless he had slaughtered both Ra'zac and their parents with a hammer. Had Eragon found a way to break the wards, leaving him free to execute their captors with a single one of the twelve words of death? If so, Saphira was determined to eat her Rider after ensuring he was alright.

Little one, she growled reproachfully, you forgot to heal my-

Wrenching her eyes open, Saphira was welcomed back to consciousness by the burnt carcass of a Lethrblaka.

Recoiling in surprise, the she-dragon lurched defensively to her paws, a warning rumbling instinctively from the back of her throat. Eyes wide, she gaped down at the bodies strewn about the cavern. The two Lethrblaka resembled charred sticks more so than bats. One Ra'zac reeked like the meat Eragon had once overcooked on his fire. Its sibling had been burnt beyond recognition, having obviously caught the brunt of the blast, its exoskeleton shattered by heat and its insides little more than melted goop.

Saphira knew her own flames had not done this, not while she had been down for the count. And even if Eragon had somehow broken the wards and had again used Brisingr on his enemies, it was very unlike him to so ruthlessly obliterate them. Unless he had been that affected by her capture, she morbidly wondered.

That is, until she had caught sight of the fifth figure on the ground, lying some distance from the others.

Completing the bewildering mystery before her was a dragon, an actual dragon, silvery-white in its scale color and pale silver in its wing membranes. By scent, he was male. By size, Saphira roughly estimated him to be slightly larger than her, a few years or so older. Eyes closed, the white dragon was disturbingly limp, just as the charred bodies around him. However, unlike those lifeless corpses, his chest still rose and fell with every inhale and exhale of breath.

Caution outweighing curiosity and concern, Saphira warily kept her distance and her mind tightly sealed.

He has to be an illusion, she thought frantically to herself. How can he be anything but a creation of magic, the hallucination of an insane mind? There are only three other dragons in the whole of Alagaesia, and none of them are white! Nor could he be from that final egg Murtagh mentioned, it's far too soon for the hatchling to be this big!

Keeping one eye on the stranger, Saphira desperately looked about for Eragon. She saw no trace of him amongst the bodies, nor any sign he had left the area.

The sapphire she-dragon inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. Beneath the foul stench of charred meat, she detected a scent as familiar as her own. Only, it seemed to be coming from...

The dragon?

Tentatively lowering her mental defenses, Saphira reached out to the mysterious male's unconscious mind, quickly drawing back at its warm familiarity.

Eragon? he called out warily.

She received no response but a weak rumble from the other dragon. Her hackles rose at the very recognizable undertone to the guttural sound.

Cautiously, Saphira crept forward. She never lowered her guard, still almost desperately hoping the male's unconscious state was a ploy, a trick to lure her closer for an attack. Another battle seemed almost preferable to impossible reality. However, the white dragon never stirred, even when prodded with a claw.

Hesitating only momentarily, Saphira shook her head and growled at her own shameful cowardice. The stranger's right front fore-paw had clenched instinctively shut. Carefully, she pried the protesting talons open, wanting to see exactly what they were hiding.

The male's paw as as silvery-white as the rest of him. However, in the center of what would have been a human's palm was a cluster of scales far darker than the others. Saphira's claw traced the mark, remembering the identical one she had given Eragon all those very long months ago. Unmistakably, the dragon possessed a gedwey ignasia, a sign that ironically marked him as a Rider of his own kind.

And, impossible as it seemed, he was her Rider, her Eragon.

Reaching out, tenderly this time, Saphira called the name she now knew to be truly his.

Receiving only silence in reply, the she-dragon curiously surveyed his transformed state. Aside from Glaedr and Thorn, he was the only other dragon she had ever personally laid eyes on. A creature of flesh and bone, a far cry from the insubstantial ghosts of ancestral memories and the distant recollections of others, a haunting reminder of a proud and mighty race almost entirely lost during the Fall.

Six cheek spikes, three on each side, framed Eragon's new face. Bone-white spikes ran down his back, except for the traditional gap, to the tip of his tail, where several larger spikes formed a nasty-looking club. His chest and head were broader than her own, his snout longer. He seemed to be more heavily-built, but still nowhere near as stocky as Thorn. If Saphira had been born a flier and Thorn a fighter, Eragon seemed somewhere between the two, capable of dealing devastating blows while still looking remotely graceful in the air.

The only thing strange about Eragon's new appearance were the six horns adorning his head. One pair behind the other, with the two in front being the largest, they seemed to form a rudimentary crown. Neither Thorn nor Glaedr had so many horns and the only six-horned dragons in her memory were what she innately identified as royal.

Saphira gazed wonderingly down at his closed eyelids. Did her Rider still gaze from underneath them, brown irises and all? Were they the same silver of his wings? Or were his irises so pale he looked blind?

Cursing her curiosity, Saphira delicately lifted an eyelid with a claw, taking great care not to puncture something on its sharp tip.

Exposed to such dim lighting, the semi-round pupil dilated. The iris surrounding it was still a dark, human brown- at least those parts not seared through by a brilliant blue.

Growling, Saphira reflexively retreated back several steps. That had been unexpected.

Oh, if this is another so-called gift from those elves... As if Eragon making himself an idiot in front of Arya wasn't enough!

Elsewhere in Helgrind came an echoing clatter as Roran presumably hammered down the door imprisoning Katrina. Saphira rumbled anxiously. She had forgotten about them. How long would it take Roran to notice his cousin's absence? To come looking for him? His fiance had already endured hell; the last thing she needed was to be there when her future in-law woke up to a rather unexpected surprise.

The she-dragon glanced at her (former?) Rider. What if he awoke while she was away? Their luck was infamous for not holding. Obviously Eragon would lose it when waking up alone in a transformed body and perhaps even accidentally harm himself in his panic. Not to mention he would be defenseless in this strange form. What would happen if Murtagh, or gods forbid, Galbatorix, came to investigate? They would find an unconscious dragon all ready to be carted back to Urubaen!

Saphira snorted, wishing she could slap herself. Don't be ridiculous, Saphira! No one has any idea we're in the Empire. So long as I hurry Roran and Katrina back to the Burning Plains then I should be here before he even wakes up!

The she-dragon connected minds with Eragon a final time, sending calming waves across that would hopefully keep him blissfully unaware until she could return to him.

Behave while I'm gone, Eragon. I'll be back as soon as I can. Just please keep the rash and impulsive decisions to a minimum. It gets rather tedious having to constantly rescue you from the Empire, and I won't be able to carry you off quite so easily this time!

Saphira discovered Roran helping a young woman who was presumably Katrina out of her cell. She was dangerously emaciated, her ribs visible beneath her torn and threadbare dress, shivering from the passage's cold. She also looked ready keel over from heart attack at her first mild surprise. Meeting a giant she-dragon for the first time definitely counted as a surprise, but Saphira couldn't afford to take things gradually; not when Eragon desperately needed her.

Once free of the cell, Katrina and Roran enveloped each other, tears streaming down of their faces. Two lovers, united at long last after such trial and tribulation.

Saphira's heart ached yearningly at the tender reunion. While her heart went out to the couple, such a devoted mate would never be hers, not while Galbatorix kept her only three potential mates as his slaves.

I see you've found your mate-to-be, she said wryly, opening her mind to both of them.

Katrina stiffened, craning her head around. She quizzically peered up at Saphira for a full minute before reality struck. Shrieking, she clung desperately to Roran. Her fiance stroked her copper hair soothingly, sending the she-dragon a silent promise he would make her into one damn fine pair of blue boots if she even thought about purposefully upsetting the poor woman.

"Remember what I told you, Katrina?" Roran reassuringly whispered into her ear. "About Eragon being a Dragon Rider?"

I'm Saphira, the dragon, Saphira interjected smoothly, lowering her head so she looked the human woman straight in the eye. Eragon may be the Rider, but I'm the one who can choose to leave him on a desolate mountaintop if he ticks me off.

Katrina giggled, her posture relaxing. "Right. Sorry about... that."

Don't worry, that's the typical response to meeting a creature as overwhelmingly majestic as myself. The she-dragon hummed. It is in honor to finally meet you in the flesh, Katrina. Roran told me of you every single night and has scoured Alagaesia for you long before meeting me. You are lucky to have such a dedicated mate.

The two lovers locked eyes, entwining their hands. "I really am, aren't I?" Her gray eyes flickered back to Saphira. "But I never thought I'd have someone so famous as an in-law, and never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine speaking to a dragon!"

Roran frowned. "Speaking of dragons, where's my cousin?" His gaze sharpened. "You didn't leave him fighting those demons alone, did you?"

Would you leave a lamb with wolves? Saphira growled. No, the Ra'zac and their parents are all finally dead. Eragon saw to that. He now just wants to remain behind to explore Helgrind's depths to see what the King may have stashed here. Apprehension growing, she glanced down the long row of cells. Some had obviously been broken into already, but a good portion remained sealed. Are there any other survivors?

"Nothing but bones," Roran choked. Katrina clenched his hand tighter as fresh tears spilled from her eyes. "Except for Sloan... those bastards left just enough for us to identify him."

Saphira knew the Ra'zac preferred humans and favored their meals fresh. Her arrival in Helgrind must have disturbed their feeding... minutes after it had been too late to save the man who had sold Eragon out to them in the first place. Tentatively reaching out with her mind, she encountered the three sentient presences she already knew about. No one else, out of so many other cells, was left.

Saphira leaned down. Come. Katrina, you need medical treatment Eragon isn't capable of providing you, and it's best that your fiance not linger here long.

Roran helped his lover into the saddle, but stood his ground with stubbornness that seemed to run in the family. "What about Eragon?" he prompted impatiently. "Certainly you're not leaving my cousin, and your Rider, alone in this hell!"

The sooner you two are safe and sound back at camp, the sooner I can come back here and make sure Eragon is the same way, Saphira replied smoothly. My Rider will be fine on his own for a few days, but that doesn't mean I like leaving him anymore than you do.

Reluctantly, Roran climbed up after Katrina, taking the time to wrap her in a blanket from the saddle-bags to help shield her from the cold. Saphira padded back towards the entrance, sneaking furtive glances down the tunnel where an unconscious Eragon lay.

Be safe, little one.

Even as she flapped down to the Burning Plains as fast as her wings could carry her, Saphira's thoughts and worries remained in Helgrind, all for the vulnerable white dragon her Rider had become.

Angela was no fool. If she believed a chipped old teapot to be a disguised magical artifact, then it was, and she certainly didn't appreciate being cheated out of anything. She had argued long and hard with the dishonest man... until stopping dead in her tracks when that feeling sent pleasant shivers down her spine.

"Fine," the witch huffed. "You keep it!"

Shoving the teapot into its owner's arms, Angela hurried back to the privacy of her tent. Rummaging frantically through her pockets, she fished out her knuckle bones, casting them onto the wooden table she had filched from King Orrin's quarters.

Solembum had been napping peacefully on her cot, taking great care to leave clumps of fur behind. Blinking his crimson eyes open blearily, he yawned, revealing needle-sheep teeth. Noticing what Angela was doing, the werecat's jaws snapped shut as he nimbly leaped from the cot to to the table.

I see you had the urge to consult the bones again, he drawled.

Angela glared at Solembum, her face alarmingly serious. The werecat wisely backed up to the table's edge as he planned an emergency escape route. "You, of all beings, should know not to mock me when I have my game-face on. When Anea speaks, she speaks, and neither of us like to be interrupted."

Solembum sniffed. That look would be much more intimidating if you really could devour me with one bite.

The herbalist scoffed. "Trust me, there's a spell for that somewhere." She peered intensely down at the bones, hazel eyes flashing inhuman green as her fingers traced over the designs that had appeared on their surfaces.

Again, the white orb in black. Past and present, old and new, colliding at unnatural levels. A bone of both sunset and sunrise, intricately bound so that neither could happen without the other. Finally, a phoenix rising from the ashes of the old, haloed in blue fire.

"The King returns," she murmured. "The King ascends. Old or new, I cannot say. A miracle overshadowed by a grave warning. Oh, a new era shall dawn, but at what cost? What must set in order for its successor to rise?"

Solembum ran his paw over the bones, taking great care to actually not touch them. He too saw Angela's signs, but stopped cold at the two blank bones caught in the middle. His dark fur bristled. Two. Two souls, be they two reborn dragons or first life and incarnation, are bound to this prophecy. Both the cause and the solution.

Slowly, a humorless smile spread across Angela's face, one that would have looked far better with a pair of fangs.

"Why, what a peculiarly interesting time to be reborn into."

Chapter Text

By the time Saphira managed to make it back to Helgrind, the setting sun dipped halfway beneath the horizon. With a speed she had once thought impossible, she had flapped back to the Varden's camp like a dragon possessed, her fatigue drowned out by the overpowering desire of returning to Eragon's vulnerable side.

Despite Katrina turning chalk-white and Roran all but begging she slow down, Saphira had never lessened her breakneck pace. All true cares and concerns were reserved solely for her Rider. So what if the wind was a little nippy, their stomachs a little queasy? The couple would soon have the luxury of complaining from the safety of camp. Eragon was alone and unconscious deep in hostile territory.

Saphira had finally arrived in the Burning Plains agonizing hours after departing, landing in the midst of the dazed camp in the dead of night. Even as bewildered people, Arya and Nasuada amongst them, spilled forth from their tents, she only ushered her two passengers down. Her mind remained stubbornly closed to conversation as her claws then groped for the straps cinching the saddle to her back. Tearing the leather carelessly, Saphira shook herself free of the cumbersome weight.

"Saphira!" Nasuada cried frantically as she fought her way through the swelling crowds. "What in the seven hells is going-"

Saphira rocketed into the air with one mighty thrust of her wings, her lady's shouts cut off by the shrieking wind.

Would she be questioned upon returning? Certainly. Scolded? Aye. Punished? Possibly. Did she care at the moment?

...No. Driven by the overwhelming urge to protect her Eragon, all other worries, including her own personal safety, paled in comparison.

Without the heavy saddle pressing into her back, the return flight was faster than Saphira had anticipated. Yet, though she flew with the speed of the wind, her progress was painfully slow. Every moment, one when Eragon could wake up alone in a dragon's body, crawled agonizingly by.

Saphira never stopped for prey, relying on what food remained in her belly and energy reserves to keep her going. Only when her throat burned did she pause to quench her momentous thirst. Several massive gulps later, she was back in the air before exhaustion could catch up. Wings partially numb from fatigue, she pressed resolutely on, even as the sun rose to its zenith and started sliding back down.

Finally, Saphira reached her destination, hauling herself inside as the sun also retired for the day. Approximately one full day had passed since she had first discovered the transformed Eragon. She could only hope he had not awoken prematurely, pray that the white dragon had not injured himself in his panic.

Saphira's keen vision remained clear even in the growing gloom. Finding the way back through the maze-like passages was simple; she just followed the stench of rotting meat back to where five bodies still hopefully rested.

To her great relief, Eragon was still out cold, his white scales in stark contrast against the black stone walls. He had drifted out of true unconsciousness and into a shallower slumber, the proof his rumbling snores. Saphira rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. Apparently the trance-like state of waking dreams that had replaced true sleep for Eragon after the Blood-Oath Ceremony had vanished with this latest metamorphosis.

Saphira hung uncertainly back. Surely it was unwise for Eragon to remain asleep for so long, but a part of her didn't want to wake him just yet. The sadness and anxiety that haunted his features during the waking hours was now wonderfully absent. Here he looked so peaceful and innocent. Seeing her Rider like this reminded Saphira of the blissfully ignorant boy she had grown to love in her hatchling days, before misfortune had befallen him.

Sighing, the she-dragon quietly padded closer. Would it be so wrong to spare such an alarming revelation for another few hours? If Saphira awoke one day to discover herself a human woman, she would first panic and then go off to strangle whoever responsible with her brand new hands.

But you will get over it, little one. Saphira snorted laughingly at the very inappropriate nickname. Knowing how magic worked, it would become accurate again mere minutes after returning to the Varden. With everything you've been through, from Shades to grouchy former Dragon Riders, being a dragon for a few hours should be nothing to you.

Mind made up, she gently eased herself in next to the white dragon.

Saphira had been able to look Eragon in the eye for a very short time before yet another growth spurt had sent her shooting up past him. Since her youth she hadn't any other companions close to her size; she dwarfed all humanoids and was in turn dwarfed by the titanic Glaedr.

Saphira could press the old Eragon straight into her, draping a wing over him as if to shield him from the evils of the world. And, although she still foolishly feared squishing her Rider by accidentally rolling on top of him, she knew he still slept best when curled up to the heat her body always radiated.

This Eragon was nearly her equal in size and strength, an Eragon who could hold his own if she ever tried to roll into him. For the first time since she had been able to curl up onto her human's chest, Saphira was now soothed by the warmth he now emanated.

She draped a wing over his slumbering form. So what if Eragon was now too massive for her to completely shelter? This new (temporary) body was far less fragile and its warmth soothed the soreness in her wing.

Drained from her strenuous journey, Saphira yawned, instinctively strengthening their connection as she placed her head close to his. The blissful tranquility that freely flowed from his mind was a lullaby of its own. Safe and secure in their bond, the sapphire she-dragon drifted off into a dreamless slumber, feeling so right while next to him.

Reluctantly coming out of unconsciousness, Eragon groaned. His stomach ached as if he had been lying down on it for hours. Come to think of it, his entire body felt oddly heavy, like his limbs were tied down with weights. Giving yet another unintelligible groan, he attempted to role over onto his side, only to find himself hindered by a scaly barrier.

Good morning, Eragon, came an innately familiar voice.

S-S-Saphira? he managed. An exhausted haze had settled over his mind, and it took every ounce of his willpower to collect and send his thoughts as coherent words. Gradually, he became aware of the warm presence he leaned against, and wrinkled his nose at the stench of charred meat.

Attempting to rise, Eragon gave up when his alarmingly heavy limbs refused to obey. He settled for cracking his eyes open. In the darkness for so long, even the dim light proved too intense for his hypersensitive eyes. Snapping them shut with a pained hiss, he desperately turned his mind back to Saphira's.

Where... am I? What... happened? With a new surge of strength, Eragon again fought his disobedient limbs, frowning slightly when Saphira gently stopped him. His heartbeat quickened as he fully returned to awareness. Saphira, what happened? What's wrong?

The scaly warmth beside him heaved with a heavy sigh. She concealed her hesitation and fear behind a barrier even he strained to look past. Pretending he hadn't noticed, Eragon latched on intently to every word. Eragon, she began after a lifetime of silence, what do you remember?

Barely containing his exasperation, Eragon went to answer... until realizing he could recall nothing of those last few moments. His pulse increased even further, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. How long had he been out? It was morning now, but what time of day had it been last? Determined to piece the puzzle together for himself, Eragon wrestled with his bleary mind.

We reached Helgrind. That impossible flower... marked the secret entrance. Roran, he was with us... went to search for his... Katrina. You and I faced the Ra'zac and.. those creatures. Something went wrong. I had no magic and you no fire. That Ra'zac trapped me and you were cornered. One got you by the throat, cut off the circulation. Blood, so much blood...

The pieces clicked together just as his heart stopped for one horrible second. SAPHIRA! Eragon struggled to rise, writhing in vain beneath his she-dragon's iron grip. What the hell happened? The blood- let me heal you, Saphira! Gods, you must be bleeding out-

Her mind firmly clenched down on his, silencing the stream of blind panic. Calm down, little one. She spoke slowly, coaxingly, as if he were an injured beast too foolish to understand. I'm here. I'm fine. Both of us are fine... relatively, and free as birds. The Lethrblaka and their foul spawn will never harm us. Never again. Saphira's tone sharpened slightly. Now stop struggling. You'll only injure yourself.

Scowling stubbornly, Eragon shook off the pleasant images of calm skies and clear lakes Saphira had sent across their link. What. Happened?

Why must you ask so many questions? Saphira retorted teasingly. However, she quickly abandoned her lighthearted joke, sighing in defeat. Open your eyes, Eragon. Your questions will be answered soon enough.

Reluctantly, Eragon blinked open his eyes and narrowed them in confusion. His vision was tinged blue as if he looked through a filter, the other colors dulled in comparison. Not that any of it stopped him from seeing the charred hunks of flesh and ash, all that remained of the Ra'zac and their parents, clouds of flies swarming over their remains. His longtime foes, the seemingly invincible monsters that had both been the catalyst for the start of his adventures and the incentive to finish them, reduced to nothing but food for the scavengers.

Suddenly feeling as if he were about to wretch in disgust and horror, Eragon wrenched his gaze away from the gruesome sight. Burrowing his head in Saphira's shoulder, he inhaled her familiar scent, grateful to have it caught in his nostrils over the stench of death and decay.

Who did this? he whispered. Even the memory of their corpses, burnt almost beyond recognition, caused him to shudder. Eragon was both horrified the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka had suffered a fate he had never wished upon them before and grimly satisfied that his sworn enemies had perished in a manner that so poetically resembling Garrow's. It was cruelty and vengeance in their strongest power. Was it you, Saphira?

Not I, Eragon, Saphira answered gently. Have you already forgotten I was just as helpless as you? That my flames had no effect? Galbatorix's spells prevented even dragon-fire from harming his precious servants.

Then who rescued us? And where are they and Ro- Gods, Katrina, is she-

Saphira put a proverbial finger to his mental lips. Peace, little one. Both your nestmate and his bride-to-be are safe and sound back in the Varden. By the time I woke up, Roran had already gotten Katrina out of her cell. She was emaciated and in dire need of medical attention. You were unconscious, but secure enough, and it was the sort of thing you'd do in my position.

Eragon's stomach clenched violently. The Varden's camp? In the Burning Plains? Even if you flew top speed and without a single rest, that's still more than a day's journey from... He broke off, disturbed. Saphira... exactly how long have I been unconscious?

For well over a day, she admitted softly. It was sunset when I awoke. By the time I carried Roran and Katrina to the Varden and flew all the way back, it was sunset yet again. The she-dragon heaved a guilty sigh. You were sleeping normally by then. Perhaps I was wrong to leave you like that, but you looked so peaceful and I was exhausted. How could I face this without a clear head?

Face what?

Saphira paused, doing her damned best to hide her alarm. I just looked through a passing owl's memories. It's just past dawn and she's flying back to her-

Frowning, Eragon glanced about in confusion. How could that be possible? He could see everything, from the charred corpses of his fallen foes to the minute pebbles strewn about the ground, in perfect clarity. Even after the Blood-Oath Ceremony, his night vision wasn't that good. Compared to the dark and dreary cavern he had entered just more than a day ago, this place was as illuminated as Oromis's hut on a sunny afternoon.

Eragon suddenly felt like laughing hysterically at the completely unfunny joke. Part of him simply wanted to call Saphira a liar.

Only, he had felt her grim honesty.

Told you so, stone-head. Quick as it surfaced, Saphira's usual dry humor flitted away. Your vision has improved during your time unconscious. Drastically improved.

Eragon fought to breathe evenly, struggling against the mind-numbing panic he longed to succumb to. How had his eyesight improved? He faced a similar change during the Agaeti Blodhren, but such alterations were natural, the final transition from ordinary human into powerful Dragon Rider. Besides, even with the improvements bestowed upon him, his night vision was nothing compared to Saphira's!

The last time Eragon had seen with sight so sharp and blue-biased had been with eyes not his own. For a brief moment, Saphira had strengthened their bond so intensely she had pulled his mind into her body, allowing him to see through her eyes. A dragon's eyes. Why, then, did he have them now?

Like a knife, Saphira's knife cut through his panic. Look at yourself, Eragon.

Mutely complying, Eragon heaved himself onto his stomach, gazing down at his two hands. He expected, hoped, to see the tanned, five-fingered hands he had been born with.

His hopes shattered with a single glance downward. His human hands had vanished. In their place were paws, two very large paws. Four "fingers," each tipped with a long and cruel claw, adorned each. His thumbs had shifted to the back, now resembling the talons a hawk used to perch on trees.

"What are these?" Eragon screamed. Or, at least, tried to scream. The words tumbled out of his mouth as a series of unintelligible and frightening growls that belonged more to a beast than a man.

Saphira leaped away when Eragon lurched up, attempting to stagger to his own two feet to fully inspect the damage. He succeeded only in sprawling onto his side, exposing a nightmare made real.

White scales covered his entire body, natural armor for his vulnerable flesh. The power-looking tail behind him twitched weakly when he flexed previously nonexistent muscles. Two silver-membraned wings adorned his shoulders, tangled among his alien limbs.

Eragon screamed... and screamed again when only an inhuman roar escaped him. Roaring louder than ever, he writhed frantically, trying to get onto his own two feet and OUT OF THIS NIGHT-

Saphira's claws pinned him firmly to the ground. Though Eragon now nearly had the strength to throw her off, the she-dragon still held down his flailing limbs without trouble. She clamped a paw over his jaws, silencing him with a look that could have frozen fire.

Hush! she hissed. Being a dragon will be the least of your problems if Dras-Leona hears you!Eragon glared up at her, but fell obediently limp. Easy for you to say! You're not the one waking up in a stranger's body!

Saphira's hard gaze softened, a small sigh escaping her. She released him, giving him his room. I'm sorry, little one. The white dragon grunted, again trying to stagger to his f-... paws. Saphira made no effort to help him up, simply advising, Don't keep moving like you can walk on two legs. Dragons can only hold themselves up on their hind-legs for a brief period of time. Think about... crawling instead, like a baby.

I don't think you can compare those, Saphira.

In his true body, he had very rarely shuffled around on his hands and knees while searching for dropped objects. The shape and length of his legs wouldn't have allowed him to move any easier. His new, temporary body made such movement impossible. Getting up onto all four paws, Eragon worked on moving each forelimb in tandem with its diagonal hind-limb. Mimicking the way Saphira walked, Eragon tentatively circled around the cavern several times to become accustomed to the jarring sensation.

Saphira nodded in proud approval. You're a real natural, little one. Now get your tail over here and help me keep this chamber from getting any more nauseating. I'd rather not share the only damned place we'd both fit comfortably with such unpleasant company.

Eragon eagerly agreed. Saphira seized a Lethrblaka by the wing and dragged it to an adjacent chamber. His stomach churned at ever allowing his mouth anywhere near his enemy's rotting corpse. Instead he pushed a charred carcass awkwardly along with his front paws, receiving an eye-roll from Saphira but no scolding.

Saphira, not that I'm not grateful, but shouldn't we be leaving this hellhole soon? We've been gone for so long and Roran is probably worried sick about me. Not to mention what Nasuada will do to us...

The sapphire she-dragon snorted, stubbornly lying back down. I'm in no hurry. I flew across much of the known world and back in under two days, and I'll need more than a small nap to make that journey again. Besides, everyone else believes you're scouring Helgrind for some secret Galbatorix stashed. You can spend another day with scales and nobody will ever find out.

And, Eragon, you're as hungry and thirsty as I am. She bared her fangs playfully. Surely you want to be completely rested before we begin your flying lessons?

FLYING lessons?

Oh, aye. Saphira sniffed disdainfully. You've more than tripled in size and weight since your transformation, "little one." Certainly you don't expect me to break my back carrying you back! Besides, my saddle is back at camp, and we've both been degraded and humiliated enough for our lifetimes.

Eragon gave a choked growl of horrified shock. Had it been possible, he would have been flushed crimson. He hadn't considered the sudden... possibilities of his temporary body. S-Saphira! How could you even think of... that!

Something darkened in the she-dragon's eyes that made her Rider wonder just how much she had been teasing. I am the last known surviving female of my kind, Eragon. There are only four others left. One has clearly rejected my advances. Two are servants of my sworn enemy. The last is still in his egg and unlikely to hatch any time soon. Aye, my mind and heart know you as my human Rider, but my body only recognizes the current reality, a reality I may never have again.

Eragon's anger deflated. He remembered Saphira's hopeless infatuation with Glaedr all too well, her desperation in trying to woo the only other dragon on their side, and her crushing rejection when her affections had been so curtly denied. Even with Arya's disinterest in a romantic relationship, there were still many human and elf women for him to choose from. Eragon had unwittingly become Saphira's own Arya, a love interest who could simply not reciprocate, and she had no other to fall back on.

Shaking herself from her misery, Saphira shifted her head, reaching over to clean the dried gore from her scales. Eragon's guilt only intensified. The she-dragon's hide was riddled with deep scratches and dents. Dried blood from more serious her wounds pooled on her scale, turning their beautiful sapphire color a horrible mix of dull red and blue.

Saphira, he whispered. I'm sorry, so, so sorry. I should have been there to-

What? Saphira countered briskly. Protect me? Without my fire and your magic, we were both helpless against those creatures. You could barely defend yourself against one Ra'zac, let alone defend me from the other and their parents! Eragon flinched. Don't blame yourself, Eragon. What happened with the Ra'zac is finally over and done with, and now we should just let it lie.

The white dragon sighed, reluctantly dropping the matter. He'd only upset Saphira with more apologies. Still, he mused with a shudder, something must have killed them. Maybe it was the same force that transformed me, a defense mechanism or something.

I have a few theories. Humor returning to her eyes, Saphira whirled around. If you'll excuse me, "little one," I'm going hunting. I promise to bring something back for you. There's a stream around here somewhere if you're thirsty.

You're going hunting so close to Dras-Leona! It's one of the cities most loyal to the King!

Please, Saphira huffed. Do you think I cowered away in a cave when you and Brom traipsed through the Empire? I was able to live and hunt in the surrounding countryside without ever being detected. Besides, giant flying animals are a common sight around here, or they used to be. I don't think anyone wants to be noticed by a hunting Lethrblaka.

Or a hungry she-dragon, Eragon muttered.

Saphira laughed, the sound a melody of joy and mischief over their link. And, with a powerful beat of her wings, she was gone, leaving her Rider with only the stones and corpses for company.

Sighing, the white dragon awkwardly laid back down, hoping for a spontaneous transformation back to his human body before Saphira shoved him off a cliff.

Chapter Text

Shockingly, the hunt was much easier than Saphira had expected. Usually when hunting in the Empire's lands she had to fly miles away to find a patch of isolated wilderness where she could hunt without fear of being spotted by human eyes. Even then, the pickings were scant, hunters already having taken the best prey for themselves.

But Dras-Leona was a sprawling city, not a self-dependent town or village. What little meat the average citizen could afford came from farms in the vicinity. The forest had been a buffer zone between them and Helgrind, a hunting ground for the Lethrblaka when they craved something other than human sacrifices. Here the deer were plump and plenty, perfect for feeding two hungry dragons.

It wasn't long before Saphira brought down two large deer for herself. She tore the meat from her prey with the ferocity of an entire pack of starving wolves. Only halfway through her second deer did her hunger subside enough for her to think cohesively again.

Eragon was a dragon now, be it permanently or temporarily. A large, white, male dragon. Though he acted like his usual self, right down to the endless volley of questions, Saphira suspected the change had been more than skin-deep.

The deep bond she and her Rider shared remained as strong and unbroken as ever, but... different. Changed. More like the maternal bond between mother and hatchling. In a way, Saphira was a sort of mother, caring for one defenseless, overgrown hatchling.

No, even a hatchling has instinct and ancestral memory! Eragon is a human... elf-thing trapped in a dragon's body.

But, with the species between them removed for the time being, just how platonic were her current feelings toward him? The part of her mind reserved for intimate relationships was mainly occupied by their bond. Saphira painfully knew from past experience just how much of a slave she could be to her own instincts. She was young, fertile, a member of a dying race that really needed reinforcements-

With their bond changed, did that make Eragon a dragon in essence as well as body? Had the Rider spell been unable to support such a warped connection between those now of the same kind? Did that make his transformation irreversible? If he changed back, would the original parameters of their link be restored? Or be broken forever?

What if not even the strongest magicians could change him back? Galbatorix already had two males to 'rebuild' the dragons. Eragon might be useful to him only as a test subject, to see if females could be transformed as he. If both captured, would they be forced to mate to provide even the tiniest more variety to the gene pool?

Saphira shuddered in revulsion. Even amongst Riders' dragons, mating was not an act to be taken lightly. Especially if their union was not of free will, only by Galbatorix's twisted desires to shape their offspring as he wished!

But the act of mating itself was... not as abhorrent as she had first thought.

Saphira smacked her head against a tree, growling violently. Damn instincts! Damn magic! Damn- No, it's not Eragon's fault, but if I can ever get my fangs into the god that's-

Shoving the remnants of her prey aside, Saphira turned to third buck she had caught, largest of them all. Eragon was probably starving, both from days without eating and from a presumably exhausting transformation. Even one massive buck wouldn't be enough, but Saphira wasn't going to push her luck; forcing any meat down her Rider's throat would be near impossible.

Hopefully he's hungry enough to shove his morals aside.

No dragon should have qualms about eating another living creature, not if it was the only food source that kept them around for those that actually cared about them. But Eragon had suffered enough for one lifetime, and Saphira could spare him this.

Recalling the simpler times before Du Weldenvarden, she held the deer down and reached toward the stomach with an extended claw.

Scouring every inch of Helgrind, Eragon had shoved is horned head into anywhere it would fit. Surely Galbatorix would have stashed something valuable in such a (formerly) isolated and well-guarded fortress! A key to his weakness, the last dragon egg, a magic sock; anything other than the bones and dried blood of past prisoners!

After hours of coming every nook and cranny, Eragon grudgingly admitted defeat. The protective enchantments held in place by the Ra'zac and the Lethrblaka had crumbled with them. Helgrind hid no more secrets.

Heeding Saphira's advice, Eragon followed the sound of gurgling water to a small stream that ran right through Helgrind's very heart. Mimicking the sapphire she-dragon, he lowered his head to the water and gulped it down greedily, soothing the desert his parch throat had become.

Licking the last water droplets from his snout, he curiously raised his head. His sharp eyes traced the stream's origin back to solid rock.

Rather than having his precious servants drink from a normal water source that could be easily poisoned or serve as a spot to be ambushed from, Galbatorix had simply conjured up one no rebel could sabotage. Eragon guessed he had summoned up the water from deep beneath Helgrind, channeling it up to a safer, higher area.

And I have trouble getting a handful of water from an entire desert! Eragon glared hatefully down at his white-scaled chest. As if I can even practice now.

Ordinarily, dragons were the most powerful creatures in Alagaesia. Their wings and fire-breath meant they didn't even have to approach the titanic animals that prowled the Boers. Even the Fanghur, their close cousins, had neither their flames nor their superior size and strength.

However, with a single word, the weakest magician could stop the heart of the mightiest dragon to ever walk the earth. Galbatorix happened to be a magician strong enough to single-handedly corrupt the ancient bond between Rider and dragon.

Despite the incredible strength now surging through surging through his veins, Eragon had never felt weaker. He could no longer tap into the area of his mind that held his dormant magic. True, dragons possessed a unique and ancient magic no other race could wield, but not even they could control when and how it manifested. His human body, while physically fragile in comparison, could cut down legions of unguarded soldiers with a single spell.

Snarling, the white dragon shook his head violently. Normally he'd never be so negative, but with that gods-forsaken stench following him-

The wards are lifted and dragons can breathe fire. I can breathe fire.

Turning away from the enchanted water, Eragon retraced his steps back to the cavern he and Saphira had shared. There the cloud of putrid decay was strongest, the charred corpses of Helgrind's former occupants having been shoved into the adjacent chamber. Even now, with his uncle's murderers damaged beyond recognition, he growled at their infuriating presence.

When he stopped, the growl reverberated within the massive cavern of his chest. Something dormant stirred furiously, a hot and powerful heat bubbling up in the back of his throat, threatening to overwhelm completely. Like the fateful day at Yazuac, where he had first called upon his magic, a force beckoned him to act.

Traditional magic could no longer serve as an outlet for such a primal power. On a whisper of instinct, Eragon parted his jaws and loosed the torrent.

Searing blue light surged forth from his jaws on their own accord, a wild inferno guided only by the reflexive curl of his tongue. Eragon recoiled in shock at the unexpected force, the plume of flame faltering.

Common sense told him his mouth should be burning or blackened beyond recognition from the fire. Yet, despite the intense heat his mind registered, he felt no pain. He could almost call the warmth pleasant, a warm hearth on a cold winter's night.

The ravenous flames engulfed the bodies of the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka in a brilliant blaze. Their charred carcasses were visible for just a moment, illuminated against the blue flame, before they crumbled into nothing.

Eragon swiftly snapped his jaws shut, the torrent spluttering out in a puff of smoke and sparks. He gaped in disbelief as the heat in his throat subsided.

After only a moment's exposure to the flames, even the hard shell had been reduced to ash. He prodded the pile suspiciously, sending fine particles up into the air. Inhaling his former enemies, Eragon sneezed, adding a new scorch-mark to the already blackened ground.

Eragon had witnessed Saphira turn her fire-breath into a deadly art, sculpting rock into masterpieces and cooking soldiers alive in their chain-mail. During nocturnal practice sessions, Glaedr had set the night sky alight with flames that rivaled the sun in their heat and radiance. The eternal fires blazing beneath the Burning Plains had been started during a clash between Riders' dragons and the Forsworn.

But never had he heard of a dragon's flames so powerful, so devastating. Such an intense inferno looked hot to... melt even magic itself.

Snorting, Eragon shook his head. Even he didn't buy such a farfetched theory.

But Saphira and I woke to discover those bastards dead. If the wards protecting them from fire could only be broken with their deaths, then who killed and burnt them?

Gazing at the carnage he had created, Eragon backed away from the scorch-marked earth, shaking the ash from his moon-white scales.

Had he killed these creatures? He last remembering blacking out when the all-consuming rage and desire to kill and protect had overwhelmed his consciousness. A similar incident had happened back in Yazuac to two Urgals. Could that same power have possessed him again, transforming him into a dragon capable of burning magic itself into nothing?

Was this some gift from the Blood-Oath Ceremony? An innate Rider defense mechanism? A chill seeped into his bones that numbed even his new inner fire. Or is this always been there, needing only Saphira to awaken?

Padding away from the unsettling sight, Eragon curled up in the recent chamber, where the stench of decay was already dissipating. He closed his eyes in renewed exhaustion, spiraling down into a thankfully dreamless oblivion.

Weighted down by sin and sorrow, his soul had been too heavy to ascend. Around him the scavengers gathered, ripping into his broken body even as he dangled between two worlds. Every ravenous bite gnawed the tether just a little bit more, lowering him to open jaws that preferred spirit to flesh.

Until the weight upon his soul had fallen away. Unfurling ethereal wings, he had flown for the final time, to heights that would have killed the strongest fliers, up to where death and decay held no dominion.

Dragons were not 'civilized' like the ape-creatures. From generations before the first flickers of ancestral memory they had been guided by heart and bond; the bond of mates, of nestmates, of parent and child, ties that had allowed them to come together and prosper while lesser creatures had faded from even their shared recollection.

Yet, the bonds that strengthened and guided them so had led many souls to their doom. How many previously devoted mothers with new broods had left their hatchlings to starve, forsaking them and life behind to join her fallen mate amongst the stars? How many long-dead ancestors had perished in suicidal battles by their clan-lord's command? How many had been willing to turn against their own kind simply by their Rider's whim?

Even dragons, those who could stubbornly hold grudges centuries after death, knew forgiveness. At the end, even he, who had vowed to do whatever necessary to free his kind from tyranny, had sickened at the unthinkable costs.

Like all souls, he had been granted one merciful reprieve. For just once, murder and treachery had been overlooked.

But forgiven didn't mean forgotten. While his compatriots enthralled the world below even as their true origins faded into memory and myth, he had been barely visible against their radiance, darkened by the past. Where some souls shined for centuries, his warm welcome had cooled in less than one.

Thrown from the heavens like a fledgling from the nest, he had breathed again.

No. Someone that had once been part of him breathed and learned and lived. He had slumbered, dreamless, within, a mere fragment of a fully-developed human soul.

Occasionally, roused by his host's distress, he would stir to a half-wakened state, a 'conscience' in times of need. When the cruel boys bullied his host, he was the brave voice that whispered to stand up against their taunts. When his host's best friend had became the favorite of the girl his host admired from afar, he had urged him to take action, be it confronting his friend or acknowledging his claim upon the girl by abandoning his own feelings. Beyond such extreme anger or envy, he had been virtually helpless, a quiet influence that could be easily brushed aside.

But the tides had changed. A young man had come to the Varden, one who came to be called Shadeslayer. This was Eragon, bonded of Saphira, the last free Dragon Rider in all of Alagaesia. His host idolized Eragon like he (the dragon) had once worshiped his own elder brother. Yet, he stirred fretfully, for something was very, very wrong .

Eragon's she-dragon, Saphira, dredged up half-memories of bloody white and sapphire. His unrest had manifested as nightmares for his host, visions of a life not his own.

Yet, for all of Saphira's awe-inspiring glory, her Rider had been the final catalyst.

His host had always admired his role model from afar, too timid to approach. Only when delivering a message from superiors did his host finally look Eragon Shadeslayer in the eye.

The Rider's brown eyes had been kind, those that could have belonged to a boy one day worthy of legend. He had looked further, beyond the brown, to the spark of brilliant blue that smoldered just underneath. In Jarsha's mind, that spark caught alight.

Jarshan awoke, truly awoke, and Jarshan remembered .

The price he had paid for peace had been impossibly high, and he had settled his debt with his life. Though many had condemned the extreme lengths he had went to achieve justice, they had not rejected his cause, their cause. While Eridor had pandered to the Riders and their facade of equality, Jarshan had undoubtedly stood for them, the dragons who had been willingly sold into slavery by their parents.

And now his sacrifice, their sacrifice, would all be in vain. Eragon Shadeslayer, King Eridor's spiritual extension, would erase their efforts and reestablish the tyranny they had destroyed. And with Saphira the last female of her kind, every youngling hatched into the world would become slaves to another race's interest, be they human or elf.

And, stuffed into a body not his own, with an atrophied part of his own soul for a cellmate and jailer, Jarshan rattled bars of flesh and bone and roared his anguish and fury to his only possible listener-

Screaming, Jarsha thrashed desperately on his sleeping mat, falling still only when his mind caught up. Panting heavily, he groped for his blanket, a solid anchor to reality, as he shakily separated fact from fiction.

No scales, right? He glanced down at his clammy hands. Pale pink, as always, without gray scales and cruel claws. And no wings? He felt his back, sighing in relief at smooth shoulder-blades. Tail? Snout? Horns? Feverishly rubbing his hands over his face, Jarsha finally dropped them. He was just a normal thirteen-year-old boy, different from the beast of his nightmares as he could possibly be.

"Er... are you okay?"

Face flushing, Jarsha glanced over at his newest tent-mate. Nolfavrell had been one of the refugees that had arrived with the Shadeslayer's cousin. While the Council of Elders weren't about to conscript one so young as a soldier, an extra messenger could always be needed, and had shoved him into the same cramped tent with Jarsha and Irvard, the other two young pages.

"I'll be fine," Jarsha muttered testily. "What happened to Irvard?"

"Still on his shift," Nolfavrell replied, "but you'll have to relieve him soon."

Nodding, Jarsha reached for his tunic, scowling when he noticed the other boy's concerned eyes still on him. He wondered what Nolfavrell thought of him; alarmingly pale, slathered in sweat, gasping as if he had just outrun death itself.

Well, maybe I did.

"What?" Jarsha snapped.

"There are healers here, you know," the other boy said neutrally. "With magic. They helped me... get over what was bothering me."

Jarsha knew the gossip. Nolfavrell's father had been killed by Imperial soldiers occupying the village. Then they had taken the body with them, returning it hours later as cracked-open bones once the demonic Ra'zac had eaten their fill. That was enough to scar any child, let alone one barely past childhood!

For a moment, Jarsha faltered, wanting to only finally come clean about the monster that had always been stalking his nightmares.

Always different from the others, always dreaming of blood and dragons, even before the nightmares worsened, and I can't even blame trauma! But they'll fade, they always do.

"I'm gonna grab some breakfast," he ground out, ducking out and emerging into their empty row of tents.

Something thudded heavily against his ribs, a bird frantically beating the bars of its cage, trapped and starving for the light of freedom. Clutching his chest in physical and imagined pain, Jarsha cried tears of desperation not his own.

Come on, little one, you're almost finished!

Eragon couldn't help his irritated growl. He had eaten meat before, had killed for himself and his family when the crops they grew couldn't sustain them, at least until Oromis had made him sensitive to their vibrant (if primitive) thoughts. Too bad dragons didn't digest vegetation well (as Saphira could personally attest to after Du Weldenvarden.)

Saphira had thoughtfully caught his first formerly living meal in months for him, had even roasted and gutted for him to help with the painful and inevitable transition to raw meat. Still, his stomach had quenched uneasily with every bite of an innocent creature.

I am finished, he protested weakly. I'm stuffed!

The she-dragon snorted skeptically, releasing twin puffs of smoke from her nostrils. Eragon, you're bigger than I am now! When I'm famished, I need two large bucks to feel like myself again. You haven't had any food for days and are no doubt drained from your transformation. You. Will. Finish. One.

But I-

You missed the head, Saphira answered sternly. They're of the most nutritious parts of the body. Just be glad I didn't make you crack open the bigger bones for their marrow.

No, Saphira had done that for him, unable to waste something she saw as invaluable. Eragon had watched her guiltily, feeling like a spoiled child who had turned his nose up at the food his parents had struggled to put upon his plate.

His blue-brown eyes flickered down to meet the deer's vacant gaze. Snapping up the remnants of his meal, he quickly swallowed before his mind had a chance to resist.

There. Saphira pressed her snout encouragingly against his cheek. Was it really that bad?

Eragon refused to reply. His new body hadn't minded in the slightest. Unsatisfied, his stomach gurgled commandingly for more. Only his mind, which had touched the gentle minds of deer, squirmed at what his body happily digested.

Noticing his discomfort, Saphira pulled away, dropping the subjected completely. Come. Now that we're both rested, it's time for a final lesson before we can return to camp.

Oh? Eragon's scales prickled in dread. And what would that be?

The she-dragon hummed in amusement, the deep sound vibrating pleasantly in his bones. Why, teaching you to fly, stone-head!

Eragon froze, stomach falling. He had forgotten about that.

Chapter Text

Standing at the very edge of the threshold, Eragon peered cautiously over the edge of Helgrind. It was a sheer drop down to the jagged rocks below, each more likely to break him than his fall. Wings tucked closely to the sides and claws holding the ground in a death-grip, he could barely hear Saphira over his own frantic thoughts.

Eragon! Saphira snapped, wrenching the white dragon's horrified gaze away from the distant ground. Are you even listening to me?

He sheepishly avoided her piercing stare. Not really, he admitted. I'm a bit distracted at the thought of being impaled like a heretic!

Impaled like- Her mind briefly touched his memory of a rather unpleasant discussion with Brom before withdrawing in horror. ...Another good reason to get away from these damned mountains, then. At Eragon's continued hesitance, she rolled her eyes in exasperation. Don't tell me you're afraid of heights now.

Eragon snorted indignantly. If I was terrified of heights or of flying, I don't think I would have ever left Carvahall after that first nightmare. But flying on his own power was completely different from riding astride an experienced dragon. Especially if that dragon was no longer strong enough to drag him back to safety.

Flying isn't as difficult or frightening as it looks, little one, Saphira began patiently. Hatchlings are often able to get the hang of it within their first few tries.

Eragon glanced dubiously down at certain death. Something tells me we won't have that many chances.

Most hatchlings have parents to guide them in the right direction. I may... not have had that advantage, but it doesn't mean you can't.

Thinking about it, Eragon was positive Saphira would make a great mother... if she survived his soon-to-be lethal crash. There was a huge difference between redirecting a small dragon and a massive adult male.

Saphira nuzzled him encouragingly, nothing but positive advice flowing across her link. Remember, Eragon, you're a dragon internally as well as externally. Your new instincts (which I hope you have) will guide you, as well as (possibly) the ancestral memories of all dragons who lived before you. Concentrate, and you'll feel just how the masters did it.

Complying, Eragon focused his thoughts inward, forgetting all else. The shrieking wind and Saphira's assuring presence gradually dimmed into nothingness. Alone amidst years of his memories, he burrowed past his time as a Dragon Rider, past his childhood, exploring this section of his subconscious deeper than he ever had ventured before.

As time blurred and further distorted recognition, Eragon expected to hit an impenetrable wall, an end to all memory. Instead he entered a part of his mind that had not existed previous to his transformation. There, his memories were but one small whisper in a cavern that echoed with countless voices.

Eragon reached out, touching a barrier not unlike the one that had contained his magic, beckoning him onward. Concentrating, Eragon gently pushed, and unleashed the deluge.

Out erupted a maelstrom of memory wild as his flames. Colors blurred, scent and sound became indistinguishable, fragments of ancient conversation whipping through one metaphorical ear and out the other. The memories tugged at him like impatient children, begging him to join in their individual games. Amidst such glorious chaos, a mere human mind would have been overwhelmed, swept away like a tiny fish against the sea.

But he was a dragon now, a strong voice reminded him. They (parents, nestmates, allies) were as much a part of him (brother, son, friend) as Saphira (bonded, soul-half, life-mate). Unable to control himself, Eragon roared. He understood this greater presence, a universal connection transcending petty differences, a wonderful unity yet separation he had never before been able to comprehend.

Concentrating, Eragon narrowed his criteria down to flight, diminishing the torrent somewhat. Mating flights, hunting flights, first flights, flying for the sheer joy of it, flashed through his mind like lightning. He was unattached to the emotions attached to each one, an apathetic god gazing down upon the mortal world. The memories were too indistinct to care about or even tell apart.

Out of the chaos rose a trace of familiarity. The most demanding of the children, it tugged urgently at him. Eragon allowed himself to be pulled along, the other memories falling away like shadows before the sunlight. The dizzying blur condensed into crystal clear perfection.

The memory molded him, making him its bearer instead of a casual observer. Boundaries blurred, realities faded, time itself turned backward. He was no longer Eragon (Rider, blood-brother, protector), but someone else completely (daunted, scared, longing, oh so longing...

He stood on a precipice that sharply veered away to certain doom, claws clenching the edge in a death-grip. The buffeting wind tore at the wings he kept tightly pressed against his side, a howling wife trying to drag him into its waiting jaws.

Yet his little wings ached to be spread, to fulfill their one true purpose. His pounding heart demanded to claim the sky as their rightful domain. But his mind sternly insisted his trembling wings and yearning heart that it best for all four paws to be safely kept upon the ground. Flying was for mighty elders, not for little hatchlings more likely to be shredded by the wind than to soar upon it.

His three brood-sisters cowered behind him, their living shield between fear and desire. One shoved him forward, a test subject. Whipping around, he snarled furiously at his pesky-coward-sister, batting a white paw warningly at her jade-green snout.

His little stone-gray-brother remained right behind him. Eyes closed, he peeped nervously, too afraid to even gaze upon temptation. Nuzzling his shivering brother, he looked pleadingly around him.

Mother hovered just outside the cave, even she dwarfed by a void of blue and white. Her mind gently brushed against all five of her hatchlings, promising them safety-and-soft-landings.

Father stood behind them, stone-gray and unmovable as the mountain they called resting-home. He blocked the way to their safe-sleeping-nest. His Kingly-red gaze reminded them they'd either join their mother willingly or be shoved into the awesome-endless-sky-and-shrieking-wind by his callous paw.

Wolf-wind sky-dangers or smoldering-impatient-Father. He shivered indecisively, torn between known and unknown.

Father-King snorted ominously, and the decision was made.

His three brood-sisters leaped aside. Crying shrilly, his brood-brother followed, aware of-

He heard it; the scraping of scales against stone, the creaking of old joints, the thunderous growl of impatience.

Self-preservation kicked in. Wings unfurled. Paws abandoned solid earth as he hurled himself into the unknown.

The howling-wolf-winds forcefully pinned his wings to his sides. He powerlessly plummeted to earth. Squealing, he was only dimly aware of his nestmates' cries, Mother just behind him, ready with an open-forgiving paw.

His gaze focused. Father-King's scarred head emerged from the cave, prey-blood-red eyes burning, challenging .

Inside his heart-of-hearts, a soul-fire kindled.

Fighting against the wind-wolf, he snapped his wings open, squealing in surprised pain as their muscles protested. The gale carried him up, up past shocked-Mother, past awed-nestmates, past red eyes burning with fierce-fire-pride.

Blurs of white, green, and gray tumbled into the air excitedly after him. Mother gently caught flustered-brood-brother in a paw when he dipped too law.

Uncaring, he surged up past them all, free for the first time in his young-hatchling-life. He roared his triumph to the conquered skies, not yet a mighty-elder, but on his-

Memory released him. Eragon blinked, reluctantly emerging back into reality. Saphira hummed proudly, blue eyes as proud as Father-King's had been.

Saphira, he whispered breathlessly, that was... He struggled for a suitable word. Finding none, he simply sent his emotions across their link.

Her eyes sparkled. How can there be words for it? I take it you don't find it all that bad, being a dragon?

Bad? Eragon repeated disbelievingly. How can that be bad? The closest I ever came to it before was the dragon from the Blood-Oath Ceremony, and they're still so different! But why-

Why did one memory come clearly to you above all others? When it became so strong you became its bearer? Eragon nodded. There have been countless generations of dragons, too many for any other creature to even begin to process our ancestral memories. Our minds cope by subconsciously reaching out for ones they feel comfortable with, a soul and situation it can currently relate to. Like how a child will reach out for anything familiar in a strange new place.

Some part of the memory were strange. Not thoughts, but not fully words either.

Eragon tried to show her his vision, but the fine details slipped his grasp like water through fingers. Exasperated, he showed Saphira what he could. The she-dragon observed for a moment before nodding. Reluctantly, Eragon released the memory, feeling it sink back into the void of countless others.

A hatchling's first flight from somewhere in the Beors, she surmised. I can see why you can relate. His mind was still learning how to identify thoughts and feelings he knew with specific language. Those clustered words were his attempt to do so with the things he knew dearest; parents, siblings, familiar surroundings. It would take a before before he felt 'brat' would suffice for 'pesky-coward-sister.'

The white dragon nodded, silently wondering what had happened to hatchling in his vision, and hoping he had hatched centuries before Galbatorix's birth. He glanced at the edge again. The hatchling had suffered taller heights.

At least no one's going to push me off, Eragon muttered. Might as well get this over with.

Unfurling her wings, Saphira leaped with the grace of a pouncing cat. Much like the mother she-dragon, she hovered off vigilantly to the side, leaving plenty of room for take-off. And there she stayed, ready to do her damned best at slowing his fall if he did screw up.

Eragon positioned himself on the center of the edge, refusing to glimpse down. He partly unfolded his wings, allowing the wind to rush over them.

Unlike the shrieking gale from the hatchling's memory, the winds were gentle, a soft breeze caressing his scales. It teased him out further onto the ledge. Feeling only empty air beneath his claws, his heart quivered in frantic excitement.

Come on, little one. Did you hesitate in plunging a sword through Durza's heart?

He snorted indignantly at the blow to his fiery new pride. Saphira's tone was an invitation to join her in h- their element. And who was he to deny her?

His heart lurched upward as his paws bid Helgrind farewell, then plunged against his ribcage as gravity wrestled for dominance, the jagged rocks below ever sharper-

Thrust after painful thrust, his untrained wings carried him higher and higher. Helgrind's looming presence shrank to a black dot soon swallowed by the clouds. Only with Alagaesia stretched out before him did he jar to a halt, barely managing a wobbling hover as Saphira steadily rose up to his level. Yet, even leagues below him ,his sharp eyes made out every scale on her shimmering hide, every ounce of pride and exhilaration shining in her eyes.

Quite a sight, isn't it? she mused, effortlessly circling him. I would have shown you sooner, but human lungs can't handle such heights.

Minutes later, Eragon nodded before pausing in embarrassment. Saphira swam through the air as a fish did water. He hovered frantically in one spot, beating his wings like a frantic hummingbird and without the slightest idea how to get back down.

Uh, Saphira, can you help-

Teach you how to steer before you crash?

Were it possible, his scales would have flushed scarlet. ...Aye.

Saphira's laughter rippled across their link. Trust me, Eragon, compared to mine your first flight is going fantastically!

The white dragon blinked in astonishment. Between household tasks and keeping his relatives distracted, Eragon had seen little of his own dragon during her most crucial period of development. One day she was crawling her way up to every great height, including his shoulder, the next she had fluttered up without a stumble.

Really?

I was sneezing pine needles for days, the she-dragon answered sulkily. I just held them in when you where around.

Eragon tried to smile, pulling off a terrifying grimace. He remembered that! So that's why you were too afraid to touch the forest floor afterward!

Afraid! I merely flapped from branch to branch, perfecting my-

His guffawing left him stranded miles above solid ground until his grovelling finally brought his touchy teacher back. Whiling struggling to propel himself forward, Eragon silently filed the story away for the next time he and Saphira were both stone-cold drunk amongst the dwarves. At least they wouldn't fawn over her 'valiance' or 'determination' like a certain race to the north!

Legend remembered Ilirea as an outpost of the godlike Dragon Riders, the last elvish stronghold outside of Du Weldenvarden. While all cities had flourished in the peace and prosperity of the golden age, Ilirea had been the crown jewel of Alagaesia. It was straight out of a fairy tale, with elegant buildings carved as carefully as the trees-buildings had been sung in Ellesmera. And with Doru Araeba across the sea and the elf capital forbidden to most outsiders, it was the only city of legend many could ever lay eyes upon.

Ilirea's last inhabitants had fought long and hard against the invaders pounding at their gates. Despite what most historians grumbled, Galbatorix had demolished very little of a city virtually razed to the ground in the clashes between his supporters and the enemy faction.

Atop the rubble of his conquest, the self-proclaimed king had founded his own new capital. With wave after wave of rebels still assaulting Galbatorix's forces, construction had been quick and bloody. Decades later, Urubaen's brutal and no-nonsense architecture still spoke of the Empire's violent beginnings, even when all whispers of rebellion were swiftly stifled behind its walls.

Only Castle Ilirea had survived the old capital's destruction. Even then, its towering spires and graceful carvings had been cannibalized into newer, more practical defenses.

Those of Urubaen remembered Castle Ilirea no longer; only the fully-fledged Fortress it had become in the time of their forefathers. And there their King resided, eternal as his Fortress, as the very ground it was built upon.

Galbatorix had claimed the heart of the Fortress for his own throne-room and personal chambers. Here every wall was etched in wards to cancel out virtually all magic it did not recognize. Aspiring assassins that could penetrate such powerful defenses faced patrols of sharp-minded magicians sworn to kill all intruders on sight, even if the person in question was but a visiting lord who had absentmindedly turned down the wrong hallway.

For those cunning and determined enough to make it past his unmatched security? Galbatorix granted them the final honor of becoming Shruikan's latest meal.

And there, in his Fortress's heart, the Black King himself lounged upon his throne, scratching thoughtfully at his well-trimmed beard.

Over-exaggerated, indirect accounts described Galbatorix as anything from a horned, green-skinned demon to an eternally young man handsome enough to make the mountains of Helgrind weep. (Galbatorix had ordered his Black Hand to spare no mercy on whoever had started that rumor... if only to keep the crowd of the insane women blubbering at his gates from growing any larger.)

Of average height and build, with an indistinct face and plain brown hair, Galbatorix was as forgettable as they came, capable of blending into any crowd with a mere change of stance and clothing. Only his eyes, black and empty voids, could engender such terror and awe in his subjects.

"Hn," he mused aloud. "When have the Ra'zac contacted me last? Their silence is... worrisome."

Dead white eyes blinked listlessly back. Galbatorix nodded, one hand patting the massive black wall of scale and muscle that encircled his throne. "You're right, not in quite a while. Since before the incident, in fact."

His treasure trove, his personal favorite amongst them, so dull and lifeless for decades, had all blazed bright as stars. Their chorus, a unified thrum of pure joy, had carried his heart to heights no living dragon could touch. Only twice before had they sung; the first but a year ago, when the she-dragon presumably hatched, and some months later when Thorn finally hatched for a Rider, confirming Galbatorix's hunch. Each and every dragon soul, dead and dormant for decades in their Eldunarya, had rejoiced for a member of their kind entering the world.

But how, why had they sung again but mere days ago? The last surviving egg of King Eridor and his mate, the last dragon's egg in the world, remained dormant in its hiding place. Galbatorix and his Forsworn had scoured the world for decades in search of unaccounted survivors.

There. Were. None.

"The she-dragon couldn't have laid any more eggs," Galbatorix muttered to his only companion. "It is too soon after the battle, and she certainly was not gravid then! Besides, how could any but you or Thorn have sired them? And there are no more eggs. There cannot be."

Were his Eldunarya trying to trick him into believing a fifth dragon had entered the fray? To lead him on a fool's errand while the she-dragon and her Rider prepared for a suicidal offense against his Empire?

Impossible. No Eldunari could shield any thought or feeling from their King, and he had sensed no deception on their part, nothing but their unadulterated joy.

"Do you remember how those last few Riders tried to deceive me, Shruikan? Conveniently leaked information about secret armed caravans. Messengers who'd swear under torture, in the ancient language, that Vrael had hidden away an entire cache of eggs?" A savage snarl crossed his eerily-average features. "As if the Order hadn't been running short for years, as if their females laid anything not dead and stinking!"

Galbatorix thoughtfully rubbed at the stone embedded into his ring, the only extra ornamentation he ever wore. It was simple, no more than a plain silver band. But the stone was like nothing that had been ever mined from the earth, nothing like even a dwarf had laid eyes upon. Shaped like an onyx-black diamond, it emanated its own dull violet light, giving his hand an unnatural tinge.

The wall of scales shifted anxiously behind him. Galbatorix patted them soothingly.

"Forgive me, Shruikan, I always forget how sensitive you are." Clenching his hand into a fist, he smashed the glowing stone against the arm of his throne. Shruikan roared in agony, shaking the very walls of the Fortress.

Galbatorix braced instinctively for the pain, a shared suffering that should have sent a Rider screaming alongside his dragon. But, for their bond, for the black dragon's mindless obedience, Shruikan was no Jarnunvosk, and Galbatorix shared his soul only with a beloved partner now long-dead.

Sighing, the King of Alagaesia turned to look at his greatest prize.

Shruikan, the dread dragon himself, lay curled around his throne, shackled to the wall by magically-enforced chains. The demon capable of striking fear into countless hearts at the mere mention of his name looked as pathetic as a kicked dog. Years of starvation and inactivity had left him a living skeleton. His open, panting mouth revealed rows of fangs broken and yellowed from neglect. His white eyes, unbroken by irises or pupils, stared emptily ahead.

"Such suffering," Galbatorix lamented. "Even if it is for the best."

For his own safety, Shruikan had to be restrained. Though Galbatorix held his very heart, he had gradually built up enough resistance to anything less than complete concentration, inflicting gruesome scars upon himself before he could be stopped. Shruikan was unleashed only for sparring sessions with Thorn or to renew the public's fears, when Galbatorix could keep him under his full control.

Not to mention a massive black dragon made a tempting target for any rebel magician. Just because Galbatorix felt nothing of Shruikan didn't mean a true bond wasn't there; numbed, but as powerful as any true bond between Rider and dragon. And Galbatorix would take no chances on finding out if breaking their artificial bond shared the same lethal potency.

Galbatorix ran his ring hand along the dragon's hide. Beneath his fingers Shruikan quivered violently, achingly close to his heart of hearts but infinitely far. "Do you remember yours kinsmen, deaf and blind in their Eldunarya?" The king looked his dragon straight in one dead eye. "Even now, pathetic as you are, you're above them. Yet, still you sang..."

The void of his black eyes somehow deepened. "When you remained silent for the others."

Shruikan lay motionless. But the conquered mind in the black Eldunari stirred, gathering the energy to push a small section of memory behind paper-thin barricades.

Galbatorix smiled patronizingly, the way an adult would at a young child's artwork. It would take but one prod of a mental finger to topple the dragon's defenses, and yet...

"Ah, dragons, so much stronger in spirit than even the most resilient dwarf, the proudest elf. Beaten down and broken as you are, Shruikan, your fire burns." He chuckled fondly. "Go ahead. Keep your secret. The suspense will just make the surprise ever sweeter."

The Black King rose from his throne. There was work to be done, especially regarding his very rebellious (or perhaps, very dead) Ra'zac. Murtagh would certainly appreciate another mission to distract from his rather pitiful defeat at the Burning Plains.

At the threshold, Galbatorix turned back. Shruikan's physical body was as still and unresponsive as always. Inside his Eldunari, however, his mind was sharper than it had been in ages, the heat of his hatred almost, almost hot enough to burn.

"Enjoy this while you can, my dear Shruikan." Smiling wryly, Galbatorix craned his head upward toward the ceiling. "The stars are going out, but my trove remains as bright as ever. Perhaps this one more soul will finally put me ahead."

Chapter Text

Even from above, the Burning Plains was more terrible than Saphira had remembered. The landscape was charred and smoking, dotted with dead vegetation and the rare plume of flame. Sulfur spilled forth from vast gaps in the earth, making her lungs ache for the far fresher air of Helgrind. She and Eragon flew above the noxious clouds, their thickness shielding them from curious eyes below.

Glaring, Saphira strained to see beyond the eye-watering veil of clouds. The Varden's line of tents was just visible in the distance, the Imperial camp remnants too far beyond it to be spotted.

This is where we part ways... for now, she told her Rider-turned-dragon. Any further and you'll be sensed by the stronger Du Vrangr Gata magicians.

Eragon gazed past her, blue-brown eyes widening in dread. Though Saphira's initial wariness had faded, she still couldn't help but flinch at his unnatural gaze. The human brown in his irises had gradually succumbed to the brilliant blue since Eragon's transformation. Would the change still be reversible if all her Rider's 'humanity' was lost?

Are you sure this a good idea, Saphira? the white dragon pressed anxiously. The Varden see me as their last chance against the Empire and Galbatorix fears an enemy who may one day hope to best him in battle. I don't think I'll be doing us any favors by telling the world I can't even use my own magic! That I'm as powerless- Saphira snorted indignantly- as any mere dragon!

Which is why we're keeping our circle of confidants limited, Saphira replied briskly. Arya has more knowledge on magic than all the Du Vrangr Gata, possibly excluding Trianna, combined! Who else could possibly find a way to reverse the spell without dragging anyone from Du Weldenvarden into this? And we swore allegiance to Nasuada, we have no choice but to tell her. Besides, at least she can keep those other damned politicians away! And Roran is your nestmate and bond-brother, so...

The sapphire she-dragon trailed off as she got one good look at her Rider. Eragon looked practically ready to faint in mid-air.

Not Roran, Eragon whispered. I remember when he discovered I was a Dragon Rider... No longer a normal human... His tremulous voice steadied somewhat. No, Roran, never needs to know about this. Not until I'm firmly back on two feet, anyway.

Wishing their beating wings weren't in the way of physical contact, Saphira enveloped his mind in a comforting embrace. Forgive me, little one. It shall only be Nasuada and Arya. We can't afford to keep either of them in the dark.

Eragon silently pealed away from her side, all the permission she needed.

Folding her wings, Saphira plummeted from the clouds. She made no attempt to disguise her return, bellowing loudly and sending a tongue of flame streaking through the air. Men poured forth from their tents, cheering at what they presumed to be the safe and triumphant return of their revered Dragon Rider.

As Saphira neared, the joyed expressions faltered when they saw her back bare of any passengers, Shadeslayers or not. Most men were bewildered, but some paled in fear or even boiled in outrage. Spreading her wings, Saphira slowed her descent, making no effort to land past the swelling crowd. People scrambled frantically to give her room, all too used to the drill. As she gracefully touched down, she mutely challenged the throng with a cool stare. None had the courage to answer the question on everyone's mind.

Until the crowd parted, allowing Lady Nasuada through. Arya was not far behind, nimbly weaving through a forest of stunned bodies. While both women carried themselves serenely, Saphira easily saw through years of careful conditioning. Nasuada's jaw was clenched tightly shut. Arya's emerald eyes had darkened with worried confusion.

"Saphira Brightscales?" Nasuada began primly, the overwhelming curiosity simmering just beneath. "What has befallen the Shadeslayer this time?"

The blue she-dragon lowered her head, looking the two women straight in the eyes. Carefully barricading her memories to curious prods, she projected her words only to them. Forgive my rudeness, Lady Nasuada, Arya Drottningu, but I am not at liberty to discuss my Rider so freely. At least, not here. She glanced at the crowd. Fetch my saddle and I shall take you to him, upon my honor as a dragon.

Nasuada wasted no time in motioning for her servants. Some frantically hurried back with the leather abomination. Saphira knelt down, suppressing an irritated growl at the cumbersome weight upon her back. The men fixed the straps as best they could with shaking hands. Although they bit into her belly and neck, the she-dragon patiently endured an eternity of waiting.

Arya ascended Saphira's outstretched foreleg with feline grace, taking the spot usually reserved for Eragon. Nasuada stared apprehensively up, but her impressive composure did not allow her to break down in front of her subjects. Despite her pale face, the leader of the Varden climbed up Saphira with as much dignity she could muster, assisted into the saddle by Arya. She primly sat in front of the elf-woman, clutching the spike before her in a death-grip.

Craning her neck around, Saphira respectfully nodded at her latest passengers. Though I trust you Ladies with my life, dire circumstances have forced me and my Rider to take some extra precautions. Lady Nasuada, you are somewhat familiar with the ancient language, no?

Nasuada nodded. "Aye." Arya watched the exchange sharply, recalling when two other confused souls had been sworn to a secrecy on the pain of death.

Then I must ask you both to swear, in the ancient language, to never reveal what you are about to see to any living creature without my or Eragon's explicit permission, even if your very lives are threatened.

"You demand much, Bjartskular," the elf whispered. "Any promise sworn in the ancient language endangers the lives of the oath-takers."

"But we have no other option?" Nasuada finished. At Saphira's grim nod, she sighed. "If only you had warned me before I had mounted."

Curiosity and concern overcame caution. With their oaths reluctantly sworn, neither could reveal Eragon's life-threatening new secret without his or his dragon's say-so.

Her Rider's well-being secured, Saphira lifted off as carefully as she could. Nasuada took her first flight in stride, yelping only once when the ground suddenly lurched away.

Saphira morbidly wondered if anyone (particularly Arya) would be so calm and composed when they met the gigantic white dragon Eragon had become.

Nasuada had not shied away from the strange white dragon, first thinking him a prisoner rescued from Helgrind. Upon learning the truth, she had blinked once before falling upon Eragon, dubiously tugging at his scales and rattling off a stream of questions not even Saphira could keep up with. Eragon gave up answering after the first few, halfheartedly listening to her rant.

Arya stood stoically apart from the others, green eyes never leaving Eragon. As Nasuada and Saphira discussed what was best, she remained unresponsive to their questions, a living and breathing statue.

Eragon was just as uncharacteristically quiet, replying only when addressed directly. He kept his gaze trained down on his paws, unwilling to look neither humanoid, especially Arya, in the eyes. He flexed his claws oddly, as if still expecting the versatility of human fingers.

"So, you remember nothing of the transformation?" Nasuada prompted.

The white dragon nodded with a heavy sigh. Aye. Just blacking out and waking up like this.

"And you never encountered anything like this before, not even in stories?" she pressed. "A mention of a secret defense for Riders in distress?"

Nothing. Eragon raised his head, hopefully meeting Arya's unblinking gaze for the first time. Do you think you could come up with a spell to change me back? I definitely recall many elves that had changed their appearances at the Blood-Oath Ceremony. Could you do the same thing for me, just on a larger scale?

We could always return to Du Weldenvarden, Saphira suggested practically. To find experts in transformation... She exchanged a glance with Eragon. Or obscure Rider enchantments.

For the first time in minutes, Arya blinked, her expression becoming unreadable. "Eragon... do you remember your days in Du Weldenvarden? How many kind doted and tended to Saphira like zealots worshiping their god?" She paused. "Elves have... always been envious of the dragons. Of their natural immortality, of deep magic beyond even our comprehension, of their freedom in flight, of how they can take but one mate and be satisfied for eternity." Her sighed. "In the ancient times, my forebears almost annihilated them for it. Our pact twisted elven hatred and jealously into something resembling outright reverence."

Saphira shuddered, contrastingly remembering both the elves who had lovingly washed her scales and the Stone of Broken Eggs, where their ancestors had killed members of her kind not yet hatched into the world. Had the elf who had ignited the Du Fyrn Skulblaka envied the dragon he had killed for want of the power he could never have?

"Your point, Arya?" Nasuada muttered, slightly unnerved. "I do not see how this... ancient obsession can help Eragon now."

"Come the days after the Fall," Arya continued tonelessly, "many of my kind sought ways to return the dragons to Alagaesia. We ventured north, far beyond our forests, and scoured the edges of the lands for survivors. When we found none north, some of our bravest returned to the sea, sailing to the ancient realms where the Forsworn's evil had never touched. Those haunted few who returned to us certainly brought no dragons with them. As far as even we could determine, four dragons remained in Alagaesia, all soundly in the King's possession."

Except for a single crippled male safely hidden away in Du Weldenvarden with his Rider, not that Nasuada needed to know that.

The elf-woman continued, her brows knitting together. "A few of the more... radical elves proposed an extreme solution to our problem. Were we not masters of magic? Did we not have almost boundless energy from the trees at our disposal? Why waste time searching for survivors who weren't there? Why could we not create?"

Saphira growled, hackles rising. Magically creating dragons from willing elves?

Nasuada clapped her hands over her mouth. "Could it even have been done?" she whispered in horror.

Eragon recalled eccentric elves he had spotted at the Blood-Oath Ceremony; furred like beasts, skins all colors of the rainbow, even one that resembled a humanoid dragon. But if such transformations were possible, where were these elf-dragons?

"I was but a child when the idea was first proposed. In theory, it was possible. We had manipulated magic before to alter out appearances, though far less radically. Elves that transform their bodies always keep a basic build, never straying drastically far from their original forms."

Her pale hands clenched. "It wasn't long until those radicals gained eager support from the noble houses. Queen Islanzadi's approval silenced whatever whispers of protest there had been. Why not resort to extreme measures if it meant restoring the dragons and the Dragon Riders? Liberating our people from Galbatorix? Years were spent gathering the hypothetical energy needed for the spells, thoroughly wording the incantations for the utmost precision, developing all that was needed to challenge nature. The most skilled casters were recruited for the spelling. Able-bodied elves flocked for selection."

Arya smiled humorlessly. "After all, who wouldn't want to become the first of a new generation of dragons, a savior of Alagaesia?"

Eragon shivered. Did you...?

"Duty called me elsewhere," she replied heavily. "Not that it stopped u-... me from envying those chosen."

For just a moment, the barricades around Arya's memories wavered. Saphira shied away, but not before catching-

Hair silver as moonlight, green eyes bright with excitement and pride, twitching lips barely veiling an eager grin-

Sharp brown eyes burning, words growled and accusing, ripping her heart in-

"The day of reckoning came," Arya intoned. "The chosen volunteers were prepared, the stored energy given to the casters. All of Du Weldenvarden, from its hermits to the Queen herself, gathered to watch. We all hoped for success... some for the next chance to join their ranks. Then..."

Saphira's mind was willingly nudged by Arya's. Reluctantly, Saphira peered with Eragon into the elf's memories, taking great care to focus on the ones she wanted to show. Nasuada, untrained in active mental contact, hung back in polite (and wary) interest.

It was only natural that she, the sole heir of King Evandar, Islanzadi's most likely successor, was among the privileged few allowed anywhere actually near the casters. She had come dressed for the occasion; formal finery, a circlet, and scales green as the spring foliage.

Of course Islanzadi had scolded her for succumbing to such an 'infantile' trend, but she was not the only elf who had spelled herself as such. Other nobles and members of her House pressed in close, their eyes riveted to the clearing's center. Scales had become old hat amongst them when dragon-fever had swept across the forest. Anyone who wore them, even their Princess, would soon pale in comparison to the real deal.

Five elves stood proud and strong in the center. They wore loose and simple clothing only to preserve their modesty. These were the blessed few, personally chosen from the throng of potentials by Queen Islanzadi to become the first free dragons of the age. The shining beacon to light the way for the rest of their rekindled race. They carried themselves properly, faces serenely stoic even when their eyes glittered with excitement.

She nodded to the chosen with a princess's grace. Even when she pointedly ignored looking at the silver-haired woman barely able to keep composure.

Out strode the magicians, their tunics nearly hidden by the glittering jewels draped over them. Such over-precautions were a mere formality, an appeasement for the worried few. The calculations had been checked and rechecked for years. Nothing could, or would, go wrong. Galbatorix possessed all true dragon eggs left in the world. Failure was no longer an option.

Perfect silence fell upon the crowd as the casters began to chant. She hung at the edge of her seat, entranced by every carefully-intoned syllable. A part of her and everyone else in the crowd, those who had adored and depended upon the dragons so, sung out in joy. The chosen five stretched out their arms in eager invitation. The silver-haired woman laughed, grinning broadly as her gaze sought out-

Cra-ack. Cra-ack. Cra-ack.

Overwhelmed, the gems collectively shattered. The ravenous spell reached ever outward, consuming all the energy it latched onto. The sweat-coated casters gritted their teeth in a struggle against their own power. But their magic no longer heeded them... and reached out with insatiable appetite.

Silently, elf after elf toppled, pale and lifeless husks. Those not paralyzed by shock and fear leaped up to stop the carnage, shouting and screaming and ordering-

It was not like she had imagined, the graceful and beautiful ascension from mere elf to majestic dragon. It was hell, monsters ripping themselves forth from terrified forms, destructive and disfiguring. Stricken, a deer before the hunter, she watched every vomit-inducing moment.

Razor-sharp scales ripped through delicate flesh, unleashing rivers of blood. Cracks like thunder rang as bones rearranged themselves. Elves fell screaming to the ground with bodies no longer able to support them. Skeletal branches emerged from shoulder-blades, the wings of the dead. Terrified cries became huskier, cracked, and gave way to blood-curdling bellows.

Three of the damned five fell limp as the magicians. One tortured male moaned his death-rattle. All were demons, an unholy blend of elf and dragon. Even the brief, unfortunate survivor was incomplete; without skin or muscle to cover the exposed bone of his twisted legs.

Her gaze riveted to the fifth form.

Blood-stained silver hair wreathed a head that sported malformed stumps. Two emerald-green eyes; one slit-pupiled, the other still leaking tears, fixated on her. A twisted hand with two curving nails reached desperately out. A tongue purposefully cut itself on sharpened teeth in frantic attempts at a name. The scales had had erupted from her pale skin were pallid or sickly green.

Except for those upon her all-too-familiar face. Those had darkened to a vibrant green, one like the spring foliage.

Numbness fled. Spinning around, she fled, pushing through the frantic crowd. Unlike the damned souls in the clearing, her artificial scales melted easily away, giving way to tear-stained flesh.

Tears that only worsened at her mother's heart-broken scream.

Saphira snapped back to reality, throwing back her head and giving a keining wail. Eragon shivered as if ready to burst. Nasuada remained gravely silent, their emotions tangible enough for her to sense. Arya kept her eyes shut against the tears, and buried the memory in her vast recollection.

Gods, Eragon breathed. I-I never...

For once, just once more, her body craved comfort. Saphira pressed close, her head burrowing into the white dragon's side.

Slowly, hesitantly, he draped one silver wing over her vulnerable form.

Her hammering heart quieted, soothed by reinvigorating warmth.

Assurance gave way to embarrassment when Saphira realized she quivered against her Rider's side like a quivering hatchling. Pride demanded she draw away to restore the illusion of strength.

For once, Saphira ignored the instinct. For all her ancestral memories, she was barely a year old, and needed comforting just as much as Eragon. Besides, when would the opportunity for physical contact with her own kind come again any time soon?

"What happened afterward?" Nasuada murmured.

"Our precautions were twigs against the deluge," Arya flatly intoned. "Even the wards shielding the candidates from physical pain shattered from the sheer force the spell unleashed. One survivor perished minutes afterward. His organs were incompatible. The other lived... for a time." Again she blinked away wetness. "Her transformation could neither be reversed nor completed. Not after what had happened. She took her own life four days later."

Saphira bristled in outrage. Her suffering was prolonged to such a degree?

"What was there to be done? Most were too afraid to even minorlyy alter themselves for decades. Those arrogant enough to repeat the mistakes of the past suffered their own foolishness. Several elves have been found dead alongside their half-formed creations." Her gaze flicked to the she-dragon. "Then your egg was recovered, and such dramatic measures forgotten in favor of restoring the true dragons."

It happened other times, didn't it? Eragon fixated one blue-brown eye on her. Other elves who tried to truly become different animals. Wolves. Falcons. Frogs.

"Aye. None succeeded. It seemed an unwritten law that a creature could not magically exchange its form for another. Unless they were a naturally shape-shifting being, like a werecat, true transformation remained as impossible as resurrecting the dead... And there is only one exception to that rule."

The Menoa Tree! The elf who sang herself into the heart of Du Weldenvarden.

Nasuada blinked, wordlessly mouthing the word 'tree' in disbelief. Then her eyes slowly met Eragon's. "And now there are two." She brushed the red dust rom her dress, snapping straight back into her leader state. "Obviously changing you back will have to wait a while. At least until that squad of magicians arrive from Du Weldenvarden. Perhaps one of them shall be an expert in obscure Rider magics, or at least know someone who is."

Eragon and Saphira drooped in dismay. They personally knew a still-living Rider and dragon, and neither had ever mentioned Shur'tugal spontaneously changing shape!

Then what do we do, my Lady? The Varden are suspicious enough of my absence as is! How will they react at my current condition? Many see dragons as mindless best for the Riders on their-

"We can postpone this until we can determine a more permanent solution," Nasuada cut in smoothly. "Most will jump to the conclusion that you're still somewhere in the Empire. I'll 'accidentally leak information' to those who'll pass on the news. Obviously correspondence must be done in person for security reasons." She smiled wryly. "And who ever heard of a spy infiltrating the Empire with a dragon at his side?"

But why-

"Following up rumors of cached dragon eggs. Rescuing surviving Riders supposedly imprisoned in Urubaen for decades. Assassinating a target." Nasuada rolled her eyes. "Trust me, overactive imaginations will take care of that part."

"Then you must remain in the Burning Plains," Arya interjected suddenly. "Beyond the minds of the magicians, but close enough will communication between us will not be excessively difficult. Saphira, we can't risk someone realizing why you return to camp so quickly and so frequently. A trustworthy, unremarkable messenger can relay what our minds won't be able to receive."

Jarsha, the white dragon blurted instantly. Swear him to secrecy in the ancient language and he'd be as competent and reliable as any.

Saphira hummed in amusement. Eragon had been fond of the young messenger, if slightly creeped out by his adoration. Of course he would retain his soft spot for younglings, no matter what shape he wore!

Eragon settled down for a doze, exhausted from his first long-distance flight, while Saphira carried her passengers back to camp in near complete silence. She was just too drained to keep up her usual eager role in anything that involved her Rider.

Landing amongst the tents, Saphira politely bid the humanoid women farewell, gratefully thanking Arya for removing her damned saddle.

Only when looking into the elf's emerald eyes did the she-dragon recall a near-identical gaze she had glimpsed in Arya's memories.

Silver-haired, but green-eyed, facial features like a happy-

Privately, she murmured, Do you have siblings?

Passing the saddle to a waiting man, Arya paused.

No. I am Evandar's sole child.

Were Arya a dragon, or even dwarf or human, Saphira would have let the oddly-off answer alone. But elves did not bond souls like mated dragons, didn't offer their partners rings and promises of remaining together until death. Relationships lasted only as long as they chose; from mere hours to centuries.

...Are you Islanzadi's sole child?

This time her spluttered silence became rigid. ...Aye.

Saphira realized her mistake. Did you have half-siblings? From Islanzadi?

One. Decades older, sired by a male from one of the lower-nobility houses. He and our mother lasted only months together, but managed to conceive a miracle some pairs had been trying to obtain for centuries. My birth meant Evandar would never adopt her as his heir, not that it stopped our mother from trying to insure her eldest a rank, a title, anything that would guarantee her a respectable position... Perhaps a position even greater than being queen.

...What was her name?

Idunn. Arya's train of thought faltered. Her name was Idunn.

Night shrouded the Burning Plains in blackness even a dragon's eyes had to strain through. Dark clouds blotted out the moon and stars, the only illumination the flickering pinpoints of the Varden camp's distant lanterns. The wind howled across the charred landscape, bringing with it a biting chill his intense body heat kept at bay.

Eragon found himself yearning for the snug tent he had shared with Roran, warm and shielded from the desolate night.

Even sleep could not bring oblivion. Malformed hybrids and their agonized screams plagued him whenever he closed his eyes. Saphira, though her mind was firmly closed, must had felt the same way. She kept getting up, circling to find a softer patch of earth, restlessly repeating the process every few minutes.

Can't sleep? Eragon murmured, abandoning the pretense.

Saphira looked up from her latest spot, eyes gleaming jewels in the gloom. Little one, she chastised gently, like a mother scolding a young child out of bed. I thought you had fallen asleep hours ago.

Kind of hard to do that with you moving about every two minutes.

He was lying right through his metaphorical teeth. Saphira sensed his dishonesty as easily as he felt hers. Though their minds kept their emotions firmly at bay, the deep bond they shared from constant closeness made what was kept silent glaringly obvious. The two locked eyes, all the understanding the other needed.

Quietly Saphira rose up and padded over to his side, her head resting close to his as she settled down. Eragon draped one wing over her. The she-dragon's tense muscles eased at his touch. Her eyes drooped down, face serene as she drifted off.

Though Eragon did not draw away, he found the exchange unsettling. Saphira had always comforted him. When Roran had moved to Therinsford, she had been his constant companion through those dreary winter days. She had gotten through to him after Garrow's death, channeling his grief into something constructive when she had persuaded him to get vengeance on the Ra'zac. She had been his rock through the chaos, the only constant in the lonely life of a Dragon Rider.

Then the roles had drastically reversed, which had happened so rarely before. Eragon had last comforted Saphira when she had thought Glaedr had condemned her to an eternity of loneliness. Again he was reminded that Saphira was still mortal, just as vulnerable to pain as he was.

Sometimes, though physically incapable, even dragons needed a shoulder to cry on.

Yawning, Eragon let himself drift off to a blissfully dreamless slumber. With Saphira's assuring warmth at his side, the night no longer seemed as dark or as desolate.

Chapter Text

Slowly but surely, the sky blazed vermilion, yellow, and orange, burning away the cool purples and blues of night, the radiant sun the shining center of the spectacle. Eragon reveled in the sunrise, marveling at how his new dragon's eyes perceived a once-ordinary sight. Dawn had become something out of a dream, a mix of brilliant colors beyond human perception.

Told it you was amazing. Saphira lay some distance from him, cleaning her scales vigorously. She had grumpily complained about the residual blood and grime that still clung to her seemingly immaculate hide until she had finally had the time to remove every invisible speck of filth. But you didn't listen.

Eragon shook his head, gaze to riveted to the rising sun. You never told me it was this amazing!

Saphira rolled her eyes fondly. I was born a dragon, stone head. Sunrise through through such eyes has always been my normal. It's a matter of perspective.

The two dragons fell into a contented silence, one fascinated with the dawn and the other in her scales. Finally, when the sun rose high enough, Eragon turned away from the no-longer-interesting blue sky. With full daylight, would those in the Varden camp notice two blobs of blue and white on the horizon? Were they aware that a second dragon, one who had been human mere days ago, rested only a few leagues from them?

No, not unless a sentry's poor human eyesight had miraculously strengthened overnight.

Spotting a tiny figure heading from that direction, Eragon's eyes narrowed with a wary growl. No patrols ever ventured this far into the Burning Plains. Nor it it Arya, as the figure was both too short and too graceless. The white dragon tensed, preparing to warn Saphira take cover in the clouds. Only when the figure's features became clear did his muscles relax.

Jarsha's here.

Curiously, Saphira rose and padded over to Eragon's side.

While Jarshan had not doubt been prepped about his duties, the timid boy Eragon remembered from Farthen Dur would have still quivered like a leaf when approaching two massive dragons. But the lad had matured greatly from their last encounter, not even batting his eye at their looming shadows.

When the messenger came even closer Eragon squashed a wave of foreboding. Jarsha's face was pallid, his lack of sleep shown by the dark shadows beneath his dim gray eyes. There was a haunted expression to them Eragon recognized all too well. Was the boy having nightmares?

The wariness in Jarsha's stride emerged only when he was close enough to bow. "Dragon Saphira Brightscales and... er, Dragon Eragon Shadeslayer-" The white dragon nodded kindly "-have received a message from the Lady Nasuada."

Go ahead, Jarsha, Eragon replied. And it is good to see you again. You've changed much since we last met.

Jarshan nodded wearily. "You have no idea," he muttered. "No offense, sir, but you've changed quite a bit yourself."

He craned his neck back to gawk up at the white dragon. Eragon gazed benignly back, doing his best to hide his concern for the exhausted boy. Jarsha's eyes roved from his silver-tipped wings to his intimidating fangs to his blue-brown eyes. Meeting them, the boy blanched and turned away. For a moment Eragon could have sworn Jarsha's dim eyes had blazed, their pupils becoming slit.

Eragon blinked, looking back to Jarsha's entirely normal dim gray eyes. He shook his head to clear himself of his prickling suspicion. Jarsha stared as if he were aware of every impolite thoughts.

The message, Jarsha, Saphira prompted, snapping both males from their stare-down.

Blushing madly, the boy fumbled for the scroll, unrolling it with a nervous cough. "Those assigned to protect you have arrived to the north of camp. They are as sworn to their oaths as I am. Look for us."

The white dragon inclined his head in thanks, and secretly, in apology. Thank you, Jarsha.

Jarsha bowed respectfully. "I am to please, Shadeslayer."

Saphira spread her wings, ascending into the sky with a swan's grace. Eragon took a running start, not yet skilled enough to simply fly straight up, before lifting off with a powerful thrust of his wings. Together the two dragons rose above the cloud cover, heading north as Nasuada had instructed. Though the elves could no longer protect him as originally planned, they could still be useful in his new (and hopefully not permanent) form.

Blodgharm, the leader of the twelve spell-weavers Islanzadi had assigned, was no doubt understandably shocked to see the Dragon Rider as an actual dragon. But like all elves, he hid his emotions behind a facade of cool nonchalance.

Eragon blinked back, just as perturbed. Who often saw blue-furred, amber-eyed elf-men who were nothing but loincloths?

The two males sized each other up critically. Eragon was the first to bow his head. Blodgharm's... unconventional appearance was obviously a sign of his impressive magical prowess, even if his ego likely eclipsed even Vanir's. Greetings, Master Blodgharm. It is good to finally meet you.

Blodgharm touched a finger to his lips, the traditional elfin greeting. "An honor that we have, Shur'tugal. When Lady Nasuada requested all of us to take oaths of secrecy before we could see you, we almost had to refuse. Our loyalty to Queen Islanzadi would be challenged by any command that kept us from divulging important information from her. We were skeptical when she could not even give us a reason for her... unusual demand." Blodgharm shot Arya a pointed look. Eragon wondered if she had prevented the blue-furred elf from probing Nasuada's thoughts.

A female elf with hair the color of starlight glanced at her future ruler. "Arya Svit-Kona was able to convince us otherwise." She gazed up at Eragon with the same reverence most elves held for Saphira. "We are all very happened to have listened."

Lady Nasuada spoke up tersely. "My apologies for interrupting, but the time for trivialities has passed. My and Arya's absence shall soon be noticed. Please, can we cut straight to the heart of the matter?"

"We can't change him back," Blodgharm replied immediately. "Such magic is beyond even our power."

Saphira nodded tensely, tail lashing side to side. Even beneath tightly clamped emotions, rage and... desire broiled dangerously. I figured as such. But how can you service us now?

"You no longer have your magic, Shadeslayer?" The white dragon nodded. "Then we shall guard you and Saphira Bjartskular with our lives. For all your strength and fire, the Black Hand would have no problem capturing you."

"The Du Vrangr Gata," Arya added, pinning Blodgharm with her sharp gaze. "Their magical prowess is sorely lacking. Very few stand the slightest chance against the Empire's common magicians, let alone the Black Hand. Trianna, their leader, specializes in sorcery and can only offer them so much tutelage. Eragon was unable to teach them anything beyond the basics and my priorities are elsewhere."

"Of course they are," Blodgharm said with the slightest baring of his fangs. "My elves shall get them up to speed. Our priorities will be no encumbrance."

Nasuada had the grace to ignore the barbed exchange. "Suspicions will be aroused if the Empire can find no trace of Eragon 'infiltrating' them. You'll need a way to convince my people their human Shadeslayer is still inhabiting camp."

Easy enough, the real Eragon replied. Say I returned from the Empire with findings I need to ponder over in peace. It gives me reason for a private tent and guards to ensure my concentration is undisturbed. Most will think I need the additional elves to help crack some code or artifact I discovered. If they do suspect a cover-up, they'll assume my seclusion to be hiding another crippling illness or injury. He snorted. Wouldn't be the first I've had.

Blodgharm nodded. "When you're required to make an appearance, one of my elves shall either assume your human appearance or conjure up a solid illusion for you to speak through."

The elves murmured thoughtfully amongst themselves, no doubt formulating their plan. Nasuada nodded as if anything they said made sense to her. Arya and Blodgharm kept giving each other near-neutral looks that likely veiled murderous glares.

Saphira snorted, restlessly raking the soil with her claws.

Saphira, Eragon tried, projecting his words only to her. Are you all right?

No! she snapped, vast patience nearly at its limits. That damned... cat-elf has some scent that's driving me mad. Arya spelled herself and Nasuada against it, but apparently it affects female dragons to! Her nostrils flared. I hope he gets too close to the cow pens and gets trampled by them!

Eragon flinched away from her mind's conflicting passions. Her rational side wanted to maul Blodgharm into bits. The instincts ensnared by his pheromones wanted to do unspeakable things to him Eragon wished not on even his greatest enemies.

Saphira and I are weary from our flight, he explained simply, addressing everyone. We have not even eaten properly since departing Helgrind. If we are no longer needed here, my Lady, may we take our leave?

Nasuada dipped her head; all the permission needed. Spreading her wings, Saphira rocketed into the air, closely followed by Eragon. Once covered by thick clouds, she shook her head and inhaled deeply.

Noxious fumes over Blodgharm?

Saphira growled, spitting a jet of flame as if the musk clogged up her throat. You are male, stone-head, and immune to the stench the cat-elf excretes. Better this than bewitching pheromones. She gave sharp barrel roll, twisting herself until she popped up behind Eragon. The startled white dragon turned in bewilderment, nearly getting himself tangled until Saphira deftly flipped back out of his way. Thank you for excusing me, Eragon. You probably saved the lives of all present.

You did the same thing for me by scaring the skirt off Trianna, Eragon replied dismissively. Gods know where we'd be if she managed to... you know. He shuddered. The least I could do was pretend we're h- You're actually hungry, aren't you?

Saphira snorted. Ravenous.

Remembering his earlier lessons from Brom, Eragon asked, Don't dragons only need to eat every few days, except when exhausting large amounts of energy?

She winked mischievously at him. That's true for most of the year, but do you recall about what both Brom and Glaedr told us about mating season? During it wild dragons must eat everyday as they're expending most of their energy on... other purposes.

But we aren't wild dragons and we aren't... consorting.

Technically, Eragon, we're both wild dragons now. I doubt the pact allows for a dragon to be the Rider of another dragon. She obliviously carried on while Eragon spluttered. Regardless of whether or not you have a mate, your body is still preparing for the possibility of gaining and keeping one, and your metabolism will pay for it.

Then when does mating season start? I don't feel anything... unusual yet.

You were only turned a few days ago, not-so-little one. Your body must be still adjusting. Mating season begins around the start of autumn, except for couples with eggs or young offspring. It helps cut down on overpopulation, as wild eggs will hatch on time only if there's enough resources to sustain them. It's late summer now, and guess who has no little dragons...

Eragon groaned. It had taken a change of species to shake the lingering feelings he'd harbored for Arya and now he'd had to suffer it all over again for his dragon! When does mating season end?

The hormones don't fully die down until the start of winter, or until the female conceives, Saphira answered blithely. Nothing a little enchantment from Arya won't solve. Go find somewhere safe. I'll go grab us something to eat.

But I'm not-

Hush. She placed a metaphorical finger to his mental lips. This isn't just about eating. Gods know how long you'll remain a dragon until we can rendezvous with Glaedr and Oromis. There's some... hesitation you're going to have to get over to survive that long.

Before Eragon could interrogate her, she swiftly turned, ducking under his white body as she flapped off back to camp. With a sigh of defeat, he sullenly obeyed her wishes, flying further into the Burning Plains in search of a safe place to land.

Despite lingering hopes that his transformation could be reversed, Eragon had already grudgingly accepted he likely would never be human again. Arya's memories had certainly shown him just how fortunate he was to even have completed one change of species, let alone two! Already, he felt the love he had secretly harbored even after her blatant rejection beginning to finally fade, his passions cooled by their complete incompatibility.

But relinquishing the few things that made him feel like himself still killed him, as if giving them up even for the transformation's duration meant kissing humanity goodbye for good.

Eating the deer Saphira had generously provided him had gone against every one of Oromis's teachings. Yet the beast within had roared for nourishment, and Eragon couldn't bring himself to willingly starve. He had kept the deer down by promising himself it would be the last meat he would ever have to consume.

And then Arya had popped his bubble...

With his time as a dragon indeterminable, Eragon doubted Saphira would catch and kill his prey much longer. Even the most devoted mothers forced their growing offspring out into the world to provide for themselves. And, while his dragon would gladly tear down a fortress to rescue him from torture and imprisonment, not even she would lower herself into becoming his care-giver.

Saphira arrived with a limp cow in her claws. Eragon hoped it was already dead... until he looked into its wide eyes.

Catching sight of certain death, the cow went into a frenzy, thrashing and mooing desperately in a skilled huntress's inescapable grip.

A cow? Eragon spluttered. A cow from the Varden's pens? A cow that's supposed to feed our men!?

The head cook wasn't about to say that, Saphira sniffed. He was willing to give me the entire herd if I only stopped spooking the livestock and his workers. Be glad that I only took two; one for myself and one for... 'later.'

Couldn't you just-

Hunt? Saphira nodded at the barren landscape. Help yourself to the dust and the puny scavengers. Of course, they've all been feeding off-

Okay, okay, point taken! He winced at the cow's bawling. But what-

Dragon mothers don't kill prey for their hatchlings forever, Saphira drawled. Eventually they start bringing back live animals to practice with. The experience will help you for you first real hunt, as I'm certainly not feeding you for gods know how long!

So now I'm your hatchling ?

Aye, until you can care for yourself like a proper dragon! Bottoms up!

Swooping down low, Saphira released her hold on the thrashing cow. The bovine remarkably landed on its hooves, blinking in bewilderment. Common sense kicked in. The cow made a break for the open plains.

Torn between his respect for life and his desire to prove his independence, Eragon gawked hopelessly after it.

Maybe I should just let it go, but it'd just starve out there, or Saphira would catch it and I'd be a f... hungry!

Instinct reared its head like a provoked serpent. He lunged, claws catching the cow's flank, dragging it down with brute strength. His fangs found its throat, endings its misery with a final choked moo. Flipping HIS kill over, he growled possessively at the potential thief, and began to feast.

Saphira landed cautiously, snarling instinctively back at the other dragon. Her own first kill had been prolonged and messy. It had taken her a damned eternity to find the little bird's throat! But Eragon, or whatever was controlling him, had far more than mere instinct behind his movements.

Eragon, the same gentle soul who had gingerly taken each reluctant bite of doe as if he would cough it back up, devoured his prey with the voracity of a starved wolf pack. Unless her Rider was starving, Saphira could never understand such savagery from him, and he had eaten only yesterday!

The white creature did not look up from his prey, but his eyes still burned into her heart of hearts; burning, blue, and purged of all that familiar human brown.

Snarling warningly at the stranger, she hunkered down a safe distance as he ripped his way through the cow, waiting until raw instinct subsided enough for true communication. If he was anything more than raw instinct.

Back in Yazuac, an entire village slaughtered by the orders of a capricious and wrathful king, at the sight of a crow tearing into a baby who would never make it to adulthood, Eragon had burned in his fury. His anger over Garrow's death had smoldered impotently within him before Saphira had tempered his darkness into resolve to make things right. But, while his uncle's murderers were not in Yazuac that day, the Urgals had certainly been.

In a deep, dark corner of his mind, Eragon still wondered if he had only acted to save his own skin. Or if he had discovered his magic not out of self-protection, but out of justice for a fallen village he could not even lay to rest.

And then the Ra'zac had sought to steal something more precious than life from his Saphira. When the fire within him had reared again, had he purposefully stepped aside to unleash hell upon them?

But, regardless of whether Eragon believed his motives driven by sheer instinct or cold, ruthless vengeance, he had always ceded control to that inner force willingly.

Until he blinked open his eyes to a pile of gnawed and bloody bones he last remembering as a living, breathing, bawling cow.

His gaze flicked down to red-stained white paws. His tongue ran over dried, iron-tasting crust caking his muzzle. His stomach remained silent and content with a full capacity of warm flesh. Saphira, a cautious distance away, growled at him as if he had transformed into Shruikan.

Her eyes caught his, widening in confusion and relief-

Eragon stumbled away from the corpse on ungainly dragon legs, his stomach heaving like a stormy sea as he fought the urge to wretch. Or perhaps he wanted to-

Something brushed up against his mind, its connection winding further down in his subconsciousness than even Saphira dared to tread. Adversely familiar and absolutely alien, it penetrated every corner of his self, casually scrutinizing him. Finally, it gave a breathy sigh of something resembling satisfaction, contentment rolling off in lazy waves.

Eragon snarled aloud. His mental barriers immediately sprang up, air-tight and unyielding, shutting even Saphira out of his innermost sanctum.

From the bowels of his mind, the invader brushed back with silent bemusement.

Sparks flew from the white dragon's nostrils as he furiously prodded back, trying to forcibly dislodge the unwelcome guest. Eragon instantly recoiled, hissing in pain as if he had tried to rip out his own ha... scales.

What are you? he roared, mental shields crashing down, not even expecting an answer.

Hungry, a masculine voice simply replied. At least, I was hungry. We were hungry, until I took care of it, because you obviously weren't.

Eragon lurched back, trying to retreat back into his own private mind. The voice followed him back, its irritation underscored with amusement.

Don't you want your question answered? Always so damned curious, like a hatchling just out of the egg, and only now do you choose to go scampering back to your mother!

Eragon rounded on the stranger, his impulsive rage outweighing both fear and common sense. How-

I am Eridor, and, in a way, I am you. A grim, triumphant pause. Or rather... you are me.

Chapter Text

Saphira gawked at Eragon as if he had sprouted another head. The other dragon's eyes had dimmed back to their blue-brown color, but remained wide and terrified. His consciousness had fully resurfaced, once again back in control of its own body. However, the foreign entity remained alongside it, rooted in a far corner of Eragon's mind.

You. Are. NOT ME!

Growling, Eragon raked his own talons over his head, the claws harmlessly scraping the some of the toughest scales on his body. His snarl intensified, the desperate cry of a trapped animal prepared to gnaw its own limb off for freedom.

OUT! GET OUT OUT-

Saphira sprang forward, knocking away his raised paw and thumping him on the head for good measure. Eragon! she cried, aghast at the claw-marks left on his formerly pristine silver-white scales. Tearing your own brain out is not the answer. She leaned reassuringly against him, melding their minds and strength together. Let us see if your intruder can fend off both the Rider and his-

No! Eragon guided Saphira deep into his consciousness. The invader remained impassively silent as both dragons brushed over the link that seamlessly entwined his mind with Eragon's. My barriers did nothing, my struggling did nothing, and this will do nothing! He wilted before her, head drooping in resignation. That... thing is right. It IS apart of me.

'It' has a has a gender, the voice interjected. And a name.

Saphira's eyes narrowed skeptically. Maybe some inept magician had blundered into her Rider's mind and was unable to find his way back out. It was better than a total stranger stuck inside Eragon's head with their bond. Oh? Because the moment your body's tracked down, I'm going to-

My body? the voice snorted. You're welcome to the bones. Or was I burned...

Chills shot down Saphira's spine like lightning. Master Glaedr had once warned her and Eragon against the temptation of taking in one of their mind's permanently alongside the other if their body was mortally injured. The stress of the constant closeness would drive them both mad, or prove too much strain on the brain that housed them, causing total shut-down of the body. And if this parasite's true vessel was long gone, who knew how many innocents he'd destroyed in clinging to this mockery of life!

The invader mentally shook himself as both Eragon and Saphira wallowed over his foreboding words. There I go rambling again! My name is, was, and always will be Eridor, son of Vanilor and Ocurni, mate and father to dragons long dead, and last official King of the wild dragons.

Eragon's first thought was that the name 'Eridor' sounded really, really familiar. Secondly, that this 'Eridor' considered himself a dragon, and then...

THE Eridor? The white dragon groaned. Great. Now a part of me is either insane or possessed by an egotistical spirit.

More like you are apart of me, Eridor hissed venomously. I lived and died before your grandparents, at least one pair of them, ever breathed their first. I cried alongside you as an infant, urged you to hunt in the Spine for your family's sake, and it was I who pushed your cowardice aside when Saphira's egg first landed before us. To take destiny into your own hands. It was I who chose to be reborn.

Reborn? Saphira narrowed her eyes suspiciously. The consciousness perishes with the body. Surely you were there when Glaedr taught us this.

Ah. The grim demonstration with the rat? the so-called king sniffed. Honestly, Saphira, I never thought you to be close-minded. Do you really believe the same powers that govern a little pest's soul, if you can even call such a primitive collection of instinct and memories a soul, also apply to dragons? If the soul is snuffed out with bodily death, then how am I speaking to you now?

Eragon heaved a raspy sigh, tired of arguing with himself. How do we know you're telling the truth?

Eridor responded by lightly tugging his host's mind, inviting him into memories he had guarded so jealously before. Reluctantly, Eragon allowed himself to be guided into a recollection not his own.

Two sisters, white and green, tugged at his tail, trying to drag him off the third white sister he had pinned down. His little brother brooded in a corner, nursing a bite to the shoulder. Mother had went hunting, meaning the oppressive figure that had forbidden all rough-housing had gone.

Only Father-King remained, silently encouraging their play by doing nothing to stop it. The massive gray dragon lay lazily on his side, watching his hatchlings with one half-open red eye that sharply followed every swipe, every bite, every pathetic little growl. Though his latest brood did not know it at the time, his true name was Vanilor, the one wild dragon that wielded enough raw power to halt a fully-trained Rider in its tracks. And he watched every hatchling, no matter how small or cowardly, knowing that the child destined to defeat him lay hidden in this brood...

Father, King no longer, lay gasping and bleeding beneath his paws. Father- Vanilor, the godlike figure that had dominated over his life since hatching, had been defeated by him.

But how was that even possible? He was just Eridor, dwarfed in size and experience by so many worthier brothers and sisters. Thinking back, he couldn't even remember how he had conquered such a massive, powerful opponent.

Countless dragons, kin and kith and complete strangers, watched him intently from every crag, following his every move, counting every second of disbelief. They were his judges, those who would either deem him worthy of his sire's crown, or swarm upon him until he breathed no more.

Father gazed up at his son, his young, unworthy son, red eyes burning with savage... pride? At long last, the stone-gray dragon stilled his struggles, exposing his neck in the ultimate symbol of submission. Once-King Vanilor, who had brutally stomped down all challengers before this one runty hatchling, had named his successor.

The audience threw back their heads and roared. Blue eyes burning with new-found majesty, he joined them, his voice unifying their calls into a single bellow that rocked the very mountains. Even the ancestors, gradually disappearing as night gave way to dawn, must have woken up to hear the decree: King Eridor had risen, ruler of all those that did not belong to the Shur'tugal...

The stream of memories faded. Eridor shoved against Eragon's mind, his welcome had been overstayed. The other dragon stoutly resisted, too caught up in times long past to willingly let go.

Fire-hearted Jadine, jealous Uvuna, even arrogant Sharoth, all bowed down to him. But, of course, it was Jarshan that chanted the name of their new ruler the loudest: Eridor, Eridor, Eridor!

Vanilor and Ocurni had vanished during the celebrations to find a new home on the fringes of their kind. Their time as the shining center of wild dragon society had come and gone. There would be no more hatchlings, no more pandering to the Riders or any other ruler; just well-deserved peace before the stars finally welcomed them into their ranks...

A blue she-dragon lay at his paws, he unable to even reach her. Blood stained her scales while her unseeing eyes had clouded over.

It was impossible. Unreal. A nightmare beyond his worst fears.

Safiri, his one true mate, mother of his hatchlings, one half of his soul, was-

ENOUGH!

Eragon forcibly catapulted back into his body, sent sprawling by internal force. He lay on the ground silently, burning with shame as Eridor's words scorched him further.

You know all that needed to be said, and then some, the elder dragon snarled. Good day to you both.

Like shadows before sunlight, Eridor slipped away, vanishing deep into Eragon's mind. Saphira shook her head as if to free it from lingering malice, growling reproachfully.

Thankfully you couldn't do that to Brom, or else I don't think we would have ever gotten out of the Spine! she snapped. That prissy dragon must be that one that transformed you, and now he may be the only capable of changing you back. And now he hates you -himself- whatever the hell you two are to each other!

Eragon pushed his head deeper into the dirt, wishing only it would swallow him up and end his misery.

For a long moment, Saphira scowled down at him, her dirt-stained Rider-turned-overgrown-hatchling. Finally, she sighed in affectionate exasperation. I sensed your damned insatiable curiosity the moment you touched my egg. She gave him a fanged smile. I chose you partly for your hunger for knowledge, because you would be a fast learner, though I knew it as both a weakness and strength. It was only the matter of time before you offended yourself.

Eragon relaxed, relieved at least one part of his soul didn't hate him. But what do we do about Eridor? I can't even feel him anymore.

If what he told us is true, then he can't leave forever. You two are apart of each other. It's only a matter of time before he comes around.

The white dragon rolled his eyes, feeling the utter hopelessness on their part. All they had to depend upon was the pride of a long-dead, over-sensitive prima donna. How long would that take?

Let's see; he's a dragon, the proudest of all creatures, and a King to boot... Optimistically, I'd say a century or two.

He smacked back down into the dirt with a dismayed groan.

At least I know where he got it from, Saphira muttered to herself.

Saphira, already emotionally exhausted from a rather trying day with both Eragon and Eridor, did not have much patience to spare for the absent, touchy dragon. At least Eragon was blessed enough to fall into an afternoon nap, lulled by a full belly and the afternoon heat. She was not so fortunate.

Restlessly, Saphira polished her scales until they glittered like polished gemstones. She raked her claws into the loose earth, drawing miniature landscapes until she had recreated Alagaesia. When all else failed, she set the remnants of the cow alight, watching halfheartedly as her flames quickly burned the bones to ash and smoking embers.

Bored, are we?

Tensing, Saphira snapped her head up, ready to tear the threat to her Rider's secret into bloody pieces. Seeing only Solembum, she quickly reigned in her temper. Of course the meddlesome werecat had found them. He and Angela were drawn to juicy secrets like flies to the corpse.

Careful to not knock the shape-shifter over, Saphira nudged him in greetings. Solembum. I didn't hear you arrive.

Rasping his tongue over the fur she had mussed up, he nonchalantly replied, Of course you didn't hear me. Not even dragons can hear creatures that move silently as shadows. His glittering crimson eyes locked on Eragon's sleeping form. So the witch hasn't gone senile yet. The King of the wild dragons lives again.

King? Eragon is-

No, Solembum deadpanned. The other, he has awakened, aye?

Eridor? Saphira shivered in dread. His soul is somehow connected to Eragon's, and is undoubtedly responsible for his transformation, but my Rider has not been overtaken by such a parasite.

Solembum cocked his head, scrutinizing both dragons as if they were both mice. I am old, Brightscales, far older than you. I remember the days dragons wild and bonded flew free before the Fall, just as I remember their last King. And he- he jerked his head at the white dragon -is his splitting image. Smaller, not as scarred, maybe a tinge more silver, but still a young Eridor all the same.

Saphira processed this slowly, eyes narrowing at how the familiar brown of her Rider's human irises had been partially consumed by that burning blue. Are you saying Eridor is consuming Eragon's soul?

Of course not, the werecat sniffed, or else we would not be talking about your Rider in the present tense. Eridor has years of power and experience over him. Had he wished, the King could have swallowed up every last trace of Eragon and take his place entirely. But instead Eridor chose to only partially manifest himself. Hm... two entwined, aware souls sharing a body both have rightful claim over... I wonder how long it'll take for them to completely fall apart.

WHAT!

The black werecat streaked off, barely evading the burst of blue fire Saphira hurled after him before, and vanished amongst the rocks that dotted the landscape.

Partly unfurling her wings, Saphira seriously considered hunting Solembum down and forcing the answers out of him. However, the werecat was far smaller and more agile than she was, capable of dancing around her blows. And the Varden would certainly wonder why a full-grown she-dragon was torturing a witch's companion like that. Why tire herself out and arouse unwanted suspicion?

Settling back down, Saphira refused sleep, watching over Eragon like a sentinel. She had no idea how Eridor would further affect her Rider, but she was certainly not giving him any opportunity of possession ever again.

Still, even she couldn't help but smile like an idiot when the white male unconsciously nuzzled closer to her warmth.

Galbatorix, Black King of Alagaesia, lounged back in his throne, idly rubbing the glittering black stone set in that plain silver ring. Shruikan lay curled around around him, but his presence didn't even warrant an acknowledgement. The skeletal black dragon (the shadow of one) was only a puppet, an avatar to be used to strike fear and awe into the common masses. Shruikan was limp, his eyelids partly shut over dead white eyes. The crippled soul within the Eldundari was predictably silent, sealed off and brooding on his own hopeless predicament.

"Aye," the King commented snidely. "A wonderful way to spend an afternoon." His onyx-black eyes never left the ornate golden bowl perched on his lap, nor the ordinary water it held.

The clear water darkened, becoming an opaque black that blotted out the bowl's golden bottom. Galbatorix smiled warmly when Murtagh's pale face manifested. He stood against a gloomy gray backdrop, undoubtedly one of Helgrind's cavern walls. Smoke drifted over the image, meaning Thorn lurked out of view.

"Greetings, my servant." Galbatorix's smile widened into a smirk when the other man flinched at his welcoming tone. "How fare the Ra'zac? I've been so worried ever since they failed to check in recently."

Most of his inferiors quaked like saplings in the wind when they had to address him personally. But Murtagh was skilled in shielding his weaknesses from the all-knowing mind of his master. He was proud like a wild dragon of old, unable to be bowed despite his current circumstances. Galbatorix could respect that: he'd had enough human incompetence (far too much) in the last century to last him a lifetime.

"My Lord," Murtagh began, "I am regretful to report that the entire family, Ra'zac and Lethrblaka, are..."

Of course Galbatorix had already suspected that. He needed only confirmation. "Aye, Murtagh?"

"Dead," the other Rider answered without preamble. "All four are dead. I stumbled across ashes and charred bone fragments. My magic tells me this is all that remains of them."

Unnervingly silent, the King processed this thoughtfully. The sides of Helgrind were steep, too step for anyone to climb up without the aid of magic. Unless they had bypassed the climb entirely...

The rebel Dragon Rider! Of course, the damn fool and his she-dragon must have taken vengeance for the old man's murder. Or to save that cousin's bitch, whichever. But the boy is too impulsive to have considered protective enchantments; neither his magic nor dragon-fire should have worked!

No, gods dammit! He was thinking the wrong way. Unconventional reasoning, against what he had been taught (brainwashed by the apes), had made the Order so damned easy to topple. Ambushes and guerrilla warfare had obliterated Rider numbers in a few short seasons. So the boy and his she-dragon must have faced the Ra'zac and two fully-grown Lethrblaka without their greatest strengths. What miracle would have ensured their victory?

Unless they hadn't been without magic. What can possibly be strong enough to break my wards?

Galbatorix had known of a dragon once with flames hot enough to burn through magic. But that meddlesome King had perished decades ago, and his power had died with him, not having been passed on to his rightful successor. His numerous descendents had been ruthlessly hunted down, but none had shown any hint of his abilities, no more than what was usual to the royal line. So, if the wards had been burned away by Kingly fire, who had ignited the blaze?

And then Galbatorix remembered a passing comment Jarshan had made soon after seizing power from Eridor, something about his brother's unyielding stubbornness...

If there was ever to a creature that would claw its way back up from the void of death, Galbatorix did not doubt it would be a dragon.

"So," he murmured to the pitifully small Eldunari upon his ring, "this is what all of you have been hiding from me." Turning back to the scrying bowl, he addressed Murtagh: "Did you consult with your dragon, my servant? What does Thorn have to say of this?"

The Dragon Rider remained uneasily silent.

Of course, Galbatorix groused to the miserable mind sulking in his ring. Only that boy could be distant with a part of his soul. Sometimes I think Thorn only hatched to be free of his egg!

"Go on, already!" he snapped. Behind him, Shruikan shifted, giving a husky growl. "What does Thorn feel?"

Thorn's red form came into view as the dragon did his best to respectfully acknowledge his master. He may not have been able to speak to Galbatorix personally over long distances, and was forced to use Murtagh as his mouthpiece, but Galbatorix valued the effort. At least one dragon follower could show their King proper deference.

"My Lord, Thorn says he feels a linger presence here." Murtagh paused thoughtfully. "It is as if a fire burned away every last trace of the Ra'zacs' malice. Thorn feels as if his heart of hearts is singing in joy, though he does not know why."

"Of course not." The King sniffed condescendingly. "The distractions of a corporeal body impede his concentration."

That explained why Thorn had not reacted like the Eldunarya had. Even Shruikan, though his physical form still breathed, was only indirectly connected to it. But if even this oblivious hatchling could sense such power when it was underneath his nose...

Galbatorix leaned back against his throne, failing to conceal his pleased smirk. A dead dragon had manifested itself, more or less, in its reincarnation. Four living dragons had spontaneously become five. Eridor had opened up a whole new avenue of possibilities: if he could return, surely others dormant inside their hosts could awaken, resurrecting the dragon race (back where they belonged)?

But first Eridor, or his transformed reincarnation, whatever the hell he was now, had to be retrieved and studied thoroughly to discover how such a miracle had even occurred. And who had been present at Helgrind that fateful day? The last she-dragon and her-

The Rider!

"Murtagh, if Thorn flies at top speed, how quickly do you think you can reach the Varden's camp in the Burning Plains?"

"A day and a night, my Lord." He appeared indifferent, but his eyes betrayed confusion. (clueless fool, no better than his brother!)

Galbatorix gave a predator's smirk, his black eyes glittering hungrily. Soon now, his dreams would become living and breathing reality. He needed only to verify his wild thoughts, to assure himself this was not an old man's fantasy. (oh, the fragility of a human mind!)

"My servant, I do believe now is the perfect time to collect our missing she-dragon and her Rider." Murtagh opened his mouth to protest, but quickly thought better of it (wise little hatchling). "After all, our forces haven't retreated too far from the battlefield. The Empire can yet make a victory out of this..."

Chapter Text

Dark clouds smothered the sky above, turning the night even darker. Small pinpricks of light, the lanterns of the night vigils, floated across the barren across the landscape like phantom stars. The world, even those so far above it, held their collective breath and waited for the storm to break...

Every time Angela settled down to sleep, she would just as quickly jump up and restlessly pace her tent like a caged animal (oh, the irony). Foreboding hang hot and heavy in the air, a suffocating smog that seeped deep into her soul, deep enough to rekindle the dormant inner flame she had carried since birth.

Emerald spell-fire crackled merrily in the center of her tent, smokeless and well-controlled, bathing her makeshift lair in an eerie green glow. A way to set the mood for any witch.

Angela hunched over her dragon bones, fingers gently stroking their well-smoothed surfaces. Her hazel eyes glowed green with a light independent of the enchanted flames. Gathering up the priceless pieces in her hands, she smiled and tossed the bones as high as she could. Some clattered to the ground, blank and temporarily forgotten. Those with something to say, however, eagerly landed before her slitted pupils.

A white orb on black, smaller than it had been the last time, ready to splutter out once and for all against an oppressive darkness. Angela frowned in displeasure.

A high possibility of death in the near future. Hmph. There goes the fun before it really got good.

On the next knuckle bone, a sword and spear crossed to form an 'X.' A human head was skewered onto the spear while the sword was etched in an all-too-familiar shade of red. Blood and mutilation. A great and bloody battle that would shake the foundations of civilization, perhaps even tear them down for good. By the ominous night, Angela sensed on the skirmishes escalating up to that level would break out soon.

And more whining soldiers to tend to.

Angela sighed, running a hand through her curly brown hair. There were signs of rebirth or something actually interesting tonight. Only the grim reality of more destruction and bloodshed, the spawn of a decades-old war. Even worse, there was no snippy werecat around to complain to.

Green eyes roving over the bones, Angela checked the blank ones on the ground, confirming her theory. It seemed the only secrets they wanted to divulge tonight ended in further carnage. Shame, she had actually been looking forward to her next reading...

Wait! What was that, under a knuckle bone? Shifting the blank piece aside with an acid-green nail, the witch grinned at what lay concealed beneath it.

"Oh, Anea, you tease."

Fire. Blue fire. An impressive feat for a set of knuckle bones that didn't like showing anything beyond blood-red and the gray spectrum range.

"King fire," Angela muttered aloud, grinning manically at the thought. Oh, if only Solembum was here! How I'd love to rub this in his furry face!

Gathering up the bones into their pouch, the witch tightly tied the bag shut and dropped it securely into her shirt, where only the suicidally stupid would dare reach. At least now she could sleep soundly. After all, Nasuada would hardly want her to sleep through the upcoming battle, especially one that promised such an entertaining show.

Blinking open his eyes, Eragon looked groggily about him. Saphira had edged up next to him in her slumber, unconsciously seeking the warmth and protection of a fellow dragon. Smiling at the endearing sight, he fondly nuzzled the sleeping she-dragon. Such closeness in his current state may have been awkward when they both were awake, but gods dammit, Saphira could still be so adorable when she wasn't up and snarking at-

Hackles rising, Eragon slipped away from Saphira's side, craning his head upward to study the sky. The sun was just inching up the horizon, wreathed not in the usual array of yellows and oranges, but drowned by a tide of scarlet intense to even a dragon's blue-sensitive eyes. He could have sworn such a sun had risen for the Battle of the Burning Plains, its promise of bloodshed fulfilled by the end of the day.

Far in the east, to where the remnants of Galbatorix's forces still camped, came a thunderous rhythm, the beat of a giant heart. A snarling Saphira jumped to her paws. Eragon joined her with a fierce growl, recognizing the beat of marching soldiers, the din of clanking armor all too well, though their numbers sounded far fewer than before. Thorn himself flew above the Imperial army, his red scales nearly blending into the blood sky.

He glanced back at the Varden's camp. Even from this distance he saw armor and weapons flashing against the sunlight as soldiers readied for the assault.

Eragon spread his wings, determined to come to the rebellion's aid. He may have no longer had Zar'roc or devastating magic, but he had fire, and lots of it. Plenty enough to roast the enemies alive in their chain mail.

Saphira's mind clamped firmly down on his rage. Don't you remember, Eragon? The Empire is not to find out about your weakness!

But I can still help, Saphira! he argued hotly. I'm not just going to sit here and watch everyone else be harmed further by Galbatorix's men! I have a responsibility to them and to you!

Your responsibility is not to get yourself captured or killed, Saphira replied coldly. Are souls are linked, remember? Would you wish your own suffering upon me by getting yourself foolishly injured?

But-

You have no idea how to fight in a dragon's body. Now stay back; Blodgharm's forces and I are strong enough to crush Murtagh and his traitorous dragon without your help. Bellowing a challenge, the she-dragon rocketed into the air, colliding head-on with Thorn in a burst of sapphire flame.

Huffing in frustration, Eragon frantically beat his wings to maintain a low hover so he had a better view of the battle. Nasuada and Orrin headed their respective forces, clashing with the Imperials before the opposing army could reach their camp and the wounded and civilians sheltered within. The Du Vrangr Gata had fanned out, the strongest members hunting down rival magicians while the weakest hung back to heal the wounded.

Thorn and Saphira flew above the chaos, locked in a deadly battle of their own. They continually clashed, their fangs snapping at vulnerable points while their thrashing paws held the other at bay. Though smaller, the red dragon was protected by dark gray armor that shielded his weakest regions. Saphira hadn't the time to be suited up, and had only her own hide to deflect the other's blows. At least Thorn's back was bare, meaning Murtagh had chosen to battle on foot, no doubt trying to avoid another one-on-one clash with his counterpart.

Looking carefully, Eragon spotted his brother in the center of the carnage, cutting down all stood in his path. Zar'roc twirled about him with inhuman speed, its blade thirsty for blood. Blodgharm and his elves swiftly swarmed to meet him, a few meeting the Dragon Rider in direct combat. Most hung back, negating Murtagh's devastating magic with their own defensive spells and giving the surrounding soldiers a fair chance. Combined the thirteen elves held their own, but Eragon doubted even they could defeat Galbatorix's servant without fighting for hours to wear him down.

Eragon turned back to Saphira, far more concerned for her than elves fully capable of protecting themselves. Thorn could rely upon his Rider to provide him extra strength. Saphira, her mind firmly cut off from Eragon's for his own protection, had no such support.

Saphira did her damned best to defend herself, but her blows did next to nothing on a heavily armored opponent. Thorn, while slower, struck back with far stronger hits. Even now, she tired against deflecting them, her movements becoming sluggish. Thorn relentlessly hammered down on her, his ironclad oaths allowing no mercy.

The two dragons were lost in the rage of combat, their sentient minds having given way to pure instinct. Eragon knew in his heart of hearts Saphira would gladly choose death over the hellish destiny that awaited her at Urubaen. Thorn, incensed by her infuriating defiance, was determined to beat her into obedience. Without Riders upon their backs to chasten their brutality and reason unable to penetrate the angry haze that clouded their minds, this was surely a fight to the death, one with a painfully clear victor.

Eragon hopelessly watched the horribly unmatched fight from a distance, wanting only to tear the other dragon's throat out, despite knowing it would mean instant death or capture for himself. He couldn't do that, not if Saphira also had to suffer for it...

Saphira lay just feet away from him, broken and battered. The Lethrblaka had ripped and teared into her hide with their cruel beaks and claws. She was unconscious now, seemingly dead to the world.

He wanted to rise up and slaughter every last one of the bastards who had harmed his Saphira so, but he was bound to the floor by his own weakness and inability, only able to lie there like a fool while his bonded was to suffer a fate worse than death...

Just seconds before, his Safiri had been a defiant Queen in all her majesty. Now she was beyond him, a gaping wound in his heart where she had once resided. And like a pinned mouse beneath the cat's claws, he lay beside her corpse, powerless to stop her from slipping away...

The last memory was not his own. Eridor had surfaced from the depths of his subconscious, bringing with him his memories and the glorious, all-consuming power he had wielded in life. Eragon no longer shied away from his presence, desperately reaching out for the one being that could save his Saphira.

Eragon and Eridor, two unlikely spirits connected only by rebirth, different in so many ways yet stemming from a common soul, depended upon the other. Eragon was powerless in a foreign body. Eridor no longer had a corporeal form to manifest his magic. The two united, their minds in perfect harmony, as they struggled to save their she-dragon.

Lend me your power, Eragon intoned, so that I may no longer be helpless to protect my Saphira.

Lend me your body, Eridor whispered back, so that I may repay the mate I failed so long ago.

Eridor called upon his kingly might, channeling all of it into Eragon's body. United with its wielder, Eragon was no longer overwhelmed by such raw power, but felt it surging through his very veins, pumping new strength into his pounding heart. He relinquished himself to the blaze, willingly fusing with an ancient magic that predated even the creation of modern magic.

Together, the two souls threw back their head and bellowed, releasing their fury as a bloodcurdling challenge. As one, they surged toward their she-dragon, determined to not have a mere little hatchling break their promise to her.

Even Saphira, proud as she was, knew it was a matter of time before her strength failed her. Exhaustion slowed her body down, dulling her movements and straining her aching muscles. She pumped her wings furiously, fighting against the haze to keep aloft. Soon she would fall to the raging tide of soldiers below, lost to the battle like a little bird against the sea.

Saphira had long since given up any chance of an offense. She just concentrated on raising her forearms to keep Thorn from raking his claws down her sides and butted his head back whenever his jaws went snapping for her throat. The red male seemingly struck with the strength of three dragons, her bones nearly cracking as he slammed his full weight into them. His claws had gouged out the scales above one eye, sending scarlet blood gushing down into her face.

Saphira had no intent of admitting defeat. She'd rather drag Thorn down with her than be forced to mother his and Shruikan's spawn!

When the dragon's claws lashed out again, she reared upward, taking the hit meant for her chest to her heavily armored belly. Winded, Saphira panted frantically for air when Thorn's paw slammed down upon her head.

She was nearly blinded now, the blood poring into her eyes and her opponent's crimson scales blurring into a red haze. Black ringed her vision. She would gladly allow the darkness to engulf her if it meant escaping further-

A deafening roar split the air, one that sent the ache and exhaustion fleeing from her bones. Thorn fluttered frightfully away from her.

Free of her tormentor, Saphira blinked her eyes rapidly to clear them of the blood. Vision unhindered, she gazed upon the embodiment of fire and fury. It was as if the god of dragons himself had descended from the heavens to protect his final she-dragon. The battle below had ceased, all humans craning their heads to gaze up at the newcomer. The Imperial soldiers were pale-faced with terror while the men of the rebellion held only awe in their eyes. The snow-white dragon radiated power like a star would light. His eyes burned a brilliant, all-consuming blue.

Saphira looked into that blazing gaze and drew comfort from it, as she would from a mother or mate. Thorn, however, gaped at the dragon as if he were facing death incarnate.

Eragon -or was it Eridor?- gave Thorn a scorching glare that could have charred his flesh. Though hardly bigger than the crimson male, Saphira had no doubt the white dragon could crush him and the entire Imperial army like insects. The dragon bellowed another challenge, sending the soldiers below into hysterics. Most Imperials turned tail and fled, the rebels pursuing them with renewed blood-lust. Only the bravest (Murtagh among them) boldly defied common sense.

Prodded into it by his Rider, Thorn slowly turned to face certain doom, reluctantly roaring back. He flew awkwardly, showing only his heavily armored underside to Eridor (Eragon?) as if that alone could save his life.

The god-dragon paused in consideration. Saphira wondered which one of its controllers was pressing for mercy. Parting his jaws, he unleashed a torrent of blindingly blue fire aimed directly at Thorn. The air around the flames shimmered with the intense heat, so hot the soldiers below broke out in sweat.

The supernatural fire burned through the armor as if it were parchment. The scales beneath were scorched, now the color of blistered skin rather than a deep crimson. At least his charred remains weren't raining down on his Rider.

Thorn reeled back with a pained scream that sent the last of the Empire's forces scattering. The elves momentarily distracted by the display, Murtagh ran for it with inhuman speed, clutching his own stomach with his dragon's shared agony. Saphira snarled after them in disdain, shooting one last burst of flame to singe the heels of the stragglers.

The white dragon threw back his head and bugled his victory to the heavens, his fellow rebels raising their weapons and adding in their own triumphant yells. Saphira had opened her mouth to add one of her own when she noticed her companion's confident wing-beats beginning to falter.

His burning blue eyes faded to a normal intensity, losing their brilliant glow. The godlike power he radiated spluttered out like a candle before the winter wind, leaving Saphira chilled by its absence. Eyes rolling back into his head, a white dragon that was now certainly Eragon plummeted helplessly to earth.

Saphira dove to intercept his fall. Blodgharm and his spellweavers beat her to it, a spell leaving the white body suspended limply in the air as if supported by invisible hands that slowly lowered him down to the ground. The soldiers scrambled back to make room for the massive form, keeping as far a distance as physically possible.

Saphira was the first to reach Eragon's side. Snarling warningly at the magicians that surged forward to help, she protectively placed herself between them and her fallen Rider, enveloping his presence to conceal it from prying minds. She nudged his head gently with her snout, the touch causing him to stir.

S-Saphira? Even his mental voice was rough and forced as if he had just endured a terrible storm. The human brown had vanished entirely from his eyes, but despite their bright blue color, Saphira knew the soul of her Rider stared out from them. You're safe.

The she-dragon tenderly pressed down on his wavering thoughts with wave upon wave of serenity. Hush, little one, she soothed, easing him into a blank bliss. Sleep. You've earned it.

He relaxed, white eyelids closing peacefully over his burning gaze. Nuzzling him a final time as if to assure he was merely asleep and not dead, Saphira rose to face the bewildered crowd. All of them, though obviously grateful about their savior's untimely arrival, were undoubtedly wondering where in the seven hells he had come from.

It was Trianna who forced her way to the front, meeting the she-dragon's gaze with only the slightest involuntary flinch. Remembering how this sorceress had once sought to manipulate her Rider through charm and seduction all those months ago, Saphira clamped tighter down on her mental barricades over Eragon's mind. "Dragon Brightscales?" she began, blue eyes riveting to the white male passed out at her paws. "May I politely ask who our new... champion is?"

A newcomer, Saphira announced, broadcasting her words to the entire crowd, though her cool glare never left Trianna. A dragon who joined our cause just a few days ago. Before now, only Lady Nasuada and Arya Drottningu, and most recently Master Blodgharm and his spellweavers, were trusted with the knowledge of his existence. My Rider and I discovered him in Helgrind, the lair of the late Ra'zac.

"Galbatorix's servants?" Trianna exclaimed. "Then how do we know he can be trusted?"

Grinning, Saphira gave the honest answer (even if the second part applied only to Eridor.) Of course he can be trusted, for he is the true King of the wild dragons.

Chapter Text

A white dragon god descending from on high, six-horned (like the bastard!), with burning flames that melted magically-reinforced armor like butter. A single roar that sent the great Imperial army scattering like mice-

The King in all his royal Wrath, burning, blazing, coming for HIM-

Greedily, Galbatorix pored through Thorn and his Rider's memories, savoring each one like a connoisseur would fine wine. Murtagh droned incessantly in the background about unimportant things like causalities and reinforcements.

"My Lord, if you were to grant me an elite force of your best Black Hands, I could easily set up an ambush for both dragons. All they need to do is stray from the camp's protection and-"

"No, Murtagh." The King of Alagaesia reclined in his throne, willing Shruikan's head into his lap. He stroked the black dragon's head idly, even as the soul inside the Eldunari shrank away from his touch. "The she-dragon and her King can wait for the moment."

His servant (imbecilic little upstart!) had the gall to challenge him. "My King, if you are really so anxious about capturing these dragons, then why-"

"NOT YET!"

Shruikan's body roared along with him, shaking the throne-room's walls. Murtagh froze while Thorn automatically dropped to the grand in a gesture of submission (smart little rat).

"Recall the soldiers," Galbatorix intoned coldly. "Send them wherever the hell you want. I don't care about them. Just don't touch that false little King and his bitch until..."

Murtagh couldn't contain himself. "Until what, my Lord?"

Galbatorix bared his flat teeth in a fierce snarl, Shruikan's body more effectively mimicking him. For a single moment, he and his inner whisper merged. "Until I can savor it!"

Sleep evaded her again that night. That was no big surprise, considering how many maimed and dying soldiers were still crying over disfiguring and infected wounds. Their moans and screams and cries for their mothers rang in her head even if she took one of Angela's strongest sleeping droughts.

And those were only the thoughts. Her stomach quivered as if barely holding back entrails. Her limbs ached in phantom pain, though clearly she had never had an arm or leg amputated. Her curse drove her to alleviate them all, from the bleeding man moments away from a lonely death on the battlefield to the young child sobbing for his lost father, shredding her heart into a thousand damned tiny pieces.

She would not kneel down and vomit herself into unconsciousness that night, as she had been found on several severely humiliating occasions. She wandered camp as a pale-skinned and violet-eyed spirit, certainly looking the part. The older sentinels all but ignored their little stalker, well accustomed to her antics. The younger man on guard, however, avoided her gaze as if she was some pathetic basilisk of legend.

To pass the lonely nights, she often entertained herself by playing on their fears. She stalked the more paranoid guards on their patrols, glaring holes into their backs before they threatened to rat her out to Angela or ever-irritating Greta. Other times she would prowl in the shadows of the tents, singing childish rhymes in her chilling adult voice. The men too intoxicated to remember she always sounded like that would screaming from their tents and run screaming back when the cold night air hit them.

But there was too much agony for her usual games. So she forced herself to carry on past the endless tents of the wounded, and desperately clutched at the oblivious minds of the dreamers, her last life-line to sanity.

Her restless feet led her through the camp's center, where the tents of the most important figures were located. Even in the darkness, her eyes still made out the crimson red of Nasuada's pavilion. Out of the numerous tents, only Orrin's still glowed. At least he had his inner scientist's silly experiments to keep the maddening nightmares at bay.

Like a moth seeking light, she honed in on the familiar sound of heavy breathing. Saphira had reclaimed her customary spot curled around Eragon's tent, deserted as it was. (Roran and his bride had moved to their own private sleeping quarters the night they had arrived.)

A very rare and secret smile played across her sickly features. Very few things in this new and cursed life gave her joy. Most were bittersweet reminders of an agonizingly ancient past. Like when she had curled up with her brothers and sisters, lulled to sleep by the sounds of their breathing.

A new dragon laid beside Saphira now, one that had unconsciously sidled closer to her in his slumber. He had descended from the heavens only hours ago, a vengeful god who had rained his wrath down upon the treacherous Thorn before succumbing to the divine strength he had channeled through himself. Saphira had proclaimed him King of the wild dragons, a blatant half-truth. The most rebels would recognize was simply called Eragon Shadeslayer.

The idiot boy had always held the soul of a reborn dragon. She had sensed the other since she had first been unceremoniously awakened. A shivering wreck huddled in Angela's tent when the battle had raged, she had heard the description of the King's Wrath, and dismissed his other half as an equally moronic King who had awakened to relive his glory days.

And she had been so positive in her assumption she hadn't thought to look upon the fool with her own human eyes, thinking the dragon long dead and forgotten by her time.

But she knew him. She had last seen him decaying in a lonely cave alongside his mate, both held forever in death's eternal embrace. He was so much smaller now, decades younger, silver-tinted and without his trademark scars. But this was him, her liege, her King, her father in all but blood, her Eridor.

She gaped at him disbelievingly, stumbling back so fast she tripped over her own clumsy feet, getting yet another good look at her pale, near-emaciated, fragile human cage.

No dream, then, no nightmare. Just the wise, beloved Eridor forced to share a soul with some thickheaded boy.

Fury rose up inside her like hot bile, darkening her intense violet eyes and morphing her agape expression into a snarl of rage. In his arrogance Eragon had sought to bless her, to make himself even more impressive in the eyes of his new worshipers. By heeding that senile old woman's plea, he had damned her for a lifetime. She had forcibly awakened to a frail, accursed human's body for her own survival, with only the shriveled remnant of its true occupant for company.

And Eragon is to blame!

Her quivering hand fumbled for the dagger usually always at her side, a poor substitute for proper claws and fangs. Finding her belt bare, she stormed closer, hoping a bare foot to his eye would be enough to-

Glancing over at Saphira, she froze, hand flying to the silver mark gracing her forehead. Saphira (and Safiri) had twice saved her life and soul. They certainly didn't deserve to feel their Rider's (and mate's) agony. And Eridor was in there too, awake and aware and-

Saphira hatched for this boy. Somehow, in idiot Eragon, she knew her King slumbered. He only had to be brought out.

She stepped back, anger dissolving in a soft sigh of resignation. Saphira and Safiri had obviously made their decision and would watch over their bondeds, as always. And it was Eridor had chosen such a moron to be reborn into. And now he was aware of himself again, a merciless guide that would obviously keep his young host on the right path.

Perhaps he is not a complete loss.

Looking over at the two oblivious dragons, her resolve strengthened. Eragon had a long way to go before he could ever earned her acceptance (but never her forgiveness, not ever). And, until that day, her greatest secret would remain hers alone. After all, with Eridor without a corporeal body, even he couldn't be trusted to keep her secret safe when such a child-killer was in control.

"Forgive me, my King," Elva whispered, turning her back to the dragons. "Perhaps one day Shadeslayer will deem himself worthy of truly looking after the next generation."

Within days' time, the last of the Empire's forces had trickled out of the Burning Plains, leaving behind only deserted campsites and the mass graves of their dead. Rather than continue trying to capture not one, but two free dragons, Galbatorix had withdrawn altogether for reasons Arya didn't even try to understand. After all, what sort of madman slaughtered the entire dragon race and then sought to rebuild it from a single female?

But Arya was thankful for the respite; the free time to practice and reflect.

Eragon had adapted to his new reality well enough. Saphira often took him far out into the Burning Plains to become fully accustomed to fighting and flying in his dragon body, far away from prying eyes that could wonder why an adult needed to learn such basic techniques. Those not let into Eragon's secret just suspected the two dragons were doing something far more intimate in their private time. Whenever someone suggested that perhaps the rebellion would soon have more dragons on their side, Arya merely nodded, not acting on either the urge to laugh hysterically or wretch.

However, Eragon had not yet taken an alias. For lack of a better term, he was only referred to as 'King' or 'Majesty,' for the Varden only knew him as the so-called King of the wild dragons. Arya had suggested to just take the name of a famous dead wild dragon. Hell, Eridor's spirit was right alongside him! He could give Eridor's name as his own and not even by lying!

But Eragon had politely refused even that. Sometimes, Arya wondered if even he was giving up hope of ever returning to his true form and planned on revealing his true identity to the world once Galbatorix was no longer a threat.

The human Eragon Shadeslayer remained reclusive, holed up in his tent and laboring over a secret project. At least, that's what many of the rebellion believed, the Council amongst them. The elf guards posted at his tent warded away even the most persistent of visitors. When the human Eragon had to interact with the oblivious public, Blodgharm was always close by to cast a substantial-looking illusion of the Dragon Rider. The real Eragon linked his mind to the elf's, projecting his voice and mannerisms into the illusion. So far, not even those who knew him best had caught on to something about him being offed.

When not watching over Eragon's secret, the Blodgharm and his elves moved freely about camp. Sometimes they practiced their swordplay alongside her. Most often they spent their hours amongst the Du Vrangr Gata, honing their magic and strengthening their defenses against rival magicians. Even proud Trianna was impressed by their progress in so short a time.

Closing her eyes, Arya sighed, relishing the breeze against her face. Even if the red dust dirtied her immaculate clothes and the air wreaked of sulfur, the Burning Plains offered her solace from the camp's constant activity.

If only my headaches didn't follow me!

"Enjoying your quiet time, my Lady?"

Of course she had heard Blodgharm approaching. She had just ignored his presence for as long as possible.

Arya opened her eyes with a cool scowl. The blue-furred elf stood a respectful distance from her, not that it lessened her impulse to slap him. She had made the spell against his bewitching charm permanent days ago. Now it made her only want to gag.

She smiled frostily. "I was, Master Blodgharm, until something disturbed my meditation."

Blodgharm didn't rise to the insult. Instead he stared past her, in the direction Eragon and Saphira had vanished hours ago.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" he murmured. "The dragons?"

Arya nodded. "Aye, they are." Though she knew Eragon was still the same hapless human beneath the scales, she marveled at the graceful power of his false form, the innate majesty even he carried himself with. She had never seen a dragon she could call ugly, and she doubted she ever would.

Blodgharm sighed, and Arya thought she a caught a wistful glimmer in his golden eyes. "Shadeslayer's life is like a legend of old. He, once a mere former, chosen by the world's last she-dragon as his Rider. Now, not only does he have her and King Eridor's spirit residing within him, but he has a true dragon's form, however impossible it may sound."

"Impossibility never stepped our kind from attempting the unthinkable." She pushed back memories of Idun's roaring screams. "And look where that got us."

The blue-furred elf stared at her challengingly. "That was years before Bjartskular's egg was rescued from the Empire's clutches. For all we knew, the King could have already been training his new order of Dragon Riders in secret. What options had we left?"

Arya gaped at him in disbelief. How did he not remember those who had paraded around in scales, breathing smoke from their nostrils long before the transformation spell had ever been formally suggested to Islanzadi? The fierce competition between potential candidates as they ruthlessly exposed and invented flaws of their competitors, high-ranking nobles rigging the selection for their favorite relatives, Islanzadi shaking off her court's cries of outrage as she nominated her eldest daughter above so many worthier elves...

"We paid for our infatuation," she said harshly, "and we paid for it dearly." She glared at Blodgharm with eyes as hard as emeralds. "You, Master Blodgharm, are extremely out of line for approaching your future queen so boldly."

"When you returned to Du Weldenvarden I gave you time to truly mourn Faolin's loss amongst our own kind." His amber eyes seemed torn between anger and yearning. "Do not forget who loved you first."

"Forget? Forget!?" Arya exploded, storming to the other elf. "How could I forget shaming myself in front my mother by traipsing around in nothing but scales? How could I forget you shunning me because the enchanters passed over you as a candidate?" Her vision clouded with tears that refused to fall. "How could I forget mourning my sister alone because you had vanished into the woods like a wild animal?"

Blodgharm drew back like a scolded dog. An overgrown, blue-furred mongrel. "I-"

"I FORGET! Before the Blood Wolf, the Shadow Stalker, the Night Crawler, the Lightning Serpent..." Her anger spent, she turned away, black hair masking her face. "I forget what I ever fell in love with. And I think you did, too."

She half-expected a furious rebuttal. Hearing only the desolate wind, she smiled humorlessly at the blue burr on the horizon. "A wild animal indeed."

Every child born into the Empire grew up knowing of the safety and prosperity King Galbatorix's protection provided them. Who else in Alagaesia were guaranteed such luxuries? The elves dwindled to nothing in their creeping forest, the dwarves cowered away in their mountain strongholds, and the Urgals mauled themselves over barren wastelands. Even the Surdans who trumpeted their independence still heavily relied on Imperial trade to keep their nation going.

Strange how many citizens these days had unfaithful hearts. Why did the northern farmers raise up arms against their fellow countrymen over taxes that supported the armies and the poorest members of the Empire? Why did so many living on the eastern border side with the rebels who devoured their crops and raided their towns? For what? To revolt against the hero who had toppled the Dragon Riders' tyranny?

It was why the Black Hand existed in the first place, to protect their fellow citizens from threats both internal and external. They were the elite magic-users sent out to nullify rogue sorcerers and magicians that devastated defenseless civilians with their unstoppable power. It was they who assassinated spies and traitors that sought to turn their own families over to the wolves. And Darnell was damned proud to be a part of it.

In the early days, the Black Hand had been forced to value quantity over quality. Sheer numbers were needed to keep the newly-established Empire from crumbling back into chaos. There were those in it only for money or power, willing to throw everything away for a better offer from the rebels. Others had been blackmailed or had loved ones taken for leverage. In some cases, Galbatorix had no choice but to use their true names, effectively binding them to his demands forever.

Those were the cowards that constantly pored over their oaths, searching for loopholes that would allow leniency or outright escape from their orders. Those that had nothing left to loose used their loopholes to end their own lives.

Darnell considered himself fortunate to have been born in age far removed from that perilous past. His comrades were true Imperials from all corners of the Empire. The Black Hand became family. If captured, a member would choose to take their own lives than endanger the lives and secrets of that family.

Darnell personally answered to the King himself. As one of the very few spies planted successfully in the Varden's upper ranks, any and all information he provided was priceless.

Such subterfuge took skill. As a member of the Du Vrangr Gata, he had to control his magic enough to stand out as neither a horrible failure or a master. His false thoughts and memories had to withstand the probes that furred elf and his spell-casters threw at him all day. But for such a great risk, Darnell was rewarded with the strengths and secrets of one of the rebellion's most vital branches. The Imperial soldiers who fought on the front lines, his son amongst them, had far less to fear when their magicians knew what they were up against.

If only his careful focused wasn't harmed by lack of sleep.

Trapped! Trapped! Bound tightly, with no air left to scream, he did so anyway, vainly crying out for a rescuer that would never hear. Help! Why did no one ever-

For the first time, Darnell opened his eyes and realized he was not the one bound and suffocating. He stood freely in a featureless gray landscape of swirling mist. It was entirely unremarkable, save for the dragon.

Darnell blinked. Aye, the dragon. Many times his own puny size, its gray hide marred with scars, eyes closed. The dragon looked as if forced into an invisible eggshell. It was tightly curled into itself, wings mashed to its wing and its serpentine neck and tail uncomfortably to its sides.

Darnell did the smart thing and ran for it.

He stopped dead in his tracks, however, at the blood-chilling scream that pierced his mind and soul. Entirely silent, but not impotent, the human shuddered at its force.

His brown eyes confusedly flickered back to the dragon. Imprisoned as it was, its muscles still spasmed wildly, struggling against invisible bonds for freedom. Darnell hesitantly opened his mind to it, reeling at the desperation and heart-wrenching hopelessness.

Torn between common sense and completely insensible curiosity, Darnell glanced indecisively at the dragon and the relative safety of the rolling mists. Irrational mercy won out. The Black Hand hesitantly ventured back over to the dragon, pressing a hopefully soothing hand to its side.

His world exploded into pain when skin met scales. The dragon's wings and tail lashed out, sending him flying into the mist. The tortured scream in Darnell's mind echoed with a very audible, very agonized roar.

Rubbing his head dazedly, Darnell forced himself to sit up. The stone-gray beast was climbing slowly to its paws, flapping its wings and swinging its tail in wonderment.

"Free," it- he murmured in an awed voice both real and mental. "How can I be-"

Gray eyes fixated on Darnell's prone form, widening momentarily in surprise before they narrowed in blazing hatred. Frantically reaching for magic that would not answer his summons, the man scrambled back. Not that it stopped a massive paw from pinning him to the ground as easily as a cat trapped a mouse. Like a nightmare (this was a nightmare, right?), the dragon loomed over him, opening his smoking maw to-

The fire died in the dragon's throat. His demonic snarl morphing into a critical stare, the beast scrutinized him closely. Partially lifting his paw, he brought a talon to the magician's chest. Darnell flinched back, but the claw-tip did not drive through his heart. It made contact, but did not puncture his skin. Something close to his heart warmed at the dragon's touch, a fiery heat that did not burn, reaching out for something kindred in the dragon.

"Serdar?" the beast whispered bewilderingly.

Darnell paused at the unknown name's sudden familiarity. In the mist behind him, something drowsily stirred, in a state between dormancy and self-awareness.

"No." The human magician shook his head, allowing the fire in his chest to die as the mist-shrouded thing behind him fell back into dreamless slumber. "My name is Darnell. Darnell Laufisson." The logical part of him scolded him for such blatant honesty. He acknowledged he probably should have used his rebel identity, Serveg Klausson, but felt the dragon would have probably impaled him for lying.

The dragon cocked his head, silent for what seemed like lifetimes. Finally he answered, "I am Jarshan, son of Vanilor and Ocurni." As he stepped back, releasing the human from his grip, he reluctantly and sincerely added, "Thank you."

Darnell blinked. "For what?"

Jarshan fully unfurled his wings, making the human's breath hitch enviously at their majesty. "For answering me. I've been calling for so long I almost gave up, thinking those that heard my cries were just choosing to ignore them." He looked curiously at him. "You did not."

The Black Hand sarcastically stretched out his arms to the featureless landscape. "It's not as if I could run away." He lifted his head proudly. "My job is the opposite of that, actually."

"Indeed." The gray dragon sniffed disdainfully. "Why else would you have faced King Galbatorix's armies twice?"

Darnell almost went along with the misconception, at least until his impulsive side butted in for him: "Only because my master values the intelligence."

"The intelli-" Jarshan froze, looking at him almost... hopefully. "A spy for the King?"

The Black Hand cautiously considered his response. He remembered very few dragons had actually sided with Galbatorix in the war, so blinded were they by the Riders' propaganda. Only Shruikan, the Forsworn's dragons, and whatever eggs Galbatorix had salvaged from Doru Araeba had survived. The last Forsworn dragon, Morzan's, had died years ago, and all had been nameless due to some sort of curse from their own treacherous kind. Of course, nothing pointed to Jarshan still being alive...

"Aye," Darnell finally answered. "I take it you're still aware of the living world?"

"Aware enough," Jarshan growled, "before I'm forced back down into dormancy." He arched his head regally. "Tell me, human, does my name not sound familiar?"

Darnell scoured memories of his history lessons. Wasn't Vanilor the name of some important wild dragon? Catching the gruesome scar on Jarshan's chest, recognition dawned.

"The last King dragon. The one who sided with Galbatorix."

Immensely pleased, Jarshan nodded. "At least you did not mistake the last for my brother ." He hatefully spat a jet of flame at the word. "And in you, human Darnell, I have found an ally amongst enemies." His eyes glittered. "An ally, perhaps, loyal enough to get word of my existence back to Galbatorix."

"But aren't you, y'know..." How to put it tactfully? "Dead?"

Jarshan snorted. "As if death can hold a wild dragon forever. For the past thirteen years, I've lived. But it is a cruel mockery of a life, where I am bound to a part of myself that has become rotted. Galbatorix can... amputate the rot for me, truly bring me back."

Darnell looked the dragon over. "You look alright to me. A little scarred, aye, but not-"

The gray dragon held up his tail. Before Darnell's very eyes, the powerful limb wasted away, becoming increasingly decayed down its length. Down the tail, the dull scales gave way only to atrophied muscle, than to bare bone that disintegrated to dark smoke that wound its way back into the mist.

As if hauling a mountain behind him, Jarshan heaved himself forward, dragging his burden out of the mist. The dark smoke served as a chain, originating from the chest of a vaguely familiar boy. Struggling against the dragon's strength, the frantic boy tearfully locked eyes with Darnell, crying silently for help. He reminded Darnell painfully of how Bercan, his own boy, had looked as a young teenager.

"Jarsha," Darnell muttered in recognition. "The messenger boy." He glanced indecisively at boy and dragon. "I-I don't-"

Behind him, that something in the mist stirred restlessly when his heart wrenched. Darnell's hands flew to his chest at the painful squeeze. The exact same spot where Jarshan was bound to the boy Jarsha. He remembered the great stone-gray dragon forced into an invisible prison. Unborn dragons surely slumbered peacefully inside their eggs, but when the time was right they woke up and hatched! Just like... Serdar would when death freed them both.

But Jarshan was awake in a way he was never supposed to be. Trapped inside an egg that would not hatch, perhaps, for decades. Darnell had nearly been driven mad by just mere hours of that nightmare!

The Black Hand exhaled slowly, turning away from the... abomination as he focused solely on Jarshan. "Tell me what to do."

"Galbatorix," the dragon said urgently. "Bring me to Galbatorix. The oaths that help bind me to this world give me a way back. All my... master has to do is call."

"From where!?"

"From here ."

Again, the dragon's talon touched a spot next to his heart, and Darnell knew.

Before the transformation, before Eridor's rude awakening, in the trance that had replaced true sleep, he had walked a thin line between waking and dreaming. Sometimes his visions were intense, but unlike before the Blood-Oath Ceremony, he knew himself dreaming, constantly shifting between images as his mind preferred.

But while his dragon body slept, his dream-self carried him on two legs. Vividly, he relived childhood games of hide-and-go-seek with Roran, cradled a newly-hatched Saphira, held a dying Brom as he divulged his last and greatest secret, and was soundly rejected by Arya even after being gifted with inhuman strength and beauty.

Dragon claws were for killing. In dreams his agile human fingers entwined with those of his childhood girlfriend's (lost that winter to pneumonia), wrote and scratched out lines of his embarrassing poem attempts for the ceremony, and scratched that one spot behind Saphira's left horn. Dragon sounds were for intimidating, for roaring and growling. Again and again, his human voice laughed, drunkenly sang alongside Roran's, formed stupid questions that earned him impatient looks from his teachers.

He did not remember the exact point where human fingers became talons digging into his first truly caught prey, a scrawny deer, a catch that made even him proud. When did he exchange human words completely for the thoughts and emotions that kept him and Saphira connected at all times, human laughter for the content hum of when he got someone to rub that one spot between his horns?

He knew, however, that point came long before Eridor invaded his dreams with Safiri and Jarshan and Father-King Vanilor. He knew, in his heart of his hearts, that sooner or later, the human brown of his eyes would have inevitably given way to burning blue.

But Eragon did wonder, when the guilty dreams of Arya and Trianna and that one childhood girlfriend faded away forever, who had replaced them? Eridor's Safiri or his Saphira?

Chapter Text

Saphira lay curled up around Eragon's empty tent. Since the Varden believed she was still a Rider's dragon, she often lazed around pretending to be keeping a close eye on her human. The real Eragon, the silvery-white dragon, rested a respectful distance from her, not wanting to throw any more fuel onto the rumor fire. Beneath the blazing sun, Eragon could barely fend off his drowsiness. His dragon body only wanted to bask in the warmth. Too bad Eridor was too persistent to let him.

Must we learn about the mating season again? he grumbled. Saphira and I already learned everything about that, including the... mechanics. He suppressed a shudder, remembering how graphically Glaedr had described the process. Eragon was still traumatized.

Eridor growled irritably. Had it been physically possible, Eragon expected his uninvited guest would have cuffed him. I have no doubt you know about the basics. Brom taught you the rudiments of the wild dragons' mating cycle. But, as I can recall, Glaedr went into detail only about Riders' dragons. Your knowledge on your own kind remains disappointingly lacking.

Saphira snorted, releasing twin puffs of smoke. What does it matter? Save for the bond a dragon may share with a Rider, they are virtually identical to their wild counterparts.

Precisely, Saphira. Eragon rolled his eyes, knowing the former King was about to launch into yet another lecture. Riders' dragons are bonded to their human or elf first and foremost. Upon forming that connection, the dragon loses most of its instinctual edge, becoming more inclined to listen to reason over their rage or pride. They can procreate at any time of the year, lay eggs in the height of summer or dead of winter. Wild dragons, on the other paw, adhere to a strict cycle. They will become receptive to mating only when autumn rolls around, which is why Riders' dragons considered it such a feat to take a wild dragon as their mate.

So what does this have to do with us? Eragon drawled. Saphira and I aren't planning to start families anytime soon.

You two are both certainly over six months old, little hatchling! Eridor snapped. You are also the world's only wild dragons, both completely unfamiliar with your hormonal urges. Do the math.

In embarrassment, Saphira flicked her eyes away from Eragon, clearly remembering how she had first mooned over Glaedr.

Eragon remained quiet. He had been only fifteen when destiny had forced him out of Carvahall. His experience with girls had been pathetically limited to one-sided crushes and week-long dating disasters. His following adventures with an old man and a she-dragon had prevented any further romantic self-discoveries. Since then, his love life had included only his humiliating infatuation with Arya, that dance with an elf-woman during the Blood-Oath Ceremony, and the one time Trianna had attempted to seduce him.

Then we're doomed, Saphira surmised grimly. Unless you know something that can help us. The elves had wards that protected them from the fertility spells they used on Du Weldenvarden. There's a way to avoid being seduced by the cat-elf's scent. Perhaps we can ask for Arya to help devise a similar defense against our instincts?

Eridor paused, his mind so unreadable not even Eragon knew what he was thinking about. Saphira, he began at last, think back to your days in the egg, when you sensed Eragon for the first time, your utter feeling of completeness at the slightest touch of his mind. Is there a spell in this world that could have prevented you from binding your soul to his?

The two dragons locked eyes, the answer needing no words.

Neither elves nor humans can regularly bind themselves so deeply with another living being, Eridor continued. When Bid'Daum hatched for your namesake, Eragon, he bonded his very heart and soul to him. Once in their lives, wild dragons do the same, when they select their mate of mind, body, and soul. The spell later developed made sure unhatched dragons could form that intimate bond only with a Rider of their choosing. As the pact binds you two together no longer, your souls will once more seek unity. You tell me if your souls can resist that.

Eragon buried his snout into his paws, hating the confirmation of his darkest fears. No matter how close he and Saphira still felt, the pact between Rider and dragon entwined their souls no longer. Their new instincts, with or without their conscious consent, would rectify that, forcing them together in way neither he or Saphira wanted.

Were you forced into this predicament, too? he couldn't help but ask.

No, Eridor honestly replied. In my time, wild dragons had the entire clan's experience to help them manage their base impulses, bonds of family and friendship that helped negate the strongest urges to bind their soul with another. Safiri and I were not mated until two autumns after we first met. Some dragons were content to live their entire lives as bachelors, or to platonically bond with a close friend or sibling. Hell, some choose mates of the same gender, or a union that stands no chance of producing young.

What if the summer was bad? Saphira cocked her head curiously. If the eggs of last season had not hatched, would the she-dragon still lay another clutch?

Eridor choked in horror. Good gods, no! I cannot even imagine how long I would have lasted if forced to raise twice or thrice the amount of hatchlings just because they chose not to hatch on time. The presence of eggs or young dragons prevents the she-dragon's body from producing any more. He retreated deeper into Eragon's mind, emotions becoming unreadable. As there is one egg left in the world, and he is obviously out of our reach, I would just advise separating for the mating season's duration.

The two living dragons gaped at each other in horror. Since Saphira's hatching, they had never been apart for too long. How could they bear to remain separated at a time when their souls screamed to fully unite once more?

Eragon was interrupted from his thoughts by one of the elves guarding 'his' tent giving him a subtle nod. Right, his human self had a meeting with Nasuada's council today about his dragon self, his real self!

Saphira couldn't help but chuckle at his dread as she rose to her paws and unfurled her wings. Good luck with the awkwardness, 'little one.'

The white dragon bid her a grumpy farewell and focused his mind on the projection of his human form emerging from his tent. Speaking through the insubstantial illusion of his past self still creeped him out, but it still beat conversing with the dead dragon camped out inside his mind.

For gods knew how long, Saphira flew around in search of something to do. The barren plains offered no prey large enough for her to consider going after. There wasn't much else to see aside from the noxious fumes spewing forth from the ground and the fresh mass graves from the earlier battles. Too worked up from her grim conversation with Eridor, even a refreshing noonday nap was out of the question.

Aside from Eragon and his uninvited guest, who else was there to talk to? Nasuada and Arya were both involved in the meeting. Orik and his dwarves had long since returned to Farthen Dur. Roran was always demanding to know why Eragon avoided him, and Saphira hadn't the heart to lie. Angela was Angela. Blodgharm's elves thought they were unworthy of her personal attention. Orrin asked too many questions about how a creature her size could fly, as if magic wasn't enough of an explanation!

Well, she could always torture the answers she wanted out of Solembum, but the damned crafty werecat had been evading her since their last cryptic discussion.

So Saphira had hunkered herself down amongst the tents, idly watching the surrounding activity. Most stayed well clear of her, watching her warily as they quickly skirted past her resting place. Why were humans such contradictory creatures? The same soldiers who had cheered for her mere days ago now treated her as an escaped wild beast. How many even knew she not only understood their language, but could communicate quite easily with them?

"Please, child, will you come back?" An old woman hobbled past Saphira as if she were not there at all, eyes glittering with unshed tears as she bent down to open a tent flap. With a jolt, the she-dragon recognized her as Greta, Elva's guardian and care-taker. "You're humiliating yourself in front of all these men, you are."

Elva stormed past the old woman, knocking her out of the way. She had grown older in the short time since the past Battle of the Burning Plains, more like a girl of five or six than one half that age. Her black hair was longer, skin paler, face even more haggard. Still, the silver mark upon her forehead glowed as bright as ever. Her violet eyes burned with a furious intensity Saphira had never remembered seeing in a human.

"Gods, woman!" she exclaimed in her unnerving adult's voice. "Stop treating me like a defenseless infant! Stop calling me by a name that isn't mine! I don't need you, I never needed you!"

"But it is your name," Greta protested pitifully. Tears now flowed freely down her face. "It is the name your mother graced you with before she died, may she rest in peace. You dishonor her by mutilating her final gift to you." She stepped pleadingly toward the girl, arms extended. "She passed you into my arms and asked that I look after you."

"Look after?" Elva laughed harshly, ignorant of the staring soldiers and she-dragon. "Who begged Shadeslayer to bless me? Who begged him to damn me?"

Greta wailed, falling to her knees in despair. "Oh, my cherished Elvana-"

Saphira didn't have time to process the information before Elva's furious shriek drowned out her thoughts. Looking ready to strike the old woman, she snarled accusingly at her. "You hag, you damned hag, Elvana is DEAD!"

The girl finally took notice of Saphira, locking eyes with her. The she-dragon tensed at the stare's burning intensity, but stood transfixed, peering deep into their violet depths. What other human had eyes so bright, so pained, so ancient? What other being had slitted pupils? A dragon's pupils?

Saphira knew those eyes...

Her vantage was higher, her body older and stronger, but she was strangely accustomed to this form, unlike in regular ancestral memories. Even her scales were still blue, if a lighter shade. Had she not been years, perhaps decades, older than her true self, she could almost mistake the memory as her own.

She bent down to sorrowfully nudge the cool, limp form at her feet. In life the onyx-scaled dragon must have been the handsome pride of his mate. Now, his life and dignity stripped of him, his belly had been slashed open like prey, his innards partially devoured. His half-open eyes still vacantly stared into nothingness.

Past the male's corpse rested an adult female and her newly-hatched brood. They too lay forever still, the mother's throat torn open, her hatchlings barely recognizable as such. An entire family, perhaps an entire line, stamped out.

Growling hatefully, she slashed at the Urzhad's moaning form, cutting off its pained protests once and for all. Disturbed from its winter hibernation, perhaps by the unusual shortage of autumn food, it had undoubtedly gone after the closest food source. By the scorch-marks singing its fur, the parent dragons had fiercely defended their brood to the death. If only the Urzhad had been less desperate, or the parents larger and more experienced.

She shook her head, easily able to piece together what had led to this tragedy. Adults these dragons may have been, but she still had children their size that had not sought out mates of their own. Dragons of such size should have still been under the protection of a clan.

Had they been driven out by their elders for breaking the clan's code? In difficult seasons it was not uncommon for the youngest and lowest-ranked members to be prevented from seeking mates, anything to ensure more prey and attention for the broods of more senior pairs. Perhaps this reckless couple had disobeyed and hte clan figured it had had enough mouths to feed?

With the prime pieces of local territory already vigilantly defended by well-established clans that had no room for unwelcome strangers, and with the female expecting, the pair had frantically searched for a patch of land to call their own. One in a rugged, prey-poor area with few caves that even dragons their small size could inhabit. No wonder they had chosen a shelter so vulnerable to intrusion.

She had only strayed so far from her home territory to check up on a daughter who was trying to establish a clan of her own in previously unclaimed space. It had been pure chance she had stumbled onto the female's dying cries while returning to her own family.

Not that pure chance had saved even the innocent hatchlings from-

A tentative peep disrupted her thoughts. Her head snapped up, blue eyes scanning the cave for signs of life. A blood-soaked hatchling cautiously peaked out from behind its mother's corpse. Ignoring the stranger, it butted its mother's side insistently, trying in vain to rouse her from an eternal slumber.

How had this little hatchling been spared the fate of its family? It had been the only one smart enough to hide. When the father had fallen, his children had instinctively leaped to his aid, despite their mother's protesting cries. How easily the Urzhad must have swept them aside, shattering their spines with one lazy blow. Only one had obeyed its mother, huddling behind her to the bloody end.

Carefully, oh so carefully, she advanced toward the little orphan. The hatchling's head snapped up, eyes regarding her warily. Certainly it had never known another dragon except her own family.

She opened her mind, revealing nothing except honest love and warmth. Hush, little one. The nightmare is over.

The hatchling didn't hesitate. It rushed over to her side, pressing its shivering form against her legs. Tenderly, she bent down to clean the gore from its scales while her mind gently pushed into its memories.

Her dark theory was confirmed: like the dutiful daughter she was, the hatchling had hid behind her mother even as her family's lives had been extinguished one by one.

Such color, she cooed, smoothing over such dark memories with gentle admiration. The hatchling's cleaned scales was a stunning dark violet, an intense hue rare for their kind. Your new siblings shall be jealous of you.

Her latest brood, an unusually large number of six, had all decided to hatch on time, food shortage or not. Six hungry, demanding mouths all jostling for food and attention. Of course there were other brooding females in her clan, daughters and grand-daughters and soul-daughters with far smaller clutches. As their Queen, the most senior she-dragon of their race, let alone their clan, they would do anything requested of them.

She looked down into the hatchling's intense eyes. She would just old enough to comprehend what had befallen her birth family. Anguish shone in those violet depths, a dark vengeance smoldering just beneath. And it was she, the Queen of the dragons, who would purge the darkness from this hatchling's heart.

Elva. What a pretty name.
The memories flashed through Saphira's at a swifter pace. Elva was raised amongst that dragon family, squabbling and bonding with six new brothers and sisters. Two did not survive to maturity, one lost to starvation and the other to sickness, but such was the way of things for a wild dragon. The violet-scaled hatchling had grown into a breath-taking she-dragon, albeit one forever quiet and cynical. She had taken a mate and started a family of her own. But, while her adoptive nest-mates had been pushed to the fringes of their clan's territory when old enough, she had maintained a place of honor close to the central cave.

Until that Queen and her King were forced to flee their home and family.

Saphira blinked dazedly, at last coming back to herself. But the somber eyes of the violet hatchling remained, now set in the human Elva's haggard face.

Greta had long since fled, her cries distant. The soldiers caught up in watching the strange spectacle wisely made themselves scarce.

Saphira cared for none of them except this relic from a by-gone past, the soul of a dead dragon who clung to life in the same way Eridor did, the cursed little girl who stared right back at her.

Countless emotions flickered across Elva's pale features. She settled for a wan smile.

"I believe now is the time to locate the King and his idiot, Saphira Bjartskular," she said in that disconcertingly familiar voice. "The time for secrets is over."

Night hung over camp like a great raven, daybreak hours away. A growing boy his age should not have been out at such an ungodly time. Any sensible adult would have scolded him so. But who was there to tell him otherwise? The closest sentries were seemingly leagues away, no more than bobbing globes of orange light in the distance.

While days on the Burning Plains were sometimes hot enough to bake men in their chain-mail until they were blistering red, nights were could enough to give a careless sentry's unprotected fingers frostbite. Shielded from the cold by only breeches and a thin blanket, a shivering Jarsha had to agree.

Still, freezing to death was a far better alternative than falling asleep. Slumber now held the maddening screams and all-consuming fury of the prisoner.

He suffered for his sleep loss in spacing out on duty and startling at every small noise. Suspicions were mounting. His superiors were threatening him with punishments they didn't follow through with only because Jarsha served as Nasuada's designated messenger to 'King Dragon.' Irvard, on a completely different work schedule, kept asking him to talk to someone about his problems. Nolfavrell constantly threatened to rat him out to Angela if he didn't seek help himself. Only Jarsha's pleas had kept the newest messenger boy from following through with his promise... yet.

Because, no matter what anybody said, no one could help him. The healers would look into his mind and see what creature he chained in there. Like the prisoner (the raging dragon) and the man in his dreams, they too would hate him for what he couldn't control. Jarsha didn't want to know what they would do to him to try and free that thing smoldering in his mind, not when it no longer belonged in this world.

Jarsha dared a glance up at the clear night sky, remembering long ago times when he had seen only the timeless beauty of the stars. Now, however, the glittering multitude had become Kings and Queens and brothers and sisters. They all stared down at him, an insignificant little page who carried destiny within him. A destiny that raged against his prison and mourned what had become of his world.

Microscopic in the face of the staring stars, Jarsha fixed his gaze downward. Their unblinking stares still bore pits into the depths of his soul.

Crunch. The sound of dried, brittle grass crushed beneath careless human feet.

Jarsha's head snapped up like a frightened deer. "Who's there?"

The figure was large, masculine, and didn't carry a sentry's lantern. Straining his eyes against the darkness, Jarsha thought he recognized the man's face. He was a member of the Du Vrangr Gata. Before being given his 'unique' assignment, Jarsha had used to deliver him summons from his superiors.

Gradually, Jarsha relaxed. Of course he'd be worried about me. I'm shivering out here in breeches and a blanket!

Embarrassed he couldn't remember the man's name, he called out, "I'm fine, sir, really-"

The magician locked gazes with him, eyes flashing inhumanly bright in the darkness. They pierced straight through Jarsha, straight through to the dragon sealed in the depths of his soul.

Again sensing that kindred soul, the dragon threw himself at the walls of his invisible prison. Jarsha's head rang with his desperate pleas.

Darnell's resolve hardened, and all doubts in what he was about to do vanished.

A sharp spell cut off the scream building in the boy's scream. Jarsha toppled forward into the first dreamless sleep he'd had in weeks.

Chapter Text

Even though his physical body still rested near the tent, Eragon's mind was projected entirely into the illusion maintained for him by Blodgharm's spell-casters. Despite its intricacies, the enchantment was far from substantial, meaning any solid object would pass through it like air. To a dragon's sharp eyes, the human illusion looked blurry around the edges, minute imperfections not even such a complex spell could mask.

To keep the sharp-eyed from noticing anything suspicious, Eragon Shadeslayer purposefully remained confined to his tent for 'classified research.' The gossip-mongers filled in the blanks for him. But the sudden appearance of a new dragon, a King dragon, allied to the rebel cause was something that needed to be dealt with. The Council of Elders had not been satisfied with the vague explanation Saphira had given the day the new dragon had single-handedly driven back Murtagh's forces.

Eragon had collaborated with Nasuada and the elves to work out a plausible origin story for the dragon most simply called 'Majesty.' Before the highest-ranked members of the rebellion, Eragon had told a heavily edited version of events of what had conspired at Helgrind.

Upon landing, Roran had gone off in search of Katrina and Eragon and Saphira had been attacked by the Ra'zac and their parents. Fact and fiction diverged from there. Eragon and Saphira had not been completely powerless and overwhelmed by their enemies, saved only by Eridor's intervention, but had triumphed after a fierce struggle (explaining the ugly injuries Saphira had been spotted with.)

With the last monster vanquished, Rider and dragon had explored the area the Lethrblaka had been fiercely guarding. They had discovered a white dragon not much older than Saphira shackled right in Helgrind's heart, grievously wounded and close to death. Eragon had remained behind to tend to the dragon while Saphira had urgently returned Roran and Katrina to the Varden. Unsure if the white dragon would survive, they had deliberately kept its existence secret to avoid raising false hopes.

Due to Eragon's careful ministrations, the white dragon had healed enough for the return flight to the Burning Plains. He and Saphira had helped 'Majesty' recover fully. As the white dragon remained wary of strangers, Eragon had obeyed his request for secrecy, revealing his existence only to Nasuada and Arya. When Blodgharm and his spell-casters had arrived, their priorities then included protecting Majesty and helping to convince him to join the Varden's cause.

"Then Saphira, the one dragon he knew, was endangered by Thorn," Eragon finished easily. "His Majesty could not bear keeping his secret any longer, and officially proclaimed himself against the Empire and a member of our cause."

Trianna's sharp eyes never left his form. Had Eragon's human body not been an illusion, he surely would have swallowed at her intense scrutiny. "And where were you during the battle, Master Shadeslayer? Surely Saphira would not have been endangered if you were astride her?"

Eragon willed his human projection to meet her accusing gaze evenly. "It has been no secret how isolated I've been as of late. His Majesty carried valuable information with him. Information too valuable to be ignored. I was away investigating. Master Blodgharm and his elves covered for my absence." The illusion nodded gratefully at the spell-casters present.

The council went silent as they processed this. Orrin, his frantic mind whirring behind his eyes, mouthed "More dragons?" incredulously. He straightened in his chair, nearly bursting with anticipating. "Where did his... Majesty come from, exactly?"

Let me handle this, Eridor suddenly cut in, emerging from the recesses of his mind.

Eragon jolted in surprise, his physical body momentarily jerking with him. Why? he hissed back. We already planned for this! Besides, it's not as if you were jumping to help before! Back when the explanation for Eragon's dragon body and his human side's mysterious absence was being formulated, Eridor had remained silent throughout the entire process, neither contributing to their efforts or criticizing them.

This story will inevitably reach Oromis and the elves of Du Weldenvarden, Eridor growled firmly. Elves that know far more about the inner workings of wild dragons than the cat-elf and his merry band of simpletons. Despite the Varden's best efforts, it will also leak to Galbatorix, who knows just as much. Your story will not match up with accepted knowledge of King dragons. Do you wish to be found out by the King so early?

Eragon paused, knowing each moment of hesitation raised more alarm bells in the council. ...Fine.

He grudgingly stepped aside, allowing Eridor's part of the mind access to the illusion. The enchantment had been specifically crafted with Eragon's true voice in mind. No matter how different he and Eridor truly sounded, the dead King's voice through the projection was identical. Aside from the proud stance the human illusion suddenly adapted, the regal way he held his head, and the sternly confident tone in his voice, there was no telling the two had swapped places.

"As you know through Saphira, dragon eggs can lay dormant for decades," Eridor replied smoothly. "Yet even then, the infant inside is still capable of forming and retaining primitive memories."

Orrin's eyes widened in understanding. "You pieced together the story from his recollections?"

Eridor willed the projection to dip its head. "Aye. His Majesty remembers great commotion rocking his egg, the panic of his kin before their minds were snuffed out, and then a long period of quiet. He hatched alone, decades later, in a lifeless cave strewn with the bones of his family."

"The Forsworn relentlessly killed wild dragons in search for more eggs," a silver-haired elf, Sindri, recalled. "His mother obviously chose to sacrifice herself over giving him up."

"And then her corpse sheltered him for nigh over a century," Eridor concluded grimly. "He hatched amongst her bones and raised himself for the first few months of his life." At several incredulous looks, he simply added, "Dragon hatchlings are self-sufficient the first day out of the egg."

"Fascinating," Trianna drawled. "And how he wound up amongst the enemy?"

"Instinct initially kept him close to his family's ancestral territory. Only when he was older did his Majesty feel the urge to search for answers. Even then, he felt something was off, for he had unnatural control over his innate powers, far more than what instinct told him was normal."

Eridor wove a tale so vivid even Eragon himself believed he had hatched a wild dragon. Eridor left deliberate gaps in the narrative the council filled with the 'missing' information; during his explorations the young King had stumbled into other wild dragons that had survived the Fall by concealing themselves on the highest and most remote peaks of the Beor Mountains. Amongst the survivors, the young King had realized his true role, and despite the pleas of his clan, traveled west to discover if other survivors hid within the Spine. It was flying near Helgrind that the Lethrblaka had subdued him, locking their prize away for the Ra'zac to interrogate.

"And thus we have come full circle," Eridor finished smoothly. He willingly stepped aside for Eragon to reclaim control of the illusion. No one seemed to notice the sudden shift in the illusion's posture as the regal tilt of the head vanished.

Eridor once again became withdrawn as Eragon wrapped up the meeting with formalities and idle pleasantries with those present, finding excuses to avoid any physical contact. Trianna's narrowed eyes never left his form, as if she were trying to pierce right through the magic. The elven spell-casters grew weary of the scrutiny, granting Eragon the signal to move the illusion back to 'his' tent out of the public eye.

That potential disaster averted, Eragon returned to his physical body. Blinking open his eyes, he stretched languidly. The dragon form of flesh and bone felt far more natural control than the projection of his past self.

Thank you for that, Eragon murmured gratefully to the silent section of his shared mind. Even I started believing your story back there. Part of him still wondered at the strong undertones of truth that flowed beneath sections of the lie, but for the sake of maintaining peace with Eridor, Eragon wisely kept his questions to himself.

King and Queen dragons are almost exclusively born from a 'royal' line. Safiri and I died during the nesting season. You bear striking resemblance to my original body, six horns and all. All I did was piece together the facts you-

Saphira's presence interrupted him. She called for them both to meet her at a private place outside of camp. Someone was with her, a someone that carried vital information.

Elva stood calmly before them, cold and untouchable as ice. While ordinary children her age would be trembling in fright or awe when peering up at two giant dragons, she remained disturbingly unfazed. Her violet eyes were an unreadable maelstrom of emotion. She undoubtedly still despised Eragon for accidentally cursing her with such an enormous burden, especially when he was now permanently trapped in a form unable to rectify his grievous mistake.

"Shadeslayer," she murmured without dipping her head in respectful acknowledgement. "I see you've ascended the political latter. You are now a King instead of a Rider." Saphira bared the smallest bit of ivory fang at the girl's mocking tone, but Eragon remained silent. He was in no mood to argue, not when she held his two greatest secrets at her mercy.

Her violet eyes intensely stared into his own, as if looking into his very soul. No, she was gazing past his mind, his memories, to a part older than Eragon's very consciousness. Staring right at a secret not even Trianna had detected.

To Eragon's gaping astonishment, Elva knelt down before his paws. Brushing her raven hair back, she exposed her bare neck to him. Instinctively he knew this bow as one of the greatest respect and honor, a dragon submitting completely to a far stronger superior.

Exactly how Vanilor had submitted to him in Eridor's memories upon relinquishing his kingship to the obvious successor.

"Eridor Bluefire," she breathed reverently. She climbed to her feet, always gazing past Eragon to the spirit that lay within him. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I thought we'd never be able to talk like this again, my King."

Eridor's mind broadened to encompass Elva and Saphira. His voice rang with paternal affection Eragon had never heard from him before. I am neither King, nor Highness, nor Majesty, little Elva, not to you.

At Eragon's confusion, the barriers that so closely guarded Eridor's memories lowered, allowing him a rare glimpse in.

Eridor had accepted the purple newcomer riding upon Safiri's back without hesitation. After all, he'd always had a weakness for hatchlings. Despite the lack of blood relations, Eridor had closely bonded with his adopted daughter. Where her surviving nestmates had gradually moved away from the main cave to the fringes of the territory, she had remained a constant fixture to the main cave, her own hatchlings one day tussling alongside his and Safiri's latest brood.

Until it was decided the cave he and Safiri had called their home for decades was no longer safe. Completely cut off from their clan, his adopted daughter included, Eridor and his mate had spent their last lonely months hiding away from Galbatorix... in vain.

At the white dragon's pertrubed silence, Elva cracked a wan smile. "You have shown the stone-head our shared past," she told Eridor, "but you've yet to show him how I'm here today."

Eridor snorted wearily. King I might once have been, little Elva, but I am no exception to the rule. I slumbered before awakening like this, scarcely stirring, and I slumbered deep.

"She knew." Elva nodded at Saphira, who snorted dubiously. "Certainly not you, Brightscales, but her. Didn't something tell you to intervene the day you first met me, a blissfully ignorant baby?"

Hesitantly, Saphira bowed her head. The day you blessed Elva, little one, I could not shake off the feeling something had gone horribly wrong. You were so nervous that day, so afraid to make a mistake in front of those who hailed you as a savior, that I couldn't bear to rattle your confidence. She paused. Something told me to press my snout to her forehead, that it would help balance out the damage, so I did. I... I thought it was just instinct, my magic trying to make itself known!

"And that 'something' was Queen Safiri, for she chose to bond her soul to the last egg laid on Vroengard," Elva replied bluntly. Eragon and Saphira disbelievingly gaped at each other. Unreadable, Eridor said nothing. "You are an offshoot of her soul, completely independent, save for when Safiri decides to suggest something to you. But, though she stirs, she will never awaken." She ogled at the white dragon that held Eridor's soul. "Not like you did."

I died unavenged, with vows unfulfilled, with the power to fight tooth and claw against the void of death, Eridor growled grimly. Safiri had made her peace, trusted her reincarnation and those of the new generation to right the wrongs she and I never could. I will not, can not, rest like her until justice is wrought.

Before anyone could speak up on this, he focused his mind on Elva, mind sharp with disapproval. Which rebirth concerns me more, Elva, is your own. Why choose now, a time when the war is escalating in the first time in decades? Why, of all possible bodies, one of a poor Varden girl?

Sharp violet eyes closed. "I... find it... difficult to relate to the time between my two lives. Up there I was so at peace, so disconnected with the brief and petty lives of mortals, that I'm no longer sure why I chose to fall." Her brow furrowed. "But I remember you had fallen, too, into a life of sorrow and bloodshed. You and Safiri had been in my life from practically the beginning and to lose you both, however temporarily, from the stars was more than I could bear."

Elva smiled, her haggard face brightening in a way Eragon hadn't thought possible. "Then I sensed this young Varden couple. They were so excited to welcome their first child into the world, bickering over names and its gender, and I wanted so badly to be part of it. So I became their baby girl. And at Elvana's first cries I slept, content she would have the loving life with her birth parents I never had."

The smile vanished. "And then my- Elvana's father stopped coming home. He was a soldier who took an arrow to the wrong area during a skirmish. Out of sleepless nights borne from his absence, his wife sickened and could not find the strength to recover, not even for her daughter. Greta, an old friend of Elvana's grandmother, took me in. For a while, things between us were fine, and then..."

I came along, Eragon blurted out. I was so overwhelmed with the crowd, felt so undeserving of their reverence, that I had to prove myself worthy to them, to bless you when Greta demanded it of me. And then a simple miswording made you a shield against the pain and misfortune of others.

"Your spell sickened me immediately after you cast it," she spat out, eyes still closed. "Elvana wanted to scream her head off. But then she touched her and, for the first time in my new life, I looked out through Elvana's eyes and saw the she-dragon that so resembled my dead surrogate mother; Safiri, reaching out from beyond a stranger's soul to alleviate her child's sufferings. The human baby she left in her wake housed not one conscious soul, but two."

Elva's eyes opened with smoldering fury. "Like me, Elvana felt compelled to stop every accident, to heal every wound, to soothe every broken heart. Every time she couldn't broke her just a little bit more, wore away at what made me me and her her."

The magic! Saphira interjected. Didn't it try to help you in some way? Make you grow faster?

"NO!" Elva snarled. "Though Elvana could barely crawl, let alone understand the agonies she was forced to shoulder, the magic felt compelled only to remind her of her duties. But I was awake, and though also under the curse, I had a dragon's strength and magic behind me. I manipulated the body as well as I could into growing faster, making us more capable of fulfilling the magic's requirements. For Elvana's sake I took control of our body; walking for her, speaking for her, healing for her. Still, her condition deteriorated, for not even I could fully shield her from the agony of others."

Her voice faltered, before it became venomous, hurling the next words out as if they were foul others. "Elvana did not die, Shadeslayer, she withered. Thar poor, poor little girl could not bear the sufferings your spell forced onto her and she faded away until there was only me."

The terrible reality sank in. Eragon screamed, his horror and self-loathing ringing in every mind around him until Eridor forced his mental barriers up. The white dragon emptied the contents of his stomach right at Elva's feet.

Despite the hem of her skirt now being filthy with vomit, Elva ruthlessly carried on. "It is only thanks to Saphira's intervention that I survived, unlike that little girl who you-"

Saphira cut her off with a bone-rattling growl. You have made yourself clear, Elva, but remember my Rider was well-meaning, mistake or not. Safiri's daughter you may have been, but that will not stop me from protecting those I care about in this life.

Not intimidated by the she-dragon's threats, Elva glared back, baring flight teeth in draconic defiance. However, after a silent battle of wills, she relented with a sigh. "Note that the knowledge I am about to impart is not a sign of forgiveness, Shadeslayer. You have killed an innocent human infant and trapped a dragon's soul in a cursed human body. These are wrongs you can never undo, and thus sins I shall never let you forget."

This time, it was Eridor who growled impatiently from within Eragon's mind.

Elva didn't hesitate, gazing past Eragon as she addressed only her King and father from another life. "We all sensed you and Safiri's deaths that night. I was but the first to reach your cave, to smell the traitor's stink with that one of the Forsworn's abominations. It did not take me long to piece together how deep corruption had spread into our own family." She swallowed nervously. "It was nesting season, aye, but I had no idea if Safiri had even been expecting that year. Not until I... checked and... found the eggs Jarshan had overlooked."

In his anguish over his past mistakes, Eragon never saw Eridor gathering up his will to rebel before it was too late. Shoving Eragon to the side, the older spirit seized control of the body. Powerless, Eragon could only watch as Eridor seized Elva in a paw, glaring down at her with burning blue eyes. Too stunned to react, Saphira looked on like a deer frozen before the hunter.

The eggs! Eridor growled, twisting Eragon's snout into a ferocious snarl. How many!?

"T-two," the dragon trapped in a girl's body stammered, struggling wildly against his grip.

What colors!?

"L-l-light b-blue," Elva choked out, gasping as the dragon only tightened his hold. "P-please, m-my King, I ca-"

Eridor unceremoniously dropped her to the ground where she lay panting for breath. Trinnean, he murmured. Caradoc. His fury reignited as the white dragon menacingly stood over the vulnerable girl. What about the green egg? he demanded. What about Mavalis?

Truly fearful now, Elva quivered beneath him. "There was no green egg, your Majesty, I swear to you! Only the eggs of two blue males! Dornar and I couldn't keep them, nor did I trust any other of the clan with them; not with war on the horizon, not with so many disappearing, not with corruption running so rampant! I took them to the only place I knew was safe, where they could hatch where the time was right, where not even Galbatorix would think to look!"

Throwing back his stolen head, Eridor have a heartbroken cry that made Eragon, despite his situation, pity him. Mavalis! My son, languishing in the King's treasury! His furious thoughts vowed murder against his bastard brother and his abomination of a master. Absolutely livid, he snapped down at Elva: Caradoc, Trinnean; where are they!?

"Vroengard!" she choked out. "With Prasavitri!"

Snapping open silver wings, Eridor threw himself into the sky, leaving the cursed human that had once been his adopted daughter gasping and crying below. Still in possession of Eragon's body, he shot off into the east, flapping as if death itself were snapping at his tail.

Eridor! Saphira was quick to follow, her her tone both furious and fearful. I understand we're trying to receive your sons, but give Eragon back his body before you destroy the both of you!

In his manic desperation to reach his children, Eridor might have been blind to his body's flagging condition, but the other two dragons weren't. Numb as he was, Eragon could still feel his muscles shrieking in protest, his wings shaking with the strain. Eridor's very life-force flickered like a candle before the winter wind, threatening to splutter out and plunge both him and Eragon into oblivion.

For a moment that lasted eternity, the King dragon was stubbornly silent, and Eragon dreaded what damage his furious pride would wreak. Finally, Eridor growled, Promise me you'll fly northeast! To Vroengard! To Prasavitri!

Eragon promised, quick to seize control when the other entity grudgingly relinquished his hold upon the body. Exhausted, Eridor drifted to the back of their shared mind, built up an impenetrable barrier for his thoughts, and slipped into a deep sleep.

Shaking his head to clear it of exhaustion, Eragon straightened himself out, gliding effortlessly on a thermal as he allowed himself to recover. Saphira rose up to gracefully float by his side, cutting through the air as a fish would water, ready to catch him the moment his wings gave out and plunged him to the earth below.

Are you alright, little one?

His self-loathing over unwittingly killing the spirit of a baby girl never would be, and both dragons knew it.

Eragon nodded. I'll be fine, Saphira. Not from that, not ever,but his body would recover from the ringer Eridor had put it through.

The sapphire she-dragon snorted skeptically, keeping a watchful eye on him until she was confident he wouldn't plummet the moment she looked away. Vroengard, she mused. Where Brom and my namesake gained a bond like ours.

The ancient island of the Dragon Riders, Eragon added, unable to keep from shivering in excitement. Where Vrael lived, where Oromis and Glaedr trained... where Galbatorix was denied a new dragon and the Forsworn were birthed. His next shiver was far from excited.

Why Vroengard? Saphira wondered, suddenly suspicious. Even if was still considered impenetrable at the time of Eridor's death, Elva didn't trust those eggs with relatives due to the impending war, and the base of the Dragon Riders would surely be part of the battleground. And why would they still even be there? Galbatorix must have scoured Vroengard for every last one of its secrets. Whose to say those two eggs didn't wind up stolen like Mavalis? Or like me and Thorn?

Murtagh didn't feel like he was lying when he said there was only one dragon egg left, Eragon pointed out. Presumably that would be Mavalis. That still leaves his brothers unaccounted for. If Eridor believes this 'Prasavitri' is still alive, that makes her both long-lived and incredibly powerful. Not many could encounter one of the Forsworn and live to tell the tale.

Had the guardian of Eridor's eggs once looked after eggs, been a Rider or dragon with such responsibility? Had she only been able to escape with several dragons eggs, leaving Thorn and Saphira to Galbatorix? For Eragon's boundless imagination, the possibilities were endless, especially when Eridor's unconscious, unreadable mind yielded no further information.

We should avoid such groundless speculation, little one, and not get our hopes up for what might not even be there, Saphira reprimanded him gently. Still, that doesn't stop me from thinking there may be an entire clan of wild dragons in hiding out there. Perhaps that was why Eridor's lie sounded so truthful! Humans tell stories of monsters calling the island home, right? Why can't they be dragons? Real, proper wild dragons not reborn as other things?

She and Eragon bickered over the possibilities the rest of the day. For all three of them, the destination couldn't come quick enough.

Chapter Text

While most of the old human capital of Ilirea had been razed to the ground, Galbatorix had constructed his Fortress around its castle. One of the features that had obviously been preserved was the dragon-hold on the roof, sheltered from the elements but with large open passages to allow dragons easy access to the sky. Originally built for the dragons of Riders that came to meet with the old line of human kings, it had last been used by the Forsworn's mindless excuses for dragons. After the death of Morzan's beast, the hold had lain deserted for years, for Shruikan never strayed far from his Rider's side and the other eggs had yet to hatch.

Now the dragon-hold was in regular use again, one lonely male dragon as its occupant. Thorn had claimed an isolated corner for himself, one with excellent access to the nearby forest Galbatorix maintained exclusively for fresh game. Here Thorn had constructed a haphazard, but comfortable nest of straw and animal furs. Access to such comfortable bedding was one of the precious few luxuries the King allowed, and Thorn reveled in what he could.

He did his best to lie on his side, one wing squashed awkwardly beneath his bulk. Though Murtagh had long healed his most recent burns with magic, his entire damned belly still ached from that bastard white dragon's unnatural blue fire. Those flames had been otherworldly, a feat not even fierce Shruikan could manage nor even Murtagh could cast. Gods, the fire had even permanently changed his color! Before his under-scales had been a brilliant red, like the rest of his body. Now they were forever singed an ugly dark shade of red. The bottoms of his wings (which had also been caught in the blast) were also similarly blackened, ragged in ways not even Galbatorix had yet managed to heal.

Thorn cursed his own cowardice in the face of that white male. He had faced Shruikan numerous times, so how had a dragon barely larger than himself stricken such terror in his heart? Perhaps if he had hesitated for so long he would not have to forever bear the proof of his cowardice.

Murtagh sat some distance away, entirely engrossed in the dagger he was sharpening. For being Rider and dragon, neither Thorn nor his human willingly sought each other's company outside of training sessions and the times Galbatorix forced them to spend together in a futile effort to strengthen their bond. And, as always, Thorn and Murtagh chose to spend those forced bonding sessions on separate sides of the dragon-hold in mutual awkward silence.

Thorn growled impatiently. And to think he could have been hunting right now instead of being forced to muse over his humiliating defeat!

Hearing the irritated grumble, Murtagh's eyes flicked up from his dagger to his dragon. They may not have been as close as Eragon and Saphira, but gods dammit, they shouldn't be so disconnected when they shared such a strong mental link.

He smirked wryly. "Cursing that white dragon again, Thorn?"

That unnatural white dragon! Thorn snarled hatefully. Something was off about him, Murtagh. How else could he paralyze all of those soldiers, me, like we were prey? He snorted twin puffs of smoke into the air. But what's really pissing me off is Galbatorix's behavior. Making us march straight back into battle after a resounding defeat, not even having us try to capture the she-dragon and her Rider-

"Eragon," Murtagh interjected warningly with a limited patience Thorn knew never to push. "My brother's name is Eragon."

Fine then, Eragon. First it's just us against his she-dragon, no sign of him, and then that damned white dragon came dropping out of the clouds! And Galbatorix isn't angry at us for failing to actually accomplish anything. He, he wasn't even the tiniest bit curious about what he reported back to him, just the smuggest I've seen him in days, like we were just confirming something he already knew.

Murtagh nodded thoughtfully. Thorn could almost see the thoughts whirring in his head. "Aye, you make a fair point. Besides, have you even seen Galbatorix since we've reported the white dragon's existence? Usually he's riding us at every availible opportunity with damned fool's errands, but aside from ordering us to spend time together like he usually does, there's nothing. What could he have holed himself up in his library over?"

The red dragon shrugged helplessly. How was he supposed to know what the Mad King was planning? Not even the best strategists of the ancient Dragon Riders had been able to predict his actions back during the Fall. He's had a century to torture every last secret out of the Eldunarya and he gave up his search for the true name of the ancient language years ago. His hackles rose in dread. Do you suppose this new dragon renewed his interest in resurrecting the dragons through the Eldunarya?

Galbatorix had once proudly showed off his failed experiments that had tried to restore the Elundarya in his possession to tangible bodies. Thorn still had nightmares about some of them.

His Rider's eyes darkened. "I suppose we can only wait and see, can't we?"

Just as long as we aren't involved with it, Thorn growled.

Red orbs hovered in the air, illuminating the chamber below in a vermilion glow. Situated in the heart of the Fortress, there was no opportunity to allow natural daylight in, and not only did candles make notoriously poor light for reading, but their tiny flames and dripping wax could cause damage to precious literature he didn't feel like wasting precious magical energy to repair.

Here, in a drafty section of his personal chambers, was all that survived from the burnt libraries of Ilirea and Doru Araeba. He had personally selected this cache of ancient knowledge before ordering the dangerous and unimportant tomes and parchment destroyed (burnt, burnt to ash). And he, King of Alagaesia, was now the only man fit to gaze upon such a priceless (to those with lesser minds and memories) library, loaning out the occasional book of ancient spells to a trusted member of the Black Hand only on a very rare basis.

Of course, his private library didn't only hold ancient (to them, perhaps) and forbidden magic the Riders should have destroyed long before he'd conquered them. Some of the most priceless works of his collection were deemed trivial rubbish by the foolish. It was those, the star charts, that Galbatorix poured feverishly through.

Wild dragon lore didn't deserve to be called such, not in the face of elf and human lore. The legends of mankind had started out as truth, embellished over the centuries from misconceptions and misinterpretations until whatever was originally accurate been obscured by myth. Elves were even worse, trying to 'distinguish' truth from their own legends and only further clouding what had been there. Wild dragons were wonderfully literal, sparing none of the boring or gory details. A single of his Elundari was worth more than all of the written elf and human accounts he had ordered razed.

Unlike humans, the wild dragons had no gods or deities, nothing but the souls that abandoned their bodies upon death to fly far higher than any dragon could ascend in life. At night they were visible as the stars, the strength of their souls so radiant they illuminated the night sky. Every dragon, regardless of whatever unspeakable sins they may have committed in life (but for those unanimously condemned), were allowed entrance to the stars once, an instinct for the forgiveness and inclusion of kin that carried on beyond death.

However, be it seconds or centuries after their initial death, every star fell to earth for to be reborn as a living spirit. It was a trial dragons were obligated to endure to either atone for the wrongs of their first life or to prove themselves worthy of ascension a second time. Only a subconscious will to do good or evil in life, a second death separated the dragon soul from the one that had sprung from it. Those who had done good in their new lives were permitted to return to the stars and begin the cycle anew. Those that had done evil again were banished from the skies forever, condemned to suffocate in boiling pits beneath the earth forever (oh, had it burned).

Other races considered the wild dragons' afterlife to be nonsense, the result of a long-lived race too proud to admit that even they one day had to cease to exist. As if worshiping mountains and gods that bickered like children made perfect sense.

The elves that had diligently documented the nighttime skies for centuries refused to allow religion to enter their reasoning, contributing the periodic appearances and disappearances of certain stars over the years to anything but a perpetual cycle of life and rebirth. The humans who continued in their wake were little better, either spewing similar nonsense or tripe about wars or fickle wills amongst the gods.

Exasperated with browsing through such trash, Galbatorix had commissioned several astronomers to document the entire visible sky on a nightly basis shortly after the formation of his Empire and continued to do so. Those who saw fit to add their utterly inaccurate star names and constellations to their maps were promptly thrown to Shruikan. Should a star need labeling, Galbatorix handled it himself: Aisha. Malkith. Fundor.

There were obvious patterns. Those from the Empire's earliest days showed a massive increase in the number of stars, the dragons that had escaped him. For the next few decades stars rose and fell at fairly regular intervals, the usual rate of souls being rebirthed and returning. Until approximately twenty years ago, that is, where stars had fallen in vast numbers with very few replacing them. The astronomers, with no clear logical explanations for such, continued bickering over their theories.

To Galbatorix (and something far superior) the answers were obvious: The dragons were selecting bodies with longevity, anticipating an event so far into the unknown future only the stars could foresee it. He was positive Jarshan, one of his most useful (and gullible) of servants, had fallen with the throng.

When Jarshan had fallen during one of the last great battles against rebelling wild dragons, Galbatorix had kept a watchful eye for his spirit amongst the stars. His soul had been pure, not weighed down by the sins of a prior life, and even a dragon that had murdered his brother and King in cold blood had his right to ascension. After all, quite a few wise dragons had acknowledged Jarshan as their rightful king upon Eridor's defeat, those who had no longer wanted to answer to the Riders and their pets.

His black eyes blazing, he slammed a first down on the star chart, cracking the oak table beneath it. If only the war had not killed them all!

A new star had risen the night after Jarshan's death, dim and insignificant against its some of its bigger and brighter brethren, but carrying his essence all the same. During the early days, Galbatorix had tracked the star diligently to see if it would fall. As it hadn't, he presumed Jarshan had wisely decided to wait until a new clutch of eggs was laid so he could be reborn as the proper species.

Galbatorix had completely forgotten the star several years later. The she-dragon's egg had shown no signs of hatching, and the abominations the Forsworn had still insisting on calling dragons had been all rendered barren by the curse Eridor's surviving descendants had inflicted upon them.

But the white dragon from Murtagh's memories had been Eridor (as if he could ever forget that white rat), albeit an Eridor returned to life as the stupidly inept Eragon Shadeslayer. Perhaps that was why Jarshan had fallen; regardless of whatever species he had been reborn as, he had foreseen a day where there would magic that could restore him to his true form. Now if only Galbatorix could pinpoint approximately when he had fallen, if only to narrow the search.

Jarshan's star had been too dim to spot on all but the darkest of nights. Thanks to the strained eyes of Galbatorix's astronomers, his star had been last recorded fifteen years ago, nothing that could have been his soul seen in the skies since.

Galbatorix smirked triumphantly. Jarshan would have chosen a species that put him in easy reach of his master, automatically excluding all but Imperial humans and Urgals. Perhaps he would have been attracted by an Urgal's power, but the fact they were looked down upon as savage barbarians would have cheapened their appeal. No, a King dragon's pride would demand only the best possible life, that of the son of a nobleman or a similar position of power. Now all he needed were transcripts keeping track of the surviving noble branches and-

My Lord? a mental voice tentatively rang from within, interrupting his thoughts.

Head snapping up from his charts, the Mad King of Alagaesia bared his flat human teeth demonically. Very few people had direct access to his mind; Thorn, Murtagh, and the most important members of the Black Hand. The fact this intruder was Darnell, who had been stationed as a spy amongst the Du Vrangr Gata, only further infuriated him. Him being within range meant he had deliberately disobeyed direct orders.

All of Galbatorix's enraged mind bore down upon the unwelcome intruder. WHAT!?

Darnell recoiled from his master's burning aggravation, but he had the will to not fully retreat. His suicidal courage was the only thing that kept Galbatorix from immediately ripping his mind and body apart from the inside out.

I... I bring a boy, my Lord. As Galbatorix's ire spiked to dangerous levels, he quickly added, A boy with a dragon's soul.

Galbatorix's rage spluttered out. His curiosity, quick as it appeared, sharpened with suspicion. Oh? he questioned in a perfectly rational tone. And you came by this how, Darnell?

It was the dragon who came to me, Lord, while I slept. I first thought them only nightmares, for my visions were through his perspective, a trapped and tortured mind. Then I became aware of myself in the dream, of how I had been seeing through the dragon's eyes, and was able to directly communicate with him. His shame flared up again. Forgive my disobeying orders, my Lord, but the dragon needed me to deliver him to you, and I found this information too sensitive to share in any other way.

Galbatorix momentarily shut Darnell out of his mind, analyzing what he had just heard. Intimately knowing the mind of every last Black Hand, he knew quite well what Darnell had slumbering in his own soul, an asset Galbatorix found far more valuable than the man's information and magical prowess. Had the dragon within been awake enough, had sensed a kindred spirit nearby, it could have tried calling out. Since the dragon within Darnell was very much dormant, it had made contact with him instead.

But what dragon would specifically request to be brought before Galbatorix? The abominations of the Forsworn had been mindless beasts upon their deaths with no souls left to reincarnate. The wild (true) dragons had become increasingly more pathetic and loyal to the Riders as time had gone on. Very few had the courage or common sense to pledge themselves to Galbatorix's cause, unless...

Darnell, does this dream dragon have a name?

The answer was honest, unhesitating: Jarshan, my Lord.

The King of Alagaesia's jaw dropped. His host, the boy, how old is he? What is he to the Varden?

Thirteen, Lord, and just a Varden page. Darnell paused thoughtfully. He used to deliver messages whenever it was required of him, but he seems to have been assigned as the personal messenger of Eragon Shadeslayer and his dragons.

Thirteen; well within the fifteen years Jarshan's dim star had disappeared from the sky. Galbatorix wondered if Jarshan had foreseen his encounter with Darnell, one of the few souls able to help him, and had purposefully been reborn into the Varden to make the meeting come to pass. Obviously, as Jarshan had been the last King dragon, some of his powers had carried over with him into death and into a new life. How else could he have been conscious enough to actively call out to the dragon within Darnell?

Excellent work, Darnell. Today you have done great service to Jarshan, our Empire, and me. The Black Hand shivered in delight at such rare personal praise. Take the boy down to the dungeons and tell the guards he is a special visitor. They'll know what that means.

Of course, my King. And my new orders?

Galbatorix still strongly desired to punish Darnell for his disobedience, great service done or not, if only to crush whatever little seed of arrogance or rebellion that may have taken root in his heart. But Darnell would soon be far more valuable for assets other than those that mattered to the Black Hand. Until that time came, Galbatorix wanted him both utterly trusting and safely in his possession.

Obviously your time amongst the rebels is finally over, Darnell. My staff shall happily provide you with accommodations in a guest chamber fit for a visiting king. Not that any of the other two known kings, the Surdan brat and the dwarf, would be so willing to spend any amount of time in his Fortress. Here you shall receive the rest and rewards you deserve for such service to the Empire.

Galbatorix expected Darnell to make some snivelling sentiment about returning home to his family. Instead, however, his concern went to an unexpected subject. My Lord, there is no doubt Jarshan must be freed from his hell but... what about the boy?

The Mad King was unable to keep the eager smirk from spreading across his face, although Darnell sensed only his satisfaction at a job well done. I shall attend to this matter personally. Rest assured, Jarshan will be freed, and our side will once more have the dragon advantage over the rebels.

And, like the obedient moron he was, Darnell simply accepted an explanation that never really answered his question. It was for the best.

Jarsha awoke to the stone walls and barred door of a prison cell in... wherever he was. Like the dragon within that frantically raged for freedom, he too was now a prisoner, captured by what must have been an Imperial agent.

At least his surroundings were nicer than he expected, even more luxuriant than the dungeons carved within Farthen Dur. The wooden platform jutting from the wall supported a mattress that looked more comfortable than Jarsha's paper-thin cot he had slept on since being recruited as a Varden page. He had a pail for doing his business, certainly a step up from just soiling his cell without any means to clean it up. Best of all, not only was he unshackled, but there were no chains hanging from the walls. At least he wouldn't be tied up like a mad dog!

Stomach growling, Jarsha scanned the cell for food. Hell, he'd be happy with stale bread and water, even if it did give him constipation.

His mouth watered as soon as he noticed the tray placed close to the door; an entire fresh-baked loaf of bread, a jug of water, and a steaming bowl of brath, all for him.

Hunger overpowering caution, Jarsha lunged at the tray, falling to his knees as seized the loaf and tore off as large a piece as he could force into his mouth. Who could if it was poisoned? At least he'd die with a full stomach!

Wolfing down the bread, he considered the broth with a clearer mind. Picking up the bowl with both hands, he inhaled appreciatively, studying its contents.

Some kind of green vegetable, little flecks of herbs floating on top, lumps of- Jarsha dropped the bowl, scrambling back even as the broth splattered to the stone floor.

Prisoners, regardless of their rank, never got meat. It was a luxury consumed only by wealthier people and certainly not wasted on lowly, captive pages.

But I'm not a prisoner, am I? Jarsha realized, an icy dread numbing his limbs. Just the vessel for a dragon that certainly can't be harmed!

His revelation resonated to the dragon caged in his soul. The beast stirred, its half-formed thoughts not clouded with its usual blind panic and desperation, noticing what dull human senses could not, a presence that lurked just behind the wooden door.

Automatically, Jarsha knelt in a gesture of ultimate submission, baring his exposed neck to the unseen presence. The dragon hailed it as master and savior. Jarsha, not so self-deluded, acknowledged it only as his certain demise.

The journey down from his private library to the dungeons had been among the longest walks in Galbatorix's life. Even as he tore past bewildered courtiers and servants at an undignified speed, the distance between him and the enigma awaiting him seemed to grow only longer.

Nodding absently to the patrolling guards he passed, Galbatorix came to a dead stop before his destination. The guards, seeing how he ravenously eyed the door like a starving hawk would a mouse, wisely avoided that hallway altogether.

All other cells in the vicinity were vacant, sparing the hallway's sole guest the emotional distress of hearing the insane raving and tortured screams of the dungeon's other occupants. The cell had even come equipped with food and furnishings that made it practically a palace compared to the others. It would do no good for the boy's body to have suffered undue stress or fatigue, after all, not when the risks were running so high.

Galbatorix's earlier experiments had been on weak dragons dormant within even more pathetic human bodies. Jarshan may have already been somewhat concious of his surroundings, and a King dragon to boot, but host was still but a scrawny adolescent far too unused to the true horrors of the world (his children, pitiful as they were, had at least been ruthlessly reared for such.)

Like all cell doors in the Fortress's dungeon, not only had the wood and locks been heavily warded against all magic except Galbatorix's own, but had been enchanted to serve as a one-way window. The prisoners would look to their door and see only opaque wood. Galbatorix, so long as activated the enchantment, had an unobstructed view.

Galbatorix had hoped for Jarshan's influence upon his human host to be stronger, to at least be taller or stronger than most boys his age. If anything, Jarsha was below average, a weedy thing unfit for holding even a hatchling's soul. Still, Jarshan sensed himself in the presence of his master, and had enough control and common sense to properly submit himself.

With human vocal cords, the dragon spoke, his voice too deep and powerful for such a feeble form. "My King."

Galbatorix's lips twisted into a smirk. In life Jarshan had only sworn allegiance to him to gain an ally against Eridor and the Riders, and while the he had respected Galbatorix as much as a wild dragon could a human, he had balked at so openly submitting to a member of a(undoubtedly inferior) race. Rebirth had stripped him of his power, made him desperate for release, and would make him forever indebted to his liberator.

"Perhaps your death was not so inconvenient after all, little hatchling," he murmured to himself.

Galbatorix reached out with his mind. The boy smartly recoiled from is touch while the dragon clung to it as a drowning man would a life-line.

Soon, he simply soothed to his servant. Soon.

He offered solace for only a minute before ripping it away, leaving Jarshan to stew a final night in his human hell. Come tomorrow, when Galbatorix was well-rested and fully prepared for the task at hand, Alagaesia would not have five true dragons, but six (not that Eridor's half-finished abomination truly counted).

Chapter Text

Jarsha spent his first night in captivity sleeping peacefully and dreamlessly. Perhaps his food had been laced with sedatives or he had been magically sedated. Hell, he could have been so resigned to his fate his body hadn't seen the need to resist, and had just wanted to spend some of its final hours wisely. For the first time in weeks, the dragon his head slept soundly, secure in the knowledge its liberation was finally at hand.

In the morning Jarsha had eaten his breakfast without complaint, savoring the taste of well-cooked porridge, what well could have been his last meal.

Would spending the rest of his days in Galbatorix's personal dungeon truly be so terrible? Here there would be no pitifully small rations, should he behave, not like in a Varden that frequently dealt with food shortages. There would be no constantly running errands, no Irving and nosy Nolfavrell to hide his nightmares from, no constant threat of dying in a surprise attack.

Occasionally, Jarsha mused over how he drastically had become numbed to the prospects of impending death or perpetual imprisonment. Some small part of his mind screamed that his mind had been altered to keep him calm and compliant. Jarsha, while logically acknowledging that fact, felt no need to be upset over it.

When two guards slammed open the door to his cell and hauled him to his feet, Jarsha could not find it in himself to halfheartedly resist. They dragged him into even deeper into the labyrinth of cells and into eerily silent passages that held only the ghosts that had died within them.

It was in this forsaken area Jarsha's journey through the maze ended before a massive door engraved with unintelligible runes. The burlier of the guards tightly held Jarsha while his partner fumbled for the correct key on his rusted ring. The door gave a protesting creak as the key was forced into its slot, and it took both guards shoving their weights against it to force it open wide enough to enter.

The spluttering lantern they carried was not bright enough to fully illuminate the wide, high-ceilinged room, but Jarsha's eyes, having grown used to the darkness, still plainly saw the scratches gouged within the walls and floors, the dark stains mottling the gray stone. His nose, accustomed to the dank odor of the dungeon, overloaded at the stench of rotting flesh. The contents of his stomach hit the floor as Jarsha heaved, adding yet another layer of misery to his latest hell.

The smaller of the guards glanced over at the vomit, making it vanish with a single word muttered under his breath. "Best I can do," he said apologetically as he helped his companion tie Jarsha to the wall. "'Fraid the rest of this stench might as well have seeped into the stone by now."

"How about just putting me into another cell?" Jarsha groused. "One where fewer people died?"

The smaller guard winced, avoiding eye contact as the cell fell into grave silence. When the guards were done, the smaller one hesitated before placing down his lantern and hurrying after his partner. Although the door slammed shut with a resounding thud, Jarsha had at least not been abandoned in total darkness.

The large room had a gods-awful draft, one that made Jarsha shiver pathetically in his thin breaches and threadbare tunic. His wrists ached, the manacles holdings his hands so high his feet barely scraped the ground. At least his bindings were rope instead of biting cold metal. Rope-burn was a far lesser evil than the horrible infections rusted cuffs could supposedly commune.

Maybe I'm too small for the normal sized ones, Jarsha wondered. He glanced thoughtfully down at the gouge-marks. Or they want to make sure the dragon has an easy time eating me when he gets out.

The dragon stirred for the first time in hours at the mention of its name, its excitement so strong Jarsha's head vibrated with its force.

Absently, Jarsha wondered how hungry it would be upon gaining its freedom.

(the first of many and they would all rise rise rise and he'd be their king and all else would burn BURN BU-)

Galbatorix's smooth, controlled strides faltered only once when he beat his bestial enthusiasm back into submission, shoving it into a deep, dark corner of his mind. Those he passed in the halls already avoided him more warily than usual, sensing the anticipation that paced restlessly within him. First and foremost, he was King Galbatorix, master not only of Alagaesia, but of his own mind (as if he could claim such a-)

"ENOUGH!"

Two guards cowered in their armor as he passed them by, instinctively raising their weapons.

Galbatorix cleared his throat, locking his bottomless black gaze upon his spineless inferiors. "Well?" he demanded. "Look me in the eyes, men, and tell me what frightens you so!"

The men snapped back into a respectful stance, although their eyes looked anywhere but his face. Such avoidance of his eyes was not out of respect, but the deep, primal fear that kept their ancestors from facing certain death in the futile hope it would likewise forget about them.

Although they technically disobeyed orders, Galbatorix relaxed, an easy smile spreading across his mundane features. To these mortals he was an invincible god, permanent as the four peaks of Helgrind, as the forces of nature that trampled over their pitiful lives and structures. They were right to fear him so.

Sweeping dismissively past them, he descended into dungeons now occupied by a sole prisoner. The others had either been disposed of or transferred elsewhere. All guards and other workers assigned to the lower levels had been dismissed for the day. Thorn and Murtagh were confined to the dragon-hold and the floor above it under the guise of 'strengthening' their bond. With floors of magically-warded stone between him, his experiment, and the closest trained magician, Galbatorix had as much privacy as he was ever going to get in his Fortress.

Such extreme precautions hadn't been taken with prior experiments, but never before had conditions been so optimal, and never would they be again. Come hell or high water, Galbatorix would succeed this time, and the secret to reliably resurrecting a nearly-extinct race would be his alone.

Having passed all potential witnesses, he abandoned all pretense of control, and ran to his prisoner as if chased by death itself. He stopped just before the door containing his saving grace, panting from the exertion and grinning manically.

He reached out pensively with his mind, reading the boy's emotions and his detachment from them in satisfaction.

Since you've been so compliant, boy, I'll let you spend your final moments with a clear head.

Galbatorix released the brat from his spell, plunging him ruthlessly into his desperate, all-consuming terror. He let them have their reunion before finally entering.

The boy stopped his frantic thrashing as he beheld the King of Alagaesia, still as a mouse before the hawk. The rope had worn away the skin of his wrists, leaving them raw and bleeding.

For a moment, the strength of Jarshan's desperation allowed him to seize control, flinging the weight of the boy's bodies against his shackles in a vain attempt to reach his master. Though still firmly contained within the boy's body and mind, his soul continuing banging against its bars, fiery rage trying to burn whatever cracks of freedom it could.

The boy was not overwhelmed with such smoldering need for freedom. His brown eyes evenly met Galbatorix's own, and were not blind to the beast lurking in their fathomless depths.

The boy opened his mouth to scream, but it died in his throat as Galbatorix clamped an iron hand over his mouth. Still, his eyes never left the burning black holes that bore into his soul, stubbornly blinking back tears.

"Congratulations," Galbatorix drawled. "That makes you one of the bravest souls to enter this chamber. A pity you aren't the type to be immortalized in song and story."

The Black King placed his other hand on his clammy forehead. The defiant little brat fell slack at his touch, falling into a stupor. Jarshan's anticipation refused to be doused, but that did not stop him from being firmly shoved back into the opposite corner of their shared mind. Swift as night, Galbatorix entered their mind-space and went to make the divide permanent.

Pushing his way through decades of resentment, determination, self-loathing and fear, Galbatorix honed in something even more innate than the churning maelstrom of emotion.

The human's soul was dull and utterly unremarkable; no different than the countless others Galbatorix had stripped bare. Its faint glimmerings of potential would never be given the opportunity to harden into a diamond among the rough. Beneath the human soul was its origin, the dormant dragon that had sprung a new consciousness during its years of slumber.

All other dragon souls Galbatorix had encountered before this one had been as dark and dormant as winter soil, refusing to awaken, no matter how insistent his summon (he could not make them burn for that, but their cages were deliciously flammable.) If it wasn't his infuriating temper damaging the experiments, it was the inability of the stubborn dragon soul to resist his demands without making their host suffered. Inevitably, their minds would split in two, slipping away to where not even a King could reach.

Jarshan was not only aware of himself and begging to listen to orders, but boiled under the human's placid spirit like magma beneath the earth.

Galbatorix gave a smile that could have been considered pleasant on any other man. "Ah. Here we are."

He supposed it could have been considered a similar to a living dragon's Eldunari; a tiny, insignificant little thing nestled deep within a far greater being. A metaphorical egg that cradled the dragon's slumbering spirit until death made it hatch and ascend back to the stars (or sink down, down, do-).

If it was an egg, then Jarshan was the infant unable to hatch itself, and screaming for its father.

For a moment, Galbatorix considered leaving him there. A hatchling unable to enter the world had no part in it, not when far stronger siblings would eventually come along to fill its empty space.

But he hadn't any more loyal dragon servants still owing him allegiance from beyond the grave, now did he?

Shaking himself, Galbatorix proceeded, his mind encircling the dragon soul and temporarily cutting off the brat's polluting presence. The boy's physical body jerked violently at such a violent assault on its soul, rope bindings holding it firm. With his servant so willing, all he had to do was allow him the opportunity to earn his own freedom.

And if I have to intervene? Well, it's another subject to dissect, and another period of watching and waiting for the right soul. Perhaps Jarshan will be smart enough to choose rebirth somewhere nearby next time, a creature without such a stubbornly independent sense of self!

Galbatorix opened his mind fully, baring his full power to Jarshan's imprisoned soul. Dying may have sent souls to intangible planes the living could never hope to walk, but so long as they remained true to themselves, not even bodily death could purge an individual of their magical obligations. The King had every intention of calling upon every last oath.

Once you swore allegiance to me, Jarshan, Son of Vanilor and Ocurni. His words rang in the unearthly might of the ancient language, amplified a thousandfold by the conquered Eldunarya bound to his soul. Jarshan instinctively shuddered at the employ of such raw power, but did not shy away, drawn in like a moth to the flame. So long as the shadow of the Dragon Riders hangs over Alagaesia, then you will come when called, serve as my faithful comrade, until we can be free to rule only over but our own people.

The inviting warmth of Galbatorix's power intensified to an inferno's punishing blaze. You died with your vows, your very dreams of the wild dragons truly being free, unfulfilled. Vrael's ghost still haunts these lands. Return to me, Jarshan Stonescale, to your rightful place over the wild dragons, to take your vengeance upon the one who denied you your rightful inheritance! So I call and so you shall come!

Galbatorix's final words were lost in an earth-trembling roar. Jarshan's prison shattered, releasing its inferno, a phoenix to be gloriously reborn from the ashes of the old.

Jarsha watched as fire engulfed him in fascination, the same way one would a wildfire from the safety of a distant mountain. His mortal terror had already been burned away, so at least he could appreciate the devastation in all of its glory. Really, it was beautiful, in its own relentless, all-consuming way.

He wished there could have been one last stand for the fate of their shared body and soul. Sure, he knew he'd been damned against a freaking dragon, but it would have soothed his ego knowing he'd gone down fighting. A battle between boy and beast for the sake of their very being? That had to be worthy of a tavern song or two, right?

For the first time in thirteen years, Jarshan soared high and proud, only ever larger as the flames consumed all that had held him back. He was a majestic sight to behold, even as a herald of oblivion.

Deep down, Jarsha knew this would have happened eventually, after he had lived his mortal life to the fullest. Really, he was a messenger boy in a rapidly escalating war. How many more years could he have possibly had left before death had freed him from living constraints? When Jarshan could have ascended to the heavens in a blaze of glory to a rank he had truly earned? For them, a human and dragon so drastically different, regardless of their shared origin, seperation had not been a question of if, but of when.

But he couldn't feel angry now, not when the flames had burned all ill will away. So Jarsha smiled and basked in the melting heat as if it were a warm summer day. There wouldn't be any more summers anyway.

His watering eyes caught a darkness behind Jarshan's blazing form, a shadow not from the smoke. Squinting, he could just make out the silhouette of a behemoth that dwarfed even a decades-old dragon. Jarshan did not tremble in fear or stand in awe of the overwhelming abomination, but frowned in mild concern.

Perhaps he should have warned Jarshan about tha-

Galbatorix jolted out of the trance he had unwittingly slipped into, dusting off his robes as he rose from the ground and stepped back as far as he could. Shaking the confusing jumble of sights from his mind's eye, he trained his piercing gaze to the limp body hanging lifelessly from the ropes. He reflexively muttered protective wards as he braced for the storm that always came after the calm.

The boy's snapped open with a grunt. Before the King's very eyes they lightened from a warm brown to a gray cold as stone, their round pupils narrowing into thin slits. Like ripples in a pond, the changes continued on after another, growing in intensity.

Dull, blunt fingernails lightened to bone-white, curving and sharpening into lethal points. They clenched, tearing through the rope and gouging into the delicate skin, only furthering the bleeding from the shredded wrists. Pinkish skin paled to a corpse's pallor. Brown hair fell to litter the floor like pine needles. The boy resembled a writhing corpse more than a dragon, but the transformation only elevated.

The pallid skin darkened to slate-gray, hardening and spiking up in diamond patterns, healing the old wounds and shielded from new ones. The body swelled and contorted in size, the ropes finally giving way to the strain and sending it tumbling to the floor on its hands and knees. Muscles ripped their way out of a scrawny frame, straining bones not yet strengthened to accommodate then. The boy could bear the agony in silence no longer, ripping harmlessly at his new scale hide as he screamed bloody murder.

His back legs painfully shifted as his spine snapped into a position suited for four legs instead of two. His body continued to grow in size, from the size of a horse, to that of a cow, and beyond. A tail erupted from the base of his spine, thrashing against the stone wall as it lengthened. His neck grew long and serpentine, sending the head far above its shoulders. The remnants of the tunic and breeches had long since been shredded, leaving a body that looked almost fully draconic. His thumbs and pinkie toes, migrating to his palm and ankle to better grip mountain crags and prey. His massive hands and feet then fully shifted into paws, the remaining four digits on each thickening and lengthening to support them fully.

Two white bones erupted from his shoulder-blades with the most blood-chilling scream and convulsion yet, growing to nearly brush the ceiling and sides of the chamber. Smaller and more delicate bones branched out, creating a structure for muscles and sinew to wind themselves around. A translucent gray membrane, some shades lighter than the main body color, finally sled over the exposed networks.

The head was among the last to be changed. Voice deepening from agonized screams to bone-jarring roars, his mouth and nose exploded outward to form a long snout. Within, the blunt teeth of an herbivore sharpened into bone-white fangs, the incisors long enough to jut out of the mouth even when closed. His tongue thinned and lengthened into a rough tool perfect for licking scales clean and the precious last bits of meat from bone.

The little things followed, neatly tying up the transformation from boy into dragon. The first spike emerged from the top of his head, the rest following one after another in a trail down his spine to the end of his tail. At the tail-tip they grew closer together into a threatening club. Three small pairs of spikes wreathed the face. Finally, two white stubs emerged from his head, lengthening into impressive horns that curved slightly backwards. A slightly smaller pair emerged behind it, followed by a third and final set of even smaller spikes, forming the rudimentary crown all close relatives of a King dragon sported.

Most remarkably of all, the newly-created flesh marred itself, the numerous scars Jarshan had prided in life carried over into his reborn form.

Transformation complete, Jarshan flopped down onto his stomach, panting heavily.

Several moments later, his bleary eyes focused on his restored form, sharpening. He stumbled uneasily onto his four paws with the clumsiness of a foal, unused to the sheer bulk he now carried. Shifting his tail experimentally, he did his best to balance himself without whacking the wall. His neck craned as he surveyed his form, making sure every last scar and scale was accounted for. After several failed attempts to furl his wings, he left them hanging limply.

Hesitantly, the dragon rumbled in the back of his throat, the sound escalating to a floor-shaking bellow as the triumph sank in. At last, Jarshan remembered his master, dipping into as grateful a bow his quivering limbs could manage. Galbatorix cynically wondered when the dragon's pride would exert itself and make him think himself his master's evil (he was so eager to reteach him the natural order!)

You saved me from an eternity of torment, my master. Not even weariness could weigh down the joy in Jarshan's voice. I am forever in your debt.

(And don't you ever forget it.) Galbatorix only nodded absently through the seemingly endless drivel of gratitude, one of the rarest gifts a dragon ever gave.

"Would you care to have the honors, Jarshan, of snuffing out the last traces of your host?" He nodded casually to shedded hair and shredded clothing still littering the floor.

The stone-gray dragon backed away several steps, face contorting into a hateful snarl. In his past life, his fire had blazed stormy-gray; unusually hot for a dragon of his relatively young age, but not uncommon for a royal dragon. The plume of flame that now streamed from his maw was wispy gray around the ages, but its core burned white-hot like a star. Galbatorix registered its heat from even behind his protective wards.

Perhaps such direct exposure to the might of the Eldunarya had strengthened Jarshan's natural magics or he still carried a piece of the untold power of the stars within him. Perhaps rebirth had allowed him to finally claim the Kingly powers that had been rightfully his at Eridor's death. Galbatorix's black eyes glittered at the possibilities, of how this miracle could further his success with less powerful or less willing subjects.

Jarshan flexed a front leg akwardly, clenching its claws as if still expecting fingers. His master frowned in displeasure. Obviously the dragon's full capabilities needed time to return or be completely relearned. It would do no good for the paragon of his experiments to be introduced to the public as a blundering liability.

"There is still a dragon-hold on the top level of the Fortress," Galbatorix said pointedly. "Shruikan roosts elsewhere. You are welcome to rest there until independently enough to choose otherwise."

Jarshan snorted at the insulting implications. During the early days of the war, when forced to be with one or more of the Forsworn for over a day, he had eaten and slept apart from them and the mindless beasts they had once called their dragons. Shruikan was no better to him, a hopeless and withered soul sulking inside his Elundari.

My host saw the red dragon during both the Battle of the Burning Plains and in the later skirmish where my big brother decided to make a brief return to the land of the living. Will I be roosting alone, master, or have to play nice with the Rider and his pet?

"They are your brothers-in-arms now, Jarshan," Galbatorix warned, a dangerous flicker of irritation smoldering behind his otherwise relaxed facade. "The dragon is Thorn, hatched from one of the two eggs retrieved from Vroengard. His Rider is Murtagh, Morzan's son." He smiled pleasantly at Jarshan's agitated rumble. "Would you have rathered explaining to your sole surviving nephew how you slew his parents?"

Jarshan dimly recalled the green egg Kialandi had pried from his mother's arms. When his full Kingly powers had not manifested even weeks after Eridor's death, and no other dragon having ascended to the position, Jarshan had wondered if such magic had come to reside in his unborn nephew. As such power had never before fallen to an egg before, much less one enchanted to hatch for a Rider, Jarshan had dismissed the possibility and had largely forgotten about it.

Until Galbatorix had so generously dredged the matter up, of co-

Jarshan closed his eyes for a good minute, purging all distractions from his mind. Everything else could wait until after a long, long rest.

The gray dragon eyed the wooden door dubiously, recalling the narrow passages beyond. How do I even get to the dragon-hold, master?

Galbatorix parted the ceiling with a casual wave of his hand, letting the direct sunlight stream in. Jarshan shut his eyes with an agonized hiss as the brightness seared them.

"I had this chamber constructed beneath one of the courtyards for this very reason," he explained simply. "So glad someone finally survived long enough to make good use of it."

Chapter Text

With a swift wind at their backs, the journey from the Burning Plains to northwest Alagaesia was not as long as expected. The two dragons soared higher than human eyes could identify, coasting upon a current that carried them far faster than mere flapping ever had.

Such a long flight couldn't have been completed without rest, especially since his fight with Eridor had already greatly exhausted Eragon. Around twilight Saphira had guided him to the shelter of a small copse of trees. They awoke at the crack of dawn, refreshed themselves on fresh spring water and lean deer meat, and were in the air before the sun could clear the horizon.

Eridor slumbered so deeply that Eragon frequently checked to make sure he hadn't permanently slipped into oblivion, not waking once during the entire flight. It was probably for the best. The two living dragons were stressed enough as it was, and certainly didn't need a voice constantly urging them to pick up the pace, no matter the physical expense to their bodies.

Eragon angled his wings, gradually descending to a lower level of the sky. They had passed over the last human settlement hour and ancestral memory assured him it was a clear shot to the coast. Unless a village had sprouted up over the last century in the middle of nowhere, neither dragon ran the risk of being spotted.

Below, the rugged peaks of the Spine had gradually smoothed into foothills, growing ever flatter as the dragons had flown further west. Eragon's nostrils flared at the scent the breeze carried with it. He smelled salt, not like that of treated meat, but the tang of tears, strong enough to make his eyes water.

Saphira rumbled in surprise as the unexpected scent assaulted her nose for the first time, blinking her eyes rapidly to clear the irritation from them. We have to be close by now!

Mere minutes later, she and her companion glimpsed the sea, or at least the wide channel that separated Vroengard from the mainland. It engulfed Eragon's entire vision, a void of dark blue that swallowed the brown and green landscapes, along with the very horizon.

For the first time since he had nearly fatally exhausted himself, Eridor stirred at the verges of his host's mind. Eragon was only relieved his voice was free of its earlier madness.

The people of the Empire call the waters around Vroengard the Raging Sea. What ships don't have their hulls gouged by submerged rocks encounter terrible storms that bombard Vroengard year-round. The meager profit made from fishing these waters in my time was not worth the loss of life. I doubt that's changed in the past century.

Then why not take a longer route around Vroengard and bypass this 'Raging Sea' altogether? Saphira pointed out reasonably. Even if the Riders cast protective wards, they could only extend outward for so long.

Vroengard is naturally deadly, which is perhaps why the Riders found it so appealing to place their capital, a city with defenses no army, save for one on wing, could breach. The storms blow in from the western waters, where there is no land to soften their wrath. Why do you think even the elves, hiding away in their forests while lamenting for the sea and their silver ships, sail back to their ancestral homelands?

Eragon growled down at the sea distrustfully. Is natural phenomena all we have to worry about?

Eridor paused thoughtfully. Stay high above the water. They prefer gorging themselves in early autumn in rich coastal waters than having to hunt down every scrap of food in the winter months. You two are large enough to satisfy a young adult for the entire season, and still a tempting snack for an elder.

He raised his barriers, refusing to say anything more about the matter. Saphira heeded his warning, flying as high as she comfortably could. Eragon joined her, burning blue eyes never leaving the waves. When would a giant dorsal fin break the water's surface? When would he spot an island-sized shadow lurking in the depths? Was such a monster already watching them, waiting for the perfect time to snatch a dragon for its meal?

Come on, Eragon, Saphira murmured, gently shaking him from his paranoia. The sooner we're over dry land, the better.

The white dragon nodded in furious agreement, flying as close to her as he could without their wing-tips brushing. Even though he stubbornly concentrated on the clouds rather than the water, he still couldn't shake the feeling something watched him from below.

Eragon had personally seen the jewel-encrusted halls of Farthen Dur and the massive Star Sapphire that had previously shown over it like a star. He had been to the emerald, enchanted forest of Du Weldenvarden and had touched its guardian, the titanic Menoa Tree. He had visited catacombs carved from solid rock and cities sung from living trees.

Vroengard did not need dwarven or elven intervention to embellish its natural majesty; the very island itself roughly resembled a five-fingered human hand. Sunlight glinted off the massive lake in the island's center, turning it as silver as a gedwey ignasia. No wonder the Riders had chosen to establish themselves here on an island seemingly intended just for them!

Now flying over land, Saphira led the descent, ancestral memories guiding her and Eragon to Doru Araeba. Although thick, emerald foliage largely ensnared the island, the odd ruin of a tower or statue jutted out from the forest canopy. Eridor pointed out what structures he recognized, along with the open crags wild dragons had roosted on when visiting. Eragon listened intently, trying to ignore the scorch-marks and signs of purposeful damage the forest had not yet obscured.

Most chose to reside in Doru Araeba itself, or at least had some form of residence there, Eridor explained. Though some, like certain elves, preferred living in isolation from their peers to meditate over such mysteries like why the sky is blue and not green.

Both living dragons flinched at the vitriol that had seeped into his voice. Care to elaborate? Saphira dared to venture.

There was a long silence as Eridor metaphorically exhaled, his emotions becoming carefully neutral. For centuries, since practically its inception, the Dragon Riders did not know of true conflict. How could they, when just a small number of them obliterated that human king's forces? When their elders could bring even the most skilled of the elven magicians to their knees? When they could devote decades of their time to building things like... He sent them a memory of a breath-taking crystal spire. They generally meant well, aye, but how could scholars living out their days in Alagaesia's most prosperous cities understand the struggles of the peoples they tried to oversee? In hindsight, their fall was almost inevitable.

Eridor sent them a far more recent image of the crystal spire they had just flew over, its shattered base just peaking above the tree-line. One of its fragments still impaled the remnants of a massive dragon rib-cage.

Eragon frowned, able to sense the secrets the spirit was trying to conceal. You had to deal with the Council frequently as King of the wild dragons, right? How were relationships between your people and the Riders?

Wild dragons had no time for the petty politics of the so-called 'civilized' races. We had no reasons to fawn over the Riders in exchange for additional privileges or protection. They already kept humans from excessively encroaching upon our ancestral territories and the more antagonistic dwarf clans from instigating us. Our standing agreements with the Council had been enough from the beginning. Most of the Order thought the same.

Old resentment simmered beneath his words. Still there were those, Rider and dragon alike, that thought us savage for what we were, feared us for how little we truly relied upon them. They were the ones that pressed for more limitations upon our hunting grounds, the very ways we had organized clan hierarchies and chosen worthy mates for countless generations. The resentment gradually flared up into full-fledged fury, a force beginning to burn the edges of Eragon's very mind. Then some little upstart believed we owed the Riders a mandatory quota of eggs each nesting season, as if MY CHILDREN WERE-

Just when his rage seemed enough to incinerate Eragon, it subsided, reigned harshly in its by owner. Never mind that, now. We're here.

Eragon and Saphira now circled over a crater in the island, one that dipped down to the silver-shining lake. Carved into its sides, extending to just feet above the water's surface, were tiers of buildings so intricately-styled Eragon wondered if the buildings had been crafted in the same way elves had sung Ellesmera out of the trees.

His throat dry as the Hadarac from the salt in the air caking his throat, the white dragon eagerly swooped down for a drink.

Careful, stone-head! Saphira reproached. That water's salty.

Eragon flared his wings, stopping his descent as he hovered above the crater. His nostrils twitched at the pungent tang of salt drifting up from the deceptively refreshing lake.

How is that even possible? he grumbled. We're inland!

Vroengard was once a volcano, a great mountain that spewed fire from its maw as easily as we can, Eridor replied, voice almost too calm. Its molten rock carved out tunnels. When the volcano blew itself empty and collapsed into itself, the tunnels opened to the ocean, allowing water to flow all the way into this lake, the volcano's former heart. If you want to reach Prasavitri without drowning, it's got to be through the lake entrance.

Eragon eyed the water distrustfully, unable to tell how far its depths extended. She lives in Vroengard?

All, save the Council and a select group let in to the secret, didn't even know the tunnels existed. It was for the best.

Saphira exchanged a perturbed glance with her companion. ...Do we even want to know?

You've got no choice now. Blow your fire over the surface of the lake. It's considered the courteous way of requesting admittance... and also a sign for them not to eat you.

The two dragons exchanged suspicious glances, but complied, unleashing twin plumes of fire over the water. The flames, one stream a sapphire-hearted yellow and the other a blazing blue, skittered across the lake's mirror-like surface, leaving puffs of steam in their wake.

Dead silence reigned as the last sparks spluttered out. Then Eragon's sharp eyes detected the slightest ripple in the water, the hint of a sinuous shadow lurking in the depths.

Suddenly, like an ocean swell, a foreign mind flooded into his head, having flowed over his defenses like a wave over the shore. From her Saphira had tensed with a furious snarl, she too had been invaded. Though the mind was presently calm, Eragon sensed its agreeable mood could change in a heart-beat, unpredictable as the sea.

I was but a youngling when the last dragon who came searching for us arrived, a feminine voice mused pensively, frostily. Tell us, fire-breathers, why we should not drown you too.

Before the two living dragons could dart for the safety of land, Eridor's presence blazed furiously, driving back the icy chill of the invader's touch. Impudent hatchling, you speak to the last King of the wild dragons! Your Mother would be all too happy to punish you for your insolence, but I fear my companions would not leave enough left of you behind for that. Rest assured, you'd find any one of us a far more formidable opponent than the abominations the Forsworn called dragons.

Very tangible fear and chastisement lanced through the intruder's thoughts, melting whatever ice remained. Then allow a daughter of the sea a lifetime of shame for her brashness, Majesty, over the undeserving mercy of a quick death.

Instint told Eragon both Eridor and the voice were only going through the motions, a careful display of melodramatic posturing and submission to set very clear boundaries for two normally antagonistic parties that normally would have been at the other's throat.

Then I shall allow it. The required formalities completed, Eridor simply introduced by his full title.

I am Saphira Brightscales, daughter of Vervada. She hesitated, as if wondering whether to add on more information, before ultimately deciding against it.

And I am Eragon, Son of Garrow. Nothing he said was a lie. His uncle had raised him from infancy, had taught him right and wrong, how to fend for himself in the ruthless wilds of the Spine; certainly more than Morzan had ever done for him. (Besides, the voice had admitted to drowning the dragon of a Forsworn, and Eragon absolutely didn't want to be considered guilty by association.) Deliberately omitting the little fact he had killed a Shade seemed a nicer alternative to the convoluted back-story of how a human Dragon Rider had become a dragon with a pompous voice in his head.

I am Thalassa, daughter of the sea. Mother told me the last King of the dragons died decades before my hatching. She paused, torn between skepticism and awe. Are you truly...

The son of King Vanilor and Queen Ocurni, brother to siblings long dead, mate to a she-dragon now dead, father to children mostly dead, last legitimate King of the wild dragons? Eridor rang off wearily. Aye, and I am very, very eager for an audience with your Mother.

Who am I to deny Mother an audience with a King and his host? Her suspicions suddenly sharpened, a sharp undercurrent to her otherwise respectful tone. And the she-dragon, is she your-

No! Eragon and Saphira blurted out simultaneously.

Then she is to remain outside! Thalassa roared, mind now churning like a stormy sea. No unworthy fire-breather shall be-

Saphira rumbled warningly, swooping as low to the lake's surface as she could, creating waves with each wing-beat. Then tell me how, you water-lurking bitch!

Eragon discretely did his best to rise up as far above the blast zone as possible. Even Eridor seemed to agree with his course of action.

Thalassa paused. Traditionally those seeking admittance would have to prove themselves in a duel to the death.

A modified duel to the death, Eridor butted in hastily. An opponent must be held in a position or have sustained injuries that could have been lethal if the intent of the battle was truly to kill. You would have to fight on your own, Saphira, as would Thalassa, until one of you can be considered a victor. Should you win, you will get to join Eragon and me in meeting Prasavitri. Should you lose, you'll be eternally banished from Vroengard and the surrounding seas, on pain of death should you ever dare to return.

Very well, Saphira sniffed.

Knowing the she-dragon's mind was steadfastly made up, Eragon flew up to one of the larger buildings that overlooked the lake. Despite the roof creaking ominously under his weight, it held, allowing him a clear view of the impending duel.

And of the massive, slimy creature that emerged to meet Saphira in battle.

Her infernal pride having spoken for her, Saphira now had no clue what she was about to face. The numerous myths and rumors of the strange creatures that supposedly inhabited Vroengard had always been incredibly vague on the actual descriptions, considering no one after the Fall had seen one up close and lived to tell the tale. She had hoped these mysterious creatures to be dragons that had survived the massacre, hiding out in the place Galbatorix would least expect them.

Although, considering Vroengard was an island, she really should have considered something aquatic.

Well, there was no backing down now, as if she was ever going to allow Eragon into caverns crawling with Thalassa's kind with only Eridor and his unpredictable powers for protection!

Come on, she muttered, scanning the water's surface for the slightest ripple. Where are you, coward?

The lake's mirror-like surface shattered in a shower of water droplets. Something very large lunged up to her, snapping with dagger-like fangs. Saphira thrust herself upward with a mighty beat of her wings, the thing's jaws just missing clamping down on her tail.

Leering up at her was a serpentine head attached to a long, sinuous neck. Dark blue like the deep ocean and slimy as a toad, Thalassa would have appeared a monstrous snake, were it not for the dark frill that ran down her head and neck. Two webbed ears perched on the sides on her head, along with dark horns that curled like a ram's.

With a jolt, Saphira recognized this creature as a sea serpent, the same monsters that had terrorized coastal towns and villages during the earliest days of the Dragon Riders. Even the mightiest of battle ships, the most powerful of flying and fire-breathing dragons, had fallen prey to such ambitious jaws. Only the potent magic of the Riders, backed by the strength of their dragons, had been enough the sea serpents away from shore and into the deep ocean where no ship ever sailed.

Thalassa shrieked a challenge up to her, her cry shrill enough to shatter glass. Baring yellowed fangs, the sea serpent wove her head back and forth almost hypnotically, her brilliant green eyes never leaving Saphira.

Too afraid to play, little dragon?

Saphira barely restrained herself from diving down to meet Thalassa. She recalled her history lessons with Glaedr, who had described in excruciating detail how sinister sea serpents had taunted proud dragons into range of their quick, strangling coils. Once ensnared, the dragon would be almost powerless, its chest bound until it suffocated or drowned breathing in seawater.

Strangle this, water worm!

Saphira loosed the hottest flame she could muster, certainly hot enough to roast the sea serpent's side.

Rather than trying to dodge the fire, Thalassa exhaled a volley of ice shards. Fire and ice collided mid-air, evaporating as harmless steam.

Please, the serpent sneered. Whether you drown or freeze, it matters not. Your fire is nothing against the ocean's might!

She tilted back her head for another shot. From where her green eyes were fixating, Saphira knew Thalassa was meaning to shred her wings and take away her advantage of flight.

Saphira inhaled a breath not to be wasted on flame before she tucked in her wings, plummeting like a stone. Thalassa's ice bounced harmlessly against her armored side before they collided, the force propelling both titans down into the lake. Saphira barely heard Eragon's shocked roar before the water drowned him out.

Thalassa's muscular coils tried to twist around her kicking limbs. Grabbing the sea serpent's thrashing form, Saphira battered her down deeper into the water with her back-paws, relying on her powerful tail and fore-paws to propel her upward. Her wings next to useless in the dense water, she kept them folded tightly to her sides, as safe from Thalassa as she could.

With as much distance between them as she was ever going to get, Saphira finally exhaled all the air left in her lungs. It was not a controlled jet of flame, but a burst of boiling steam that radiated out in all directions. Scalded, the sea serpent recoiled in pain, her dark blue belly now a blistering red. Saphira, while she too somewhat felt the blast, was protected by thick scales and a natural tolerance for extreme heat. Thalassa, a creature of the cold dark, had no such defenses.

Boiling in her own domain, Thalassa rocketed for the surface, desperate for cool air to soothe her scalded flesh. In her blind rush, she had forgotten Saphira floated in wait above her.

Seizing one horn tightly in her jaws, Saphira hauled Thalassa the rest of the way out the water, snapping her wings open to maintain a low hover. She wrapped both of her front paws around the sea serpent's thrashing neck, prepared to either snap it or strangle her should her coils even break the surface.

Trembling, Thalassa tensed for an agonizing moment, searching for a way out. Finally, her sinuous form relaxed, the shriek that had been building up in her throat released only a hiss of defeat.

I yield, she-dragon. Her voice, though reeking of bitterness, held no treachery. You have won the right to see Mother.

Releasing her captive from her death-grip, Saphira ascended to meet Eragon. The white dragon eagerly nuzzled her as if to assure himself she was not a ghost. Guiltily, the she-dragon allowed him to fret.

As if he needed anymore nightmares about me, she thought privately.

Thalassa watched the exchange with unreadable green eyes. Motioning for them to follow, she gracefully sank back beneath the water. Saphira nodded confidently at Eragon's wary growl, following the sea serpent. After a long moment of hesitation, the white dragon followed, Doru Araeba's lake again becoming deceptively calm as the ripples in his wake stilled.

Despite his strength, Jarshan found his newly-restored wings dead-weight against his sides, barely able to keep themselves folded against his back. For now, flight was absolutely of the question.

Seething in frustration and humiliation, Jarshan clawed his way up from the courtyard to the dragon-hold, leaving deep gouges in the stone behind him. He rested where he could, where the roof jutted out enough to support his weight, before forcing himself onward.

Initially, servants and noblemen alike had gathered in the courtyard to gape and gossip over the unknown dragon scaling the walls of their King's Fortress. When he had craned his head back to roar at them, sending the only pitiful wisp of flame he could manage, only a few had scattered. Guards impotently waved their swords up at him, them and their fellow magicians flabbergasted when spells and arrows only bounced harmlessly against his sides.

Galbatorix had beheaded the unfortunate messenger who had come to warn him about the 'dangerous dragon', throwing his body to Shruikan while he had personally seen to those harassing his 'honored guest, King Jarshan of the wild dragons.' After that announcement, no one had been suicidal enough to remain in the courtyard. As if that stopped them from curiously peering out the windows at Jarshan's descent.

When his wings had failed them and the hallways up to the dragon-hold had proved too small for him to squeeze through, Jarshan had been relieved to discover the walls of the Fortress were worn and pitted enough for him to scale. There was no way he would remain vulnerable down in the courtyard for every pitiful human servant to sneer over! At least the dragon-hold offered relative privacy from their stares.

After what seemed like lifetimes, Jarshan hauled himself up into the dragon-hold, hungrily gasping for breath. When he had recovered enough, he forced himself to gaze upon his temporary accommodations.

Jarshan had been hoping for a place on verge of collapsing from decades of neglect. Even that would have beat sleeping in anything that resembled the stables Vanilor had forced his young hatchlings to sleep in whenever he had forced his family to travel with him.

Instead, he faced a dragon-hold that looked all too similar to the one he had last occupied a century before. Elegant carvings of dragons and their simpering Riders, though somewhat faded by the elements, remained all too legible on the walls, barely scratched by the few dragons that had called the Fortress home since the Fall. Jarshan's nose wrinkled at the scents of all-too-human cooking wafting up from the kitchens below. He all but gagged on the still insulting stench of lovers that had made the dragon-hold their secret hideaway between the death of the last Forsworn dragon and Thorn's hatching.

Curious in a bored sort of way, Jarshan explored his temporary resting place. Dragon scents from the mindless puppets of the Forsworn still clung to the remnants of their nests. Bones from kills Aiedail knew how old still rotted in corners. (Servants obviously could not have been persuaded to clean out the dragon-hold, not when those mindless abominations had lurked up there. From the looks of things, Jarshan seriously doubted they had become thorough cleaners since Thorn had taking up residence.)

Every pile of refuse he spotted received a spark, just enough to make it go up in smoke. Small piles of ashes everywhere, which would soon blow away regardless, beat living in filth.

Snarling in disgust, Jarshan stopped dead at the biggest pile of trash yet. The crude nest, from the fresh scents clinging to it, was obviously Thorn's.

Wild dragons did not usually resort to such petty comforts. Easily flammable nests had no place in the caves of those who sneezed fire or who were rearing spark-happy younglings. Save for cushioning eggs or the aching joints of elders, what use were such soft things for dragons perfectly comfortable on solid rock?

Such common sense obviously didn't apply to the Riders' pets, who yearned for constant comfort. It wasn't as if they kept their children to raise, or else them and their nest would have been consumed in minutes once they had discovered their flames.

Finding the ideal spot, as far out of the elements and away from his unwelcome room-mate as physically possible, Jarshan went to work gouging a shallow depression out of the floor with his claws and flame, creating the perfect, fire-proof nest to curl up into.

Then, following in the leads of the countless elders who had come before him, Jarshan marked the entire dragon-hold as his own, drowning out the scents of all prior occupants, the Rider's pet included. Were this a normal conquest, and Thorn a normal wild dragon, Jarshan would have never allowed him back in the dragon-hold, having claimed the territory for his own whims. But this was Galbatorix's turf, and Jarshan wanted no reason for Thorn and his Rider to go crying to their master... not yet, anyway, and so Thorn would remain a grudgingly tolerated guest.

Satisfied his dominance in these surroundings had been clearly established, Jarshan curled up for a long, dreamless slumber, fully prepared to maul the unfortunate bastard who woke him up early.

Chapter Text

When Eragon had been human, he could have barely held his breath for over a minute before becoming starved for air. Now, with a dragon's large, efficient lungs, several minutes underwater seemed painless, although he knew he'd still have to eventually surface. Before, his human eyes had squinted to see more than several feet ahead of him. Now his third eyelids, which normally protected his eyes from debris during flight, allowed a crystal-clear view of his surroundings. Had he not wings, an aquatic lifestyle wouldn't have been out of the question.

Undulating like a snake would slither on land, Thalassa led the way deeper into the lake. Her lithe, graceful body and dark blue scales, perfect camouflage for an underwater world, must have made her and her kind the unchallenged masters of the sea. Eragon was just grateful the fight between her and Saphira had been but one for honor, and not held out in the open ocean.

Saphira followed just behind Thalassa. Wings and limbs tucked closely to her sides, she imitated the sea serpent's swimming style far better than Eragon could. His thrashed his body awkwardly as he tried to copy her, Eridor ranting about his 'humiliating spasms' the entire time. Giving up, the white dragon settled for a technique closer to his human muscle memory, paddling through the water with all four of his paws.

As time passed, Eridor's dogged criticism tapered off, impatience and anxiety simmering their way to the forefront of his mind. Not about to risk his mind's other occupant blowing up in his face, Eragon wisely left him to his restless silence.

Up ahead, Eragon could just barely make out a dark cavern yawning out of the lake-bed. So thickly was it concealed behind tangled plant-life that, had not Thalassa shown him the way, he would have never discovered it. Since no human or elf Rider could hold their breath for so long, and dragons had no reason to dive down so deeply into a lake that held only plants and moderate-sized fish, certainly no one had worried about someone unwittingly stumbling upon the fact sea serpents nested beneath Doru Araeba itself.

Thalassa slithered into the darkness without hesitation. The dragons, however, hesitated, their innate claustrophobia rearing its ugly head. Instinct demanded them to head up, to the sky and fresh air and away from a nest of dragon-hungry sea-

Get on with it! Eridor snarled dangerously.

Despite Eridor's lack of a substantial body to follow through with his warning, Saphira and Eragon hurried after their guide, more afraid of the angry King than they were of meeting a nest of sea serpents in their native element.

As they swam into the darkness, Eragon became aware of the strain on his lungs and the ever-insistent need to surface. Not that he could, with gods knew how many miles of solid rock above him. Saphira, though outwardly calm, suffered from the same unease. Her wings twitched as if they were strong enough to propel her straight up to fresh air. Her eyes strayed away from Thalassa to the surrounding walls, reflexively searching for an exit.

Finally glimpsing a strange beacon of bluish-green light up ahead, the dragons became frantic. Saphira butted her head firmly into Thalassa to get her to hurry up. Eragon swiftly followed, his own emotions only heightened by Eridor's impatient agitation.

Breaking the surface at last, Eragon greedily inhaled fresh air, uncaring of how damp and dank it was. Saphira kept more composure, nodding briskly to Thalassa, who watched them with glittering green eyes. The cobalt sea serpent slithered out of the water and into a drier tunnel, the two dragons cautiously following her.

Though breathable, the air was dank, reeking of salt and rotting seaweed. Despite Eragon's fiery core, the dampness still seeped deep down into his bones and to his shivering soul.

Gods, Saphira swore, nostrils smoking in disgust. I have not been this cold since I was a hatchling against my first cold night without shelter.

You're in the Urubaen of sea serpents, Eridor said grimly. We're fire and air, they're ice and water. Their presence has been here so long it's seeped into the very rock itself. Let us get my sons, and then let us leave, before their damned magic saps me of too much of my strength.

The other two dragons were all too eager to comply. Luminescent bluish green moss hung down from the dripping ceilings, casting the tunnels in an eerie light. Water and slime made the smooth stone floor even more treacherous. Eragon clung as tightly to the rock as he could with his claws, not about to slip and make an idiot of himself before a dragon-eating creature in her native element. From somewhere down the tunnels came the low rumble of the tide, a grim reminder of how even a dragon could not survive against the onslaught if the tunnels collapsed and sent the sea roaring in.

Smaller passages and chambers branched out from the main tunnels, each one swarming with serpents. From their nests they sharply eyed such odd intruders, green eyes gleaming with curiosity and hunger. While most gave the dragons a wide berth, several of the bolder ones insisted on squeezing past them through the tunnels, their hides like ice whenever they accidentally brushed against them. Through their minds, they hissed and whispered to each other, the massive sense of their loosely connected presence like wading through damp mist.

Eragon? Saphira called out privately, hackles raising with unease. Do you notice something... off with their ages?

The white dragon paid closer attention the sizes of the snakelike beings around him. Most of the serpents were far smaller than Thalassa, curled up together as if sensing safety in numbers when it came to their strange visitors. The clusters of juveniles kept far away from those serpents Thalassa's size, and even further away from the rare behemoths amongst them. Curled in massive chambers, and surely thick enough to take up the tunnel if they had a mind to, the eldest of the sea serpents sported dull hides adorned in battle scars and barnacles, their horns yellowed and cracked from their immense age. Their fathomless eyes tracked Eragon's every move. It did not take him long to realize an elder could swallow even a dragon his size whole.

Eragon waited for one of Eridor's signature lectures, but got none. They can't all be orphans. Maybe the parents just lay large clutches and don't care too much for their eggs after they're laid. He frowned, noticing the alarming disproportion of younglings to adults and elders. You... don't think they're cannibal, do you?

I wouldn't put it past them, but didn't Thalassa call Prasavitri Mother?

Thalassa also called herself 'daughter of the sea.' 'Mother' could just be a title of respect or power. Some human priests and leaders are called 'Father' by their followers, so maybe it's the same basic principles?

Their speculations fell silent as Thalassa led them ever deeper into the lair. Gone were the younglings and smaller serpents. The elders here were even more ancient than the ones from earlier, but with lusterless scales and eyes glazed with cataracts, lacked their formidable appearance, less battle-hardened veterans and more weary beings in the twilight of their lives.

The bluish-green moss, once only enough to see by, entirely covered the floor and ceiling, making the tunnels bright as if in broad daylight. Ice clung to the corners, covering what little of the dark blue rock the moss had not claimed. The roar of the ocean had subsided entirely, but the very air reverberated with power, as palpable as it had been before Eridor had awoken within Eragon and unleashed his fiery wrath upon the Ra'zac.

It is the serpents that cause it, Eridor murmured. Their magic only grows the longer they live. Even when their very bodies begin to break down from the wear of centuries, their power grows only stronger. Decrepit as these elders look, one of them could not only match a King dragon's power, but even the most formidable of Riders. This place is the manifestation of that power, that which nourishes the younglings and provides elders a place of rest in their final days.

Saphira and Eragon flinched guiltily, simultaneously beginning, I never-

Thought such 'creatures' capable of such compassion, of providing a safe place for their children to grow and their elders to rest? Eridor kept his emotions carefully restrained, but his voice still rang with barely-suppressed fury. Elves once thought us mindless beasts, worthless except as adversaries in a difficult hunt, and then as-

Whatever Eridor was about to think next shivered and died as his very soul spluttered violently. Eragon, keening in the back of his throat, dug his claws into the icy ground as a similar wave of nausea and wrongness overpowered him.

Saphira nuzzled him comfortingly, no matter how pained her own gaze was. I'm guessing that 'nourishing' magic has different effects for dragons?

Does a fish belong in the middle of the desert, or a bird in the sea? Eridor grumbled. As I said, let us get my sons, and let us go.

Eragon concentrated on his single-minded focus, which allowed him to push his own distracting thoughts aside. Leaning deeper into Eridor's emotions, he thought only of his unwavering determination, of the simple, all-consuming desire to hold his very last children, his very last reminders of Safiri, and never, ever let go.

The spluttering fires of his soul suddenly flared back into full force. Eragon jerked his head back, startled, as two indigo plumes shot from his nostrils. Thalassa and the other sea serpents recoiled from the brightness, their furious hissing making the cold air's bite only sharper.

Kindly keep the fire-breathing to a minimum while in our nest, Thalassa snarled dangerously, a forbidding undercurrent to her voice, or we shall eat you before your sparks catch the glow-moss and all of us alight.

Our apologies. Saphira dipped her head, though didn't look all that contrite as she greedily inhaled the remnants of Eragon's fiery magic like a flower starved for sunlight.

Thalassa's green eyes glittered furiously, but then her gaze fell to the burn-marks marring her own hide. Reluctantly, she let the matter die, and continued on her way, if only to get rid of the dragons all that faster.

Not far up ahead lay what could have only been Prasavitri's chamber, the entrance blocked by a curtain of glow-moss and guarded by two viciously-scarred elder sea serpents, each one likely powerful enough to evenly match Glaedr in single combat. At the sight of the dragons, the behemoths hissed, rearing up like snakes prepared to strike. The air temperature dropped as they readied their ice breaths like a cobra would its venom.

Eragon planted his paws on the ground and snarled right back, fire building in the back of his throat as Saphira did the same.

Thalassa's tail slapped both dragons scoldingly, thumping Eragon twice for good measure. Calmly explaining things to the guards, the hostility between the two groups declined, although the guards remained suspiciously glaring at Eragon as they slithered aside.

Thalassa did not join them, only promising she would return to guide them back to the surface.

Eragon didn't hesitate in shoving his way through the glow-moss, Saphira right behind him, not about to give those guards any more reason to strangle him in their coils.

Compared to even the powerful elders Eragon had glimpsed, Prasavitri was still easily the largest sea serpent he had seen that day, large to hold down and strangle a dragon the size of Glaedr. Barnacles coated her dark blue scales like a living armor, a wreath of driftwood and seaweed woven around her curled ram's horns. Her eyes seemed to flicker every possible shade of blue, from that of ice, the gray of a stormy sea, the darkest cobalt of the ocean's depths, to the very sapphire of Saphira's scales. Most impressively of all, Prasavitri radiated power, regal even when coiled around a mound of stone-colored eggs, head resting on its flat peak.

Eragon shuddered when Mother's connected to his. If the ocean was sentient, its consciousness could only feel like this. Deep and unpredictable, Prasavitri's rumbling yet feminine voice was benevolent at the moment but could turn against him as easily as the waves against a sailing ship. From the mere touch of her mind he could feel centuries of experiences and memories of a being that had not only weathered the rise and fall of countless King dragons, but the near-extinction of her rival race.

The whispers on the waves were right, as always. She fixed one massive blue eye on them both. Leave it to the dragons to find fault in death and decide it would be best to again walk among the living. Her voice darkened. How foolish of you, Eridor, to present yourself to me like this. How easy would it be to end the line of my greatest rivals once and for all while you inhabit but little more than untried hatchling? She eyed Saphira like a cat would a sparrow. Or to simply end the dragons altogether by snuffing out your last little female.

Saphira kept her expression carefully neutral. Your daughter did not seem to think me a 'little' problem.

Thalassa? Prasavitri's lip curled. Inexperienced twit. In the absence of dragons and their damned Riders, my children are free to feed and breed as they wish, without fear of reprisal if they feed upon the schools of fish close to shore, or even when they prey upon human ships. We are the scourge of the sea, children of the salt and storms. I shall not have us growing... complacent over the lack of real competition, of anything beyond boring contentment. I thank you for teaching my daughter some caution, soul of Safiri.

Eragon's hackles raised as he protectively stepped to her side. How did-

The Mother of sea serpents glared stonily down at him. Do you think dragons the only creatures wise enough to take heed of the workings of the world beyond, hatchling? My ancestors have whispered to me since I was but a speck in the yoke of my egg. How can I not help but listen when their words are on every wave, their eyes in every shimmer on the water?

Neither dragon was foolish enough to challenge such a grand declaration, not after the strange turns their lives had taken. Instead, Saphira quietly asked, Are they all your children then, every last sea serpent?

I cradle their eggs for months, years, mayhaps centuries, whispering to them their destinies and desires. They grow up in the safety of my care and enjoy the bountiful seas of Vroengard. When they're grown, they slither off to the farthest shores and deepest depths. Still, in the twilight of their lives, they all come back to me, to the place of their hatching, and I comfort them again until the ancestors call them to the waves. When my daughters become gravid with my sons' seed, they all find their way back to me, and entrust in me their most precious of gifts. How could I not be their mother?

Privately, Eridor connected the dots for them. Upon reaching maturity, sea serpents sought out territories of their own, actively avoiding other members of their kind until the time came for them to find their way back to Vroengard and their Mother in their final days. Only rarely were members of the opposite sexes inclined to seek each other out, and their unions never lasted longer than it took to sate their physical desires. Always, the gravid female would return to Vroengard to lay her eggs in peace, entrust them to her Mother's care, and slip back to her territory to begin the cycle anew.

Eragon shuddered at the hopelessness of such a life. One dragon sharing his head had him going mad, much less the ancestors of an entire race! Then there were the responsibilities of directing an entire race, bringing them into the world and then having to watch them leave it, of never being able to stray too far from the collective eggs of-

Thank you, Eridor broke in brusquely, for such an informative spiel, Prasavitri, but you know why I have come.

Wordlessly, the Mother of sea serpents unleashed her stranglehold on her eggs, coil upon coil of dark blue muscle unraveling to reveal the impressive mountain of life beneath. Nudging her way through the eggs, Prasavitri sent several crashing carelessly to the ground, although their stone-gray shells didn't show the slightest cracks from the impact.

Such strong fire in their souls, Prasavitri mused, to survive so long amidst water and ice.

Eragon's breath hitched as he glimpsed polished sky-blue, the perfect mix of white and sapphire, amongst the dull gray eggshells. Where the minds of the developing sea serpents were as dark and cold as the deep ocean, two souls blazed hot with a dragon's pride. Though the unborn dragons slumbered, fire smoldered beneath their half-formed feelings, ready to burst into full-fledged infernos even amidst such gripping cold.

Caradoc, the three dragons whispered simultaneously, reverently. Trinnean.

Recognizing something of their parents in what were otherwise unfamiliar minds, the unborn dragons tentatively brushed back. Trinnean flickered hesitantly, unsure but unafraid, while Caradoc rubbed up against the mind of his father like a cat.

Leaving both of his paws free, Eragon instinctively bent down to take Caradoc's egg into his mouth, careful to not crush such a delicate-looking shell between his mighty jaws. He would have taken Trinnean too, had not Saphira reached him first. Eridor bristled at such a sight, but aside from a sudden pang of hurt and a whisper of Safiri, made no comment.

Thank you, Mother Prasavitri. Saphira ducked her head as low as it could go. How can we ever-

Do as you dragons do, the elder sea serpent broke in smoothly. Grow absurdly fast, multiply so the entirety of your race can darken the very skies, raise chaos as your Aiedail did when the Mother before me was but a youngling.

Suspicion broiled beneath Eridor's love and contentment, suppressed only for the sake of his sons. Your kind has been near unmatched since the fall of the Dragon Riders and the near-extinction of my kind. How does their return benefit you when it means the ships and shore will be off-limits to all but the most recklessly suicidal of your children?

Prasavitri's laugh reverberated with the ocean's endless might. The stars think themselves so wise from the sky simply because they're high enough to see what's on the horizon. Isn't it funny, Eridor, how quickly they forget their little plans and prophecies when down amongst the mere mortals?

Despite her comment, Prasavitri's fathomless eyes stared not into Eragon's soul, but at the white dragon himself. She bared her massive, yellowed fangs in a mocking leer. Don't worry, little human hatchling, you'll appreciate his sense of irony soon enough... soon enough.

After a brief nod of gratitude, Eragon and Saphira fled her domain of ice and darkness for the safety of the open sky, the knowing laughter of the Mother of sea serpents still reverberating in their minds.

Once leaving Vroengard behind, Eridor concentrated on only his sons, bathing their minds in warmth and love to purge the last of the chill from their souls. He said nothing on Prasavitri's parting words. If anything, he was content on ignoring their existence.

Eragon and Saphira privately exchanged a dark glance, silently resolving to at least temporarily let the matter rest. Saphira didn't want to dampen Eridor's reunion with his last surviving children by bringing up the cryptic sea serpent after just leaving her behind. Eragon, with a direct link to the darkest depths of Eridor's mind, knew he had no idea what Prasavitri had meant.

Too proud to just admit our fears, Eragon muttered to himself. Guess that's something we have in common.

Despite their frequent bickering, Angela enjoyed Solembum's company. Sourpuss he may have been, but he was always there to bounce ideas off of... and to test some of them out on once they'd come to fruition. Like her new hair removal potion, for instance...

Honestly, Solembum deserved it just for having the audacity to shed his damned fur all over the tent, contaminating her experiments and infringing on even Angela's rather lax standards of hygiene. And now he had heartlessly decided to nap right in the middle of the floor, where any poor soul could break their ankle tripping over him!

Angela couldn't help her wicked grin as she crept over to the dozing werecat, her vial of hair removal potion just begging for a test subject-

And then suddenly she was falling, falling, falling...

She tumbled through a dark oblivion, closer and closer to the jagged mountain peaks below. Instinctively, she tried spreading wings that were no longer there, and settled for flapping her arms.

Before she could be speared on a peak, however, her fall was deftly intercepted. Angela landed on a dragon's back, clinging desperately to the spike in front of her as she regained her bearings.

"Oh, Anea," the witch lamented, "why must torment those around us so, including each other?"

The slender she-dragon craned her head back to smirk at her passenger, emerald eyes sparkling with mirth. Her scales were the color of spring leaves, her many horns a gloriously curled and twisted mess. "Because it's in our nature, dear Angela."

The herbalist rolled her eyes in return. "I take it this little vision is important, aye? Something so momentous that speaking through your bones just wouldn't do?"

Anea pumped her wings, ascending to the starry skies above and leaving the world behind. Were they in the physical world, both human and dragon would have long since passed out from the lack of oxygen. "You'd be surprised what a little distance can accomplish, Angela."

As the mountains became molehills beneath them, Angela looked down upon the world and whistled in appreciation. "Tripled from what they originally were, I see, and bound to quadruple very soon."

Anea smirked eagerly. "Oh, aye, and still bound to multiply exponentially even after that. Those little sparks just need a real ember to fan the flames into a true inferno."

Angela looked beyond even the sparks and gaped at what she saw from all directions. No matter how many times she was up here, the view never ceased to awe and terrify her at the same time. "Sometimes I have to wonder why you gave up such a magnificent view just to have me around."

"The greatest things are worth experience first-hand, are they not? Especially when the world will sing of it for generations to come."

And then Anea folded her wings and dove, woman and dragon plummeting to the world below with the speed of a falling star...

Angela blinked blearily up at Solembum's face. Cursing like a sailor, she sat up and rubbed at her aching head. Her vial of hair removal potion was now a pile of wet dirt and shattered glass on the ground. Several drops had landed on her when she had fallen, eating away at her skirt and sleeves and leaving the skin beneath an angry shade of red.

Do I want to know what happened? the werecat asked simply.

Angela shook her head. "Just the usual cryptic vision from the dragon I share a soul with. Nothing special."

And that potion you tried using on me?

"A little something to teach you about leaving your damned fur all over my tent."

At least comment, witch and werecat went off another of their heated arguments, and everything in their lives returned to normal.

Chapter Text

Roran wondered if his mind would ever catch up with his current reality. If someone had warned him just a year ago he would have a celebrated Dragon Rider as a cousin, would have had led the people of Carvhall on an exodus to Surda to escape Imperial persecution, and then had himself hailed as a war hero for his actions in the Battle of the Burning Plains, he would have laughed in that fool's face.

But here he stood, in a rebel camp as the Varden and their allies plotted their next movement against the Empire.

He had lost his father over the past year, aye, and Carvahall had been razed to the ground. But the heart of the village; its men, women, and children, had virtually all survived and made it to a place where Galbatorix's tyranny could never rule over them again. Those same villagers now looked to him as their leader, even if their allegiance was now expected to lie with Lady Nasuada and her Council of Elders. When given orders by those considered their superiors, the people of Carvahall would still turn to him, and await his own obedience before following suit.

A part of Roran still balked at the faith so many people insisted on placing on him, but an even greater part humbled by their loyalty was determined to look out for every last one of them. Should the Varden ever force a villager of Carvahall into an unreasonable situation, Roran would not hesitate to raise his voice, and make his authority over his chosen people heard loud and clear.

And then there was Eragon. For months after his father's death, Roran had thought his own cousin had betrayed him in his hour of need, running off with a senile storyteller to pursue some foolhardy adventure before Garrow had even been buried.

Now Roran knew Eragon had been raising a dragon, Saphira, in those last few months before everything had went to hell. He had left Carvahall to both chase down Garrow's murderers and ensure that Roran would not suffer a similar fate by remaining in his presence. Though both cousins were changed men from their experiences, they at least now had a semblance of their old friendship back, with no more pressing secrets between them. Without Eragon, after all, Roran wouldn't have been able to rescue Katrina from the Ra'zac.

Katrina was his now, and he hers, in all ways but officially. With the recent Imperial attack and the stress of training Carvahall's men for combat, there had been no time for a wedding ceremony. At least now there was no Sloan to stop the marriage. The man may have died in an agonizing hell Roran would not have wished upon his worst enemies, but that one barrier between his and Katrina's lifelong happiness was gone forever.

However, now they faced a new obstacle, one that threatened to tarnish Katrina's honor forever it if became obvious she was carrying a child out of wedlock.

Roran knew time was of the essence on the wedding, and that there were many in camp who would happily wed the cousin of a Dragon Rider and his bride, but he wanted Eragon himself to do it. The cousins still had unresolved tensions between them that could take years to put to rest. Roran knew giving his cousin the honor of marrying him and Katrina would show him Roran was not about to forget him after starting a family of his own. The prestigious honor, and what it symbolically represented for a future where Roran and Eragon could still be close, would go a long way towards mending the last of their broken bonds.

But, despite Eragon's promises that they would spend more time together, the young Dragon Rider had been mysteriously absent since Helgrind. The damn recluse rarely ventured from his tent, emerging only when summoned by the rebellion's most prominent members. The elves that constantly guarded his tent allowed none, not even Roran, to pass. They were under strict orders to make sure Eragon was not to be disturbed, and all too eager to oblige.

After his first rejection from the tent, Roran had fumed in outrage over his cousin's aloofness. The damned fame had gone straight to his head, making the fool as pompous as could be. As if he hadn't the time to speak with his own flesh and blood!

Lately, though, Roran couldn't help but wonder if there was a different reason for Eragon's absence.

Around the time of his cousin's withdrawal, the strange white dragon had shown up. Saphira had proclaimed him 'Majesty,' king of the wild dragons, when he had driven back the invading army with a display of his mighty power. And 'Majesty' was what most in the Varden referred to him as, for 'King' brought back unpleasant memories of Galbatorix and 'Bluefire' could just as easily apply to Saphira's flames. The two dragons were rarely seen without each other, causing rumors of their intimacy to spring up. Although often at the edge of camp, and never seeming to be in any close contact with Eragon, both were always present when he made one of his rare appearances.

There was also the fact Eragon had seemed... off, somehow, since Helgrind. From what rare glimpses Roran saw of him, words did not seem fully in time with his mouth, coming before or seconds after he had started moving his lips. He avoided contact with everyone around him, having his elven guards handle whatever needed to be touched. Once, Roran even swore he saw Eragon's elbow brush right through a solid table.

Roran might not have been capable of magic himself, but surely an intangible illusion couldn't have been beyond the talents of Eragon's formidable guards. Why would such a projection even be needed? Well, no matter how far-fetched it sounded, Roran couldn't help but believe that the so-called 'Majesty' was really-

"The dragons return!"

The dragons had not been sighted for several days an their arrival sent ripples through the Varden. Many couldn't resist craning their heads back for a glimpse of the magnificent creatures. Roran, deep in thought at the edge of camp over his cousin's predicament, glanced up too.

Saphira led the way, her sapphire scales alll the more radiant compared to the sulfurous clouds that constantly hung over the Burning Plains. She was clearly exhausted, but looked positively energetic compared to the white dragon following behind her. Majesty didn't even bother flapping, wings spread out to maintain a slow, gliding descent.

He landed feet away from where Roran sat, took a few faltering steps away from camp, and gave up. Splaying his legs out, the white dragon gulped greedily for air, wings limp and long neck drooping. His left paw stubbornly clenched an item Roran couldn't make out. Blue eyes glazed over in exhaustion, Majesty was oblivious to his presence, concentrated only on regaining his breath. Saphira patiently circled overhead like a hawk as she waited for him.

Here was Roran's chance. He could do this, he could... walk right up and possibly offend a dragon capable of swallowing him whole.

Coward! Roran cursed himself. You can lead an entire village to safety and can't even face someone who may be your own cousin!

Swallowing nervously, Roran cautiously approached, ready to bolt the moment the white dragon looked ready to roast him. Majesty had no Rider and rumor had it he had grown up amongst other wild dragons. Who was to say he had the same patience with mere mortals Saphira had?

Then again, why would a dragon that had supposedly grown up wild be so exhausted by a journey Saphira was able to make just fine?

The white dragon listlessly flicked his eyes over to watch his approach. He neither growled nor looked irritated at being gawked at in such an obvious moment of weakness. If anything, the dragon was ashamed, and Roran was suddenly able to see the familiar soul behind those burning blue eyes.

"I take it your stamina's not up to Saphira's standard yet... Eragon?"

Roran's lips couldn't help but twitch into a proud smirk as the massive beast crumbled beneath his gaze. The white dragon heaved a heavy sigh, and his mind lightly brushed against Roran's own for permission to enter. Roran had only the bare basics of mental defense, but he knew enough to lower his walls, recognizing the feel of his cousin's soul the moment he made contact.

Roran... A voice that was undeniably Eragon's echoed through his mind. The white dragon looked anywhere but Roran's voice, unwilling to meet his gaze. I am so, so sorry. I never asked for this.

Roran's heart clenched at the gravity in his voice. "I take it this is permanent, then?"

Raising his head, Eragon glumly nodded and suddenly realized how close they were to camp and potential eavesdroppers. Snapping his gaze upon their curious little audience, he bared his fangs and gave a warning growl that sent the crowd scattering. Once they were gone, the ferocious look dropped from his voice, and the dragon managed to look sheepish.

While you were off rescuing Katrina at Helgrind, Saphira and I were ambushed by the Lethrblaka and their thrice-damned spawn. Our magic was bound and we were outmatched and overwhelmed. Those bastards were... hurting Saphira, and I couldn't do anything about it. His eyes blazed murderously at the mere memory. I needed power so I reached out to this... fire in me. I blacked out. Next thing I knew, I was a dragon and had apparently burned everything around me to ash.

Saphira's strange behavior back at Helgrind made all too much sense now. Her Rider had been knocked unconscious and radically transformed by unknown forces. No wonder she had been so desperate to get rid of Roran and Katrina, when the being closest to her had so needed her guidance and protection.

"What triggered the... change? I've heard all sorts of stories about the Riders, and none of them mentioning people spontaneously becoming dragons."

Eragon was silent as he searched for a reasonable answer that wouldn't confuse and terrify his cousin too much. Apparently dragon spirits are special and can be reborn into any race they so choose. I've had one, Eridor, dormant within me since birth. Saphira has one too, who was Eridor's mate in their past life. She's precious to both of us, and seeing her tortured was enough to wake him up. It's his power that transformed me and allowed me to thrash Thorn, the red dragon, so easily.

Roran processed this revelation and found himself underwhelmed. After the terrifying Ra'zac, furry elves, half-mad witches and their wise-cracking werecats, and titanic clashes between fire-breathing dragons, nothing fate threw at him could faze him anymore. He had beaten two formidable magicians to death with a hammer. Miraculous transformations brought about by reborn dragon souls ranked just below improbable in his new sense of reality.

"Alright," he agreed placidly. His brow furrowed in mild concern. "This dragon spirit just isn't possessing you now, aye?"

The white dragon shook his head. Eridor is trapped inside my mind. I am in complete control over how much influence he has over my body. That might not have been completely true, but it wasn't a good idea to let his hammer-wielding cousin know that. Mentally, he's independent, able to speak and feel for himself. You can try introducing yourself to the blasted squatter if you want, but I feel he's too caught up in his reunion to pay any attention to the outside world.

"Reunion?"

Eragon relaxed the grip on his clenched paw. He held what looked like a polished stone, the pale dusky blue of a distant sky. Roran reached out to feel its smooth surface, but recoiled when he realized what it was. He may not have been a Dragon Rider or master of magic, but even he certainly knew a dragon's egg when it was a dragon showing it to them!

Don't look at me like that! Eragon snapped in exasperation. First off, even if Saphira and I were mates, she would still be carrying the eggs. Second off, like I mentioned earlier, this egg is Eridor's and his mate's. A... friend of theirs managed to hide it and another of their eggs away for over a century. Eridor wouldn't let Saphira and me rest until he had his sons back safe and sound. The son in this egg is Caradoc and his brother, Trinnean, is with Saphira. Eridor's been bonding with them since we got them back.

Roran nodded, unable to conceal his immense relief. He knew absolutely nothing about the reproductive habits of dragons, he was hoping his own child would at least be born before Eragon even thought of starting his own family, thank you very much. Although, considering how close Eragon and Saphira had been before he had even become one of her race, gods knew that couldn't be that far off their minds.

And now it was his time for a confession...

"Eragon," he began nervously, drawing the words out as long as he could. "Cousin... Brother..."

The white dragon's expression softened. Gazing up into Eragon's blazing eyes, Roran couldn't help but imagine his cousin as a benevolent king putting aside his precious time to listen to a vassal in need.

Lowering his massive head, Eragon looked him straight in the eye, refusing to be above or below his level. Cousin, I unwittingly abandoned you when we were the only family each other had, when you needed me at your side the most. When Saphira first hatched for me, I was too cowardly, and perhaps too selfish, to tell you and Uncle Garrow the truth. I have wronged you many times, more than I would care to admit. Helping you rescue Katrina was hardly enough to ease my debt. If you want to become king once Galbatorix is defeated, you need but ask, and I'll do my damned best to see it done.

Roran sighed. "Katrina is carrying my child, though we are not yet truly married. A baby born out of wedlock is an unspeakable dishonor for both an innocent child and its mother. If Katrina and I were to wed only once it became obvious she was pregnant..." He grimaced. "Then those who don't really know us will no doubt gossip that she trapped me in marriage with a child!" He couldn't help but smile wryly. "The problem is, however, is that there's only one ma- dragon I think worthy of marrying us."

Eragon gaped, touched by the sincerity of the gesture and regret for what he had to do next. No one must know 'his Majesty' and Eragon Shadeslayer are one and the same, Roran. Allowing a dragon, one of a race many still like to think are mindless beasts, is an unusual request, one that will immediately be questioned. In the eyes of many, you would be allowing an animal to join you and wife in holy matrimony.

"I'm Garrow's son," Roran said flippantly. "What do I care what complete strangers think of me? They're not the ones getting married. Besides, everyone in camp knows you close 'Majesty' is to Saphira. Since 'Eragon' is obviously too busy to perform the ceremony himself, wouldn't he want someone he deems worthy to do so in his stead, like a certain ruler wishing to help show his loyalty to humans who don't want to obey the monster who murdered his family?" Roran smirked. "After all, how many couples get to say they were married by the King of the wild dragons?"

The white dragon considered this suggestion, snout finally pulling back in a fanged grin. The brothers in all but blood then retreated to a more private location to spend hours talking, catching each other up on their lives, reminiscing on their pasts, and making eager plans for the future. After all, the last thing a wedding needed was two dragons getting into the alcohol and destroying their surroundings in a drunken stupor.

Arya had thought decades of a royal bringing under Islanzadi had blessed her with an untestable patience. And then she had been given the task of teaching the Du Vrangr Gata's pitiful magicians how to better heal the wounded. Her students had been utterly incompetent, but at least they were eager to finally learn how to put their magic to good use.

Trianna, however, resented her own inability to properly teach the Du Vrangr Gata, and challenged Arya at every possible turn, constantly criticizing her techniques and belittling the other magicians by constantly claiming their were unable to 'master an elf's magic.' By the time the lesson had ended, only Arya's great restraint had prevented her from outright strangling the sorceress.

Too exhausted to bother with pointless pleasantries, Arya retreated to the refuge of her personal tent, those she passed wise enough to keep their questions and requests to themselves.

Almost back to her tent, Arya already felt herself from the day's frustrations... and then she glimpsed a gods-damned flash of blue out of the corner of her eye.

When finally out of the public's eye, the elf-woman allowed her composure to fall, collapsing onto her cot with an exasperated sigh.

Too cowardly to face her unless he absolutely had to, Blodgharm avoided her as much as he physically could, and spoke only the bare necessities he had to report to her directly.

Looking back to the distant days of her youth, Arya supposed she had only coupled with Blodgharm because they had been two fellow young rebels against the boring rigidity of Ellesmera's elite, and that there had been something amusing in running around covered in dragon scales and rutting like animals in heat. Blodgharm had certainly proved himself a coward when he had run off after Idunn's death and left her alone to grieve.

When he had returned with a new name and a new face (once covered in animal fur instead of dragon scales) to try and make amends, Arya had coldly rejected him. By that time she had already found a new love in Faolin, and had no time and patience for a sad excuse of an elf that changed his face and ridiculous name every decade. Arya no longer recalled his first face and true name. She doubted Blodgharm himself did.

And yet it is the 'brave' Blood Wolf that lives, where Faolin gave his life to protect me and the egg. Arya couldn't help but smile as she thought of Saphira, the she-dragon who had breathed so much new hope and life into the rebellion. At least his sacrifice is not in vain.

Trying to remember what he had seen in Murtagh to hatch for him, Thorn found he really couldn't recall an exact reason. Certainly since his hatching his life had been an unending series of trials and punishments so lovingly engineered by his master Galbatorix. His days consisted of constant hunting and sparring with Shruikan, anything necessary to hone his skills and keep him in prime condition. Thorn was also very aware the King thought of him as only a glorified slave, involuntarily bound to his master and forced to obey his every command.

Today's task, however, was strange compared to even Galbatorix's 'unconventional' methods. Both Thorn and Murtagh had been ordered to fly to a distant forest and return to the dragon-hold with as much dead prey they could carry.

Such unusual orders couldn't help but make Thorn think the Mad King had gotten even madder. Usually Galbatorix had always been vigorous in training, making sure his most prized servants were productive from before dawn to long after dusk. Lately, however, he had sent them on fools' errands; confirming deaths he had already known about, launching half-hearted invasions at the rebellion and withdrawing before any headway could be made, and pointless meditations and busy work that kept them from investigating his ulterior motives.

Both Thorn and Murtagh knew Galbatorix to be hiding something. However carefully composed he was, his servants knew him far too well to not see the excitement glittering in his black eyes, the feral restlessness in his movements, when he had ordered them gone. Pointless as they might have seemed, the dead deer must have been part of Galbatorix's plans. Why else had he been so determined for them to be collected?

But why would the deer be useful? There were dark rituals that required blood and far more terrible components to function, but those involved live animal sacrifices. Nor could the stags be for Shruikan. Galbatorix was fiercely possessive of his dread dragon, feeding him only cattle from closely supervised herds not even Thorn was allowed to touch.

"Ah," Murtagh sighed sarcastically as the Fortress became visible beneath them. "Home sweet home."

Although his dragon normally shared his dread, Thorn was actually relieved at the sight. In his front claws he clutched the two plumpest stags he had managed to find, with a third dangling from his back-claws. Aching with the weight of his burden, he landed all too eagerly, carelessly dropping his kills to the stone floor of the dragon-hold as he stretched his weary limbs.

Then he noticed something very, very amiss.

Thorn's head snapped up, nostrils flaring. Beneath a faint stink of human sweat and fear was a musky odor so strong he gagged, the pungeant smell burning back in his throat.

The red dragon did not even have to consult his ancestral memories to immediately recognize the scent. Instinct screamed at him he had just trespassed on the territory of a healthy male, a highly territorial elder not bound by a Rider and human morals.

Spotting the intruder, Thorn bared his fangs in a defensive snarl, Murtagh unsheathing Zar'roc and abandoning the saddle for a better fighting position on the ground.

The unknown male was curled up in the far corner of the dragon-hold, his stone-gray scales having allowed him to unnoticed for as long as he had. Though nowhere close to Shruikan's titanic size, he still dwarfed even Thorn's accelerated growth rate by decades. Numerous scars adorned his hide, the ugliest of which being the indentations of another dragon's fangs permanently marked upon his neck.

The dragon-hold bore new singe-marks and gouges the intruder had made, confidently marking the entire area as his own. From his scars and superior size, Thorn knew him to be a veteran in fighting dragons, more than capable of ripping out his throat.

Deep in a dreamless sleep, the gray dragon was roused only by Thorn's snarl, and was obviously not pleased by the rude interruption. His eyes snapped open and fixated furiously on the younger male. His warning growl was nothing compared to Shruikan's deafening rumble, but it still made Thorn sound like a pitiful kitten in comparison.

Thorn didn't hesitate in returning the challenge. His body instinctively crouched into a defensive position, tensing in preparation.

What are you doing?! The red dragon briefly glanced down, only just remembering Murtagh was at his side. He's big enough to snap your spine in one bite!

This is my dragon-hold! Thorn snapped. Fury was drowning out his common sense, and the male's superior size and strength mattered nothing compared to Thorn's desire to show him who this territory truly belonged to. Either take care of him with your magic, or let me teach this damn trespasser a lesson!

Murtagh frowned in concentration as he tried reaching for his magic. I can't! My oaths are preventing me from accessing my magic, the same way they do when I consider directing a spell at Galbatorix without his express permission!

As the stone-gray dragon rose on shaking limbs to mirror his rival's stance, Thorn's confidence soared. Large as the older male might have been, he was too exhausted to stand properly, let alone to defend himself.

With speed and agility on his side, Thorn charged, intending to either get his fangs around the other's vulnerable throat or simply evade his sluggish blows until he tired himself off completely.

The gray dragon was no fool. Rather than engage a fresh and fierce opponent in battle, he simply loosed a plume of flame at Thorn's face.

Memories of his burning from Majesty all too recent, the red dragon skittered back, the fire just missing him. Seizing his chance, the older male lunged while Thorn was disorientated, trapping the young dragon beneath his superior bulk and keeping his fangs just inches from his exposed throat.

Despite his puzzling lack of magic, Murtagh advanced, clearly intending to gut the strange dragon.

Enough! an unfamiliar male voice snapped, his mind overriding their mental defenses just as easily and harshly as Galbatorix could. Unwillingly, Thorn stopped struggling while Murtagh dropped Zar'roc and fell to his knees, their oaths physically preventing them disobeying the command. Regarding them with a cold gray eye, the stone-scaled dragon smirked, his amusement bleeding over into their linked minds.

"How are you doing that?" Murtagh demanded, red from the exertion of straining against his oaths. "Only the King can..." He trailed off, paling in realization as the dragon's smirk only widened.

I am Jarshan, king of the wild dragons, as Galbatorix is king over men and their bonded dragons. Without me and my loyal subjects, your master's rebellion would not have gotten beyond its initial stages. As equals, it would only be natural I had reasonable control over his servants. Jarshan sniffed in disdain. As if such a thing could be considered an honor.

Thorn gawked up at the self-proclaimed king in bewilderment. King or not, he looked to be no older than his thirties, certainly nowhere near old enough to have participated in the Fall unless he had been commanding from the egg. Wise enough not to question Jarshan's grandiose claims, Thorn only asked, Then why did you allow us to attack you?

I am a wild dragon, little hatchling, one who fought against death and won to be here today. Humans may blindly follow those deemed their superiors, but I feel it is important for you to have learned your place in the natural order.

Thorn's hackles couldn't help but rise defiantly. And what order would that be?

Jarshan pressed Thorn harder against the ground for emphasis. Beneath me, hatchling, without your human's magic to give you an unnatural advantage. His glacial gaze fixated upon Murtagh. Take care to avoid trying to cast spells on me again. I have no patience for underhanded treachery.

Dominance asserted, Jarshan turned his back on them, hobbled over to the dead deer, and lowered his head to head with voracious enthusiasm.

Not wanting to provoke the dragon further, Murtagh quietly slipped his way out of the dragon-hold and to the safety of the Fortress's lower levels, while Thorn retreated to the roof, sulking over his latest humiliation and how he had just lost his one refuge in all of Urubaen.

Uncaring of them both, Jarshan continued devouring his meal, slaking a hunger that had not been attended to for almost a century.

Chapter Text

Thorn did not sleep that night, as usual. Sometimes 'training sessions' with Shruikan were intense enough to knock him into deep and dreamless slumbers, but such occasions were rare. His body constantly thrummed with stolen energy, preventing his mind from slipping off into blissful oblivion. Constantly brushing against the corners of his consciousness were the minds of the five dragons imprisoned within his own. Thorn had long since given up trying to have conservation with them; all retreated within their Eldunarya if he even considered making contact and the aggressive she-dragon loved lashing out at him whenever he gave her the excuse.

Since Thorn had been a hatchling barely out of the egg, Galbatorix had taken it upon himself to 'improve' his new servant by implanting the sentient souls of Elundarya into his body. Murtagh had been pardoned from such experimentation only because Galbatorix hadn't felt like 'wasting' such 'ingenious magic' on him. But Thorn had endured such torturous alterations from a young age. He had five Eldunarya within him now; all securely lodged in his chest cavity in the spaces between his internal organs.

Their stolen magic helped feed his own, making him grow far faster and far stronger than a normal dragon his age. By six months, when Thorn should have just been barely reaching sexual maturity, he had been large enough to hold his own against Saphira in battle, a she-dragon almost more than twice his age.

Kept awake by five restless souls that no longer had the need to sleep, Thorn turned his attention to his surroundings. With many long nights of loneliness up in the dragon-hold, he just often passed the time listening. To the night servants quietly going about their duties, to the muffled conversations and scandals carried out in the deserted floors beneath the dragon-hold. Even to Shruikan's restless stirring, as he rumbled and paced Galbatorix's cramped throne room.

Tonight, though, Thorn had a new visitor to what he had previously considered his dragon-hold. (Why wouldn't it be his? Murtagh had his own private quarters on the level below and Shruikan was confined to the throne room except when his master wished to let him out.) Then had come a rather grouchy roommate that had forced him into submission and claimed the dragon-hold, Thorn's one refuge from the world, as his own.

Jarshan, self-proclaimed King of the wild dragons, slumbered in the farthest corner of the hold, as far from his only other companion as physically possible. Sprawled out with his massive head on his paws, his breaths were deep and heavy, punctuated by the occasional growl. Deep in slumber, the dragon lacked the intimidating aura he had when awake. Here he was peaceful, not the beast that had beat Thorn into submission when he himself had been on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion.

Observing this enigmatic male, Thorn couldn't help but notice the disturbing resemblance between Jarshan and 'Majesty,' the white dragon who had forever marred his underbelly. They shared the same odd six curved horns, and while Jarshan had a slightly thinner snout, their facial features were otherwise incredibly similar. Their eyes burned with a brightness Thorn had never seen in a dragon's gaze before, a burning determination that unnerved him to the core of his Elundari.

You five! he shouted, directing his thoughts inward to the five separate souls bound to his own. This 'King Jarshan' claims he fought his way out of death's embrace to live again. He claims to have fought alongside Galbatorix in the Fall, to have led other wild dragons that wanted the Riders toppled. Please, what do you know of him?

Four of the minds ignored his question, retreating back to private sanctums he could not breach. The first Eldunari he had been implanted with had been that of a young hatchling who only wanted his family. The old loner had cared only for keeping her belly full and her territory defended; petty politics had not phased her until a Forsworn had harvested her heart of hearts for Galbatorix's treasure trove. The two souls Thorn suspected had been nestmates in life never spoke to him, keeping their thoughts only between each other.

Surprisingly, it was the aggressive she-dragon that liked lashing out at him that didn't turn away. She sneered, brimming with bitter disgust, but answered him honestly.

He is a false King, she answered spitefully, a usurper who thought murdering his own King and brother in cold blood would allow him to claim the title. The wild dragons have not recognized a King or Queen dragon since Eridor's death, for none were worthy of the title, and certainly not the traitor Jarshan.

Thorn had expected Jarshan had exaggerated his importance in the grand scheme of things, but something bothered him still. He claims to have had loyal followers; wild dragons that supported him against the Dragon Riders.

Jadine (Thorn knew that was her name, even if that was as far as his knowledge on her extended) snorted. Many of us, myself included, had no fondness for the Riders or the pathetic dragons that swore themselves to their cause. That does not change the fact Jarshan treacherously killed his own brother to try driving the wedge between the races. There were many pretenders that scrambled to fill the void Eridor left behind. Even Jarshan, kin-slayer that he was, was convincing enough to gather his own little clan of rebels. That does not make him a King the wild dragons could recognize like they had his brother.

Thorn thought of his master, who proclaimed himself King of Alagaesia even as so many rebelled against his rule; no wonder Galbatorix and Jarshan had allied with each other. But still, he couldn't forget that white dragon at the Burning Plains who had descended upon him like a vengeful god.

Jadine sensed his thoughts turning to 'Majesty' and laughed mockingly. His power is a borrowed one. He has not undergone the King's Trial and is no more a true leader than you are. I doubt an abomination like him can even hope to wield such power without being consumed by it.

Jadine had at least confirmed Jarshan had been alive during the Fall, and his relative youth certainly indicated he had not aged as he should have. Thinking of the ugly scar upon the gray dragon's neck, Thorn still felt this questioning wasn't a total waste of hope. You certainly aren't denying Jarshan returned from the dead, however impossible it sounds. Is that scar a remainder of his old mortal injury?

The scar is only a reminder of the folly of his youth; he received it decades before he died. His true death? A lucky blow by a she-dragon trying to avenge her brother; she caught Jarshan by surprise, tore his heart right out of him, and at least got to see him die before she did. Such was a death was a blessing, for Jarshan could turn no more dragons to the side of the monster you call master. Aggression suddenly reared up in Jadine like a provoked snake as she finished, unable to tolerate anything more than a few minutes of barely-civil conversation. You're welcome to try asking the bastard more, if you like. When he kills you, I'll be free too.

Sensing the impending blow, Thorn quickly severed the link with her and retreated to the personal corner of a mind he involuntarily shared with five others. Her final years of life and decades imprisoned within an Eldunari may have driven Jadine insane, but her rants had provided valuable insight into Jarshan's past.

The crimson dragon thoughtfully glanced at the older male so deep in slumber. Jadine may have thought him a false king, but she had not denied Jarshan had defeated death, and that was all Thorn cared about. If death itself could be defied, then so could unbreakable vows, and Thorn had all the time in the world to carefully pry Jarshan's secrets from him.

True to its name, temperatures on the Burning Plains were stifling hot to a point where it wasn't safe for the soldiers to march around properly armored. The threat of Imperial soldiers mattered little against such intense heat; if the men hadn't sought refuge in the shade of their tents, then they had gone to the Jiet River to do so. Healers and magicians alike bustled through camp treating heat stroke and distributing fresh water.

Nasuada, diligent commander that she was, saw the ungodly temperatures as an opportunity. With the heat preventing the usual training and preparation, she had gathered all those who knew of Majesty's true identity (Arya, Angela, Blodgharm and his elves) to start redesigning her plans for an offense against the Empire. All others were still didn't know their side had permanently lost its only able-bodied Dragon Rider, but Nasuada was determined to have an additional dragon and the unexpected support of Blodgharm and his elves work to her advantage.

While the heat was hell to humans and elves alike, it only made dragons drowsy. With infernos already burning inside their bellies, Eragon and Saphira had only felt pleasantly warm, and had both curled up for an afternoon doze. Eridor, who had been lax in Eragon's training since Vroengard, let his host nap, too preoccupied with his sons to care about anything else.

Saphira, try as she might, was too anxious to nap. Although the gentle rumble of Eragon's snores was usually enough to lull her into sleep, peace refused to come to her. She could think only of the two precious eggs protectively nestled between her and her companion. Neither Trinnean nor Caradoc had shown any signs of hatching since their rescue, but Eridor hadn't rushed them into it, simply content to have been reunited with a small part of his family.

"Unable to nap?"

Raising her head from her paws, Saphira met Elva's unnervingly violet gaze. Narrowing her eyes, the she-dragon regarded the girl suspiciously. She might have been Elva's adopted mother in a past life, but the memories of her cruelly blaming Eragon for an innocent death beyond his power to save were far more recent.

I am not sure if you should be standing before me and Eragon right now, the she-dragon began evenly, but for the sake of the relationship you and my past life shared, I shall hear you out... provided you do nothing more to traumatize my Rider.

"Hurting him also means hurting the dragon I consider a father, and I could never bring myself to harm Eridor."

Elva squeezed herself between the two dragons, reverently kneeling down beside the two eggs. The red dust further dirtied her already sweaty dress, but what did a she-dragon care about clothes? Beneath the filthy dress, she was dangerously gaunt, a side-effect of a curse that caused her to vomit up most of her food from the pain she felt from others.

"I never did thank you for saving my life," the girl began quietly. "If you hadn't awakened be in Tronjheim, I would have suffered and died alongside Elvana." She frowned in disdain at her bony human hands. "Even trapped in this pathetic body, I am still myself."

Saphira's heart clenched with pity for the dragon imprisoned with a human skin. If I'd had control over my magic that day, Elva, I would have done by best to restore your true body to you, even if I couldn't break that curse.

Elva waved a dismissive hand. "Even when I was truly a dragon, I still never understood how our magic worked. Besides, that body has long since rotted away. I doubt even a King or Queen's power would be enough to change my shape so radically, let alone a dragon that only happens to be the reincarnation of a King's mate." She frowned thoughtfully at Saphira as if trying to see something that wasn't there. "Strange that your body bears such resemblance to Safiri and yet none of this chaos has caused her to wake like Eridor did. Are you sure you haven't felt her stirring?"

Saphira definitively shook her head. With Eridor awake and his youngest children rescued, she herself had often wondered why Safiri didn't reunite with her family. Aside from very rare impulses or an even rarer glimpse of a life that was not Saphira's own, Safiri had been contentedly dormant, even if it was obvious Eridor was longing for another she-dragon entirely when he looked upon Saphira.

Elva sighed. "Eridor's line is notorious for their pride and their complete inability to let even the smallest slight against them stand. It does not surprise me that he returned for vengeance against Galbatorix anymore than Safiri's decision to not awaken." She smiled up at the she-dragon with a tenderness Saphira had never thought her capable of. "This life is yours now and you have that moron Eragon to share it with. Of course my mother would be too selfless to come between that."

Saphira fell silent as she pondered Elva's cryptic words, trying to see into an uncertain and nebulous future where Galbatorix was dead and she and Eragon free to fully explore their new-found desires for each other. Whenever they mated or brought a new brood of hatchlings into the world, Eridor would always be there in Eragon's mind, recalling an eerily similar life and resenting that he had to relive painful memories through another's eyes. But for Trinnean and Caradoc, his own family was all dead, and Safiri content to slumber blissfully away and leave him alone within Eragon's soul.

I... did not consider Eridor's role in my life once Galbatorix has been overthrown, she said at last. But I can understand why he and Safiri chose to be reborn as the last free Rider and dragon; to see the man responsible for their death dead and the world safe for their surviving children to grow up in. She suddenly felt a twinge of anger at Elva's foolishness. Why in the seven hells did you choose to be reborn now, with the war far from done and our race still on the verge of extinction? You should have returned decades later to peaceful times and a loving family, be they human or dragon.

"Look up at the stars one night, foolish she-dragon," Elva whispered, her voice so soft even Saphira's sharp ears strained to hear it. "When I was your age there was almost more than twice that number. Where have they all gone, with our race slaughtered so long ago? Many are trapped down here, unable to ascend their rightful places amongst the stars. Others chose prisons of our own free will when we chose rebirth and fell." She gestured wanly at her fragile form. "So many stars have fallen while you were sleeping away in that egg, Saphira, and we're all down here waiting."

Gazing into those violet eyes, Saphira knew she looked upon an older and wiser soul. She personally remembered nothing of her life and death as Safiri or the time spent amongst the stars. Elva had crossed the veil twice, knew things not even the wisest elf could dare guess at, and had no other thoughts but her own to cloud her memories.

But why? What are you waiting for?

Elva shrugged helplessly, stroking an egg's smooth blue surface with a pale hand. "Up there you're high enough to see not only the present, but all that ever was and ever will be. Dragon souls that choose to fall don't pick their lives randomly; we know exactly what we're getting into and what we are hoping to obtain. But once down here?" Elva shook her head. "There's just no space for a mortal mind to hold such absolute knowledge. All reborn souls, dormant and awakened, have only the barest instincts to go by, and it takes a whole new lifetime to learn what you lost along the way."

Elva continued rambling on, her conversation no longer really directed at anyone. "What are we all waiting for? The end of it all?" Violet eyes flickered from Eragon's slumbering form to the eggs. "Or the beginning of something completely different?"

Crack!

Amongst the silence that had fallen between them, the sound was deafening. Saphira and Elva glanced wildly around in confusion and Eragon woke with a drowsy grunt. Simultaneously, three pairs of eyes became riveted to one of the dragon's eggs, which was shuddering violently. Encouraged by his brother, the dragon within the other egg cheeped and started rocking his own way to freedom.

In perfect union, four separate souls all shared what was on their minds:

The-

-eggs-

"-are-"

-HATCHING! Eridor finished with a roar. My sons are hatching!

Beneath their astonished eyes, a miracle occurred, and the first true wild dragons in over a century hatched.

Truthfully, Angela had no idea why Nasuada had demanded her presence at this meeting. Aye, she was one of the precious few in on Eragon's not-so-little secret, but what other qualifications did she have in planning an offense against the Empire without a Dragon Rider? Angela's specialities were poultices, potions, and cryptic prophecies. She was still working out the finer details of whether all toads were truly frogs or not and did not yet have a definitive answer to that burning question.

While the blue-furred elf droned on about nullifying enemy magicians, Angela's eyes slowly drifted close, and she furtively settled down for a nice little nap.

Then a familiar surge of electricity surged down her spine like a lightning bolt. Jolting backwards, the witch tumbled out of her chair, and hazel eyes momentarily flashed green. For a split second, Angela glimpsed a flash of Anea's wings, and knew.

"-la, are you well?"

Blinking several times, Angela came back to herself, and found one of Blodgharm's elves shaking her while everyone else gathered around in concern.

Waving their concern off, the herbalist primly rose to her feet to dust the dress from her skirt. "Just fine, Lady Nasuada, just fine. It was only the first call."

"To what?" Blodgharm asked impatiently.

Angela grinned brightly. "To the beginning of the end."

Nasuada's face twitched as she tried reconciling the witch's unconcerned response to her ominous statement. She and Arya exchanged a bewildered glance, but everyone rushed to stop and interrogate Angela when she tried casually leaving the pavilion, demanding to know where she was going.

"With all due respect, Lady Nasuada and Lady Arya, I know nothing about battle strategy and, frankly, have more important things to be doing at the moment."

The leader of the Varden impressively kept her composure while most of the elves grew gradually more affronted by the witch's flippant attitude. "Such as?"

"Bidding the new father congratulations, of course."

By the time someone remembered Eragon and Saphira had returned to camp with two more dragon eggs, Angela had long since made her dramatic exit.

Chapter Text

Heart pounding in anxiety and anticipation, Eragon was unsure of how to handle himself. His human worry urged him to help the infants out of their shells. His dragon instincts demanded him to loudly proclaim their hatching to anyone around to listen. Most of him just wanted to gape in disbelief, unable to comprehend the miracle unfolding before him. Watching one dragon hatching was an even most others would never witness. Being there for two more hatching dragons, the first true wild dragons born in a century? What in the seven hells could be possibly do?

Eridor's influence over Eragon's body was the strongest it had been in days. He kept the white dragon from making an idiot of himself and from trying to help, both simply watching his sons come into the world through one pair of eyes.

My sons should need no help to hatch, Eridor scolded privately. My nestmates and I certainly needed no assistance, nor did my older broods.

Eragon had been connected to the former King long enough to know he was lying. Once, when he had and Safiri had been anxious first-time parents, one of their eggs had struggled to hatch. Eridor's clan of older, experienced siblings and their extended families had simply told him to let nature take its course. Ignoring their pragmatically cold advice, Eridor had broken the eggshell for his sickly and malformed daughter. She had not survived the night.

Eragon, however, did not call Eridor out on his lie. Trinnean and Caradoc were separated by well over a century from that ill-fated sister (Eira), and this was not a day to be tainted by past sorrows.

"Amazing," Elva muttered disbelievingly. Her violet eyes glittered with pride for her younger siblings and longing for a mate and family of her own now long gone. "They were dormant for so long I'd thought they'd wait until Galbatorix was dead and gone to hatch." She smirked. "Guess I misjudged the boldness of your clan, Eridor."

I would expect nothing less from any hatchling I'm helping to raise, Saphira said proudly.

Leaning over the eggs, the sapphire she-dragon thrummed deeply in her chest, an instinctive call used by dragon mothers for centuries to beckon their little ones into the world. Eragon shivered at the sound. It was all too easy to imagine Trinnean and Caradoc as Saphira's own children and for him to envision himself as the proud mate and first-time father. It was certainly a possible future he no longer feared.

Affectionate and stoic, Eridor brushed encouragingly against the minds of his sons, spurring them onward without lending any physical help. Caradoc cheeped loudly and rattled desperately against his prison, his thirst for freedom only galvanized by his overwhelming desire for his father's presence.

With one final thrust, the eggshell shattered, and a little light blue dragon tumbled out. Exhausted from his laborious ordeal, Caradoc remained sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, gasping for breath.

Aside from his lighter coloring, Caradoc reminded Eragon of Saphira when he had first laid eyes on her. They shared the same small and chubby body with oversized wings, an almost-comic gawkiness only age and grace could cure. The spines running down Caradoc's back and the spikes lining his face were miniature nubs that would become more prominent with age. Where Saphira had hatched with a miniature but still recognizable pair of her curved adult horns, Caradoc had only two stubby horns and odd bumps on his head that promised to sprout even more.

Odd, Eragon remarked. Shouldn't he have inherited all of your six horns?

His other two pairs will grow in time, Eridor said with unusual patience, his overwhelming happiness and burning pride having banished his typical harshness. As the children of a King dragon, Trinnean and Caradoc are practically guaranteed the full crown. It is only with more than one degree of separation from the royal line, such as with their children, where there is a decreasing chance for all six horns being inherited with each generation. But you'll have the full crown, isn't that right, my son?

Recognizing a voice distinctly his father's Caradoc raised his head questioningly. His eyes blinked open, revealing sapphire irises that made both Eridor and Elva inhale sharply (Safiri). Looking eagerly for Eridor, the eyes of Safiri's son settled upon Eragon. Stumbling to his paws for the very first time, the hatchling tottered over as best he could, miraculously never tripping over his tail or over-sized wings.

All four elder dragons (for all were true dragons, if only in soul) exchanged nervous glances as a grim realization dawned. Would Caradoc and his still-hatching brother look upon their unorthodox guardians and reject them? Saphira was not their true mother, Elva was an adopted sister trapped in human skin, Eridor a bodiless entity completely dependent upon his host. And Eragon? He was the one that was flesh and bone, with the hatchlings' rightful father a literal prisoner in his mind.

Finally reaching Eragon after a troublesome time on wobbly legs, Caradoc cocked his head and gazed up at him with bewildered eyes. The hatchling's primitive mind reached out in confusion, clearly sensing four dragons while his eyes saw only two dragon bodies and a strange pale creature. His alarm only skyrocketed when he realized one body held not only Eragon's soul, but that of his father.

Everyone waited for Eridor to comfort his son, to assure him of his presence and love for him, just as any father should.

Eridor's courage failed at the worst possible time. Believing Caradoc thought him a freak, he bitterly withdrew from his son's mind, seething in self-loathing and an all-consuming hatred for the backstabbing traitor (Jarshan!) that had robbed him of his physical body.

With poor Caradoc becoming increasingly panicked, Eragon took matters into his own paws, and lowered his face until he was only inches away from the hatchling's. Don't be afraid, little one. Your father is still here, if only in spirit. Reach out with your mind and you'll see.

Caradoc obediently complied, grasping for his father's receding touch. Unable to deny his child and the ache in his soul any longer, Eridor banished his own bitterness, and enveloped his son in a full mental embrace, showering him with all of his unconditional love and fierce pride and joy at his hatching, proved he was the very same soul that had done the very same thing for Caradoc while he was still in his egg so long ago.

Innocent as he was, Caradoc didn't see his father's state of existance as unnatural or a gross perversion of nature, but accepted his unconventional family without hesitation or disgust.

Chirping his consent, Caradoc whirled unsteadily around to investigate Saphira. Eragon stared after the hatchling, utterly astonished his task had been so easy.

So... he accepts you as his true and loving father, but what does that make me? A second father figure, or the soul that's between you and a solid body?

Eridor had the perfect opportunity to insult Eragon's intelligence and give a scathing lecture on the true nature of dragons. Instead of acting on the usual impulse, he only chuckled in amusement.

Caradoc sees you as an older brother, a sibling still dependent on the main clan and without a family of his own. Or maybe as an uncle, one of those older males perfectly content to remain in the clan and care for his clanmates' broods. Never as a father, though, and thank the ancestors for that. Offspring looking up to you as their main parental figure is a horror my mind has yet to comprehend.

With Eragon's evolved feelings for one day having a family of his own, the comment should have been a grave insult. From Eridor, however, it was only a gentle tease, an attempt at conveying gratitude and affection that had been a little too harsh. Considering the bitterness Eridor had long since carried with him, Eragon didn't blame him for his somewhat rusty social skills.

Saphira patiently underwent Caradoc's examination of her, bemused by his boldness. He accepted this she-dragon was not his mother and so dubbed her something along the lines of 'older sister.' Young as he was, Caradoc didn't understand Safiri's glaring absence was permanent, and would hopefully not realize so until much older.

What did Caradoc think of Elva? Eragon hadn't the slightest idea. The little hatchling had only spared the girl a brief inspection. He seemed mildly intrigued, like a human child investigating some weird little animal he'd never seen before, but was nowhere near as confused as he had been by Eragon and Eridor's shared soul. As Caradoc didn't show any outward signs of displeasure toward Elva's presence, Eragon assumed she had been accepted as family, albeit a black sheep.

While Caradoc had been impressively swift in hatching and plunging into introductions with his family, his brother was more of a late bloomer. Trinnean, who had only been spurred into awakening by his twin, hesitated in going any further. His egg rocked only occasionally, peeping uncertainly as if trying decide whether hatching was worth it or not.

Sensing his brother's hesitation, Caradoc stormed over to his egg, squealing in a deafening pitch Eragon would have never thought possible for a dragon so young. Putting his snout right against the eggshell, Caradoc's cries grew only louder and more demanding, raking his butter-soft claws across the surface.

Puzzled by the behavior, Saphira hovered in the background. She moved as if to swoop down and drag Caradoc away from his brother's egg, but hesitated, and instead implored Eridor for guidance. They were his children first and foremost, after all.

Eridor's emotions wavered indecisively. While he wanted Trinnean to hatch on his own time, it was also obvious Caradoc was frantic for his presence. Eggs hatched in time with their broodmates or they didn't, sometimes only hatching years after their siblings had started families of their own. For all the experience Eridor had as a father, and in helping to raise the younger clutches of his parents and his extended family, never had a hatchling been so persistent on entering the world with them.

It must have been their decades together amongst those gods-forsaken sea serpents, Eridor mused, once again seething in hatred at the traitor (thrice-damned Jarshan!) that had shattered his family so. Alone amongst the water and ice, they must have clung so tightly to each other for warmth and comfort it is impossible for Caradoc to go on without Trinnean. He sighed heavily, but firmly ordered, Let them fight it out. Their relationship is beyond my experience and I do not feel it wise to prematurely force either outcome.

Eragon winced anxiously as Caradoc's keening cries stubbornly continued. Should dragons always be so... indirect as parents?

Nestmates are always free to squabble amongst themselves, provided there's no excessive injuries being dealt, Eridor answered. There's always a strict hierarchy in the clans, and young dragon has to learn their place sooner or later. Establishing those ranks before the younglings start breathing fire or really learn the concept of hate is the wisest course of action.

Elva nodded in agreement. "Adopted as I was, my nestmates decided I was the lowest-ranked one of the brood, and tried ganging up on me to teach me my place." She smirked. "Considering I really was the dominant one, I taught them theirs."

Trinnean's anxious indecision chose that moment to flare up into burning fury. His egg rattled as he rocked it violently, having decided taking his irritation out on Caradoc was more preferable than enduring his horrible squealing.

With Caradoc still gnawing on the shell with impotent fangs and butter-soft claws from the outside, Trinnean thrashed against his prison, squealing furiously.

Crack.

In a shower of blue egg shards, two hatchlings tumbled away and landed in a jumbled heap. Their clumsy limbs and over-sized wings tangled together, the brother snapped and kicked at each other as they struggled to free themselves. Tired of their antics, Saphira finally intervened, seizing Caradoc by the scruff and raising him into the air.

Caradoc squealed indignantly and squirmed frantically. Realizing escape was impossible, the hatchling dangled petulantly from the she-dragon's jaws.

Free of his brotherly burden, Trinnean was finally free to regain his bearings and climb shakily to his paws. Aside from his brilliant emerald eyes, he was Caradoc's splitting image, right down to the ungainly head he would have to grow into.

With wide eyes, Trinnean surveyed his surroundings and eventually came to the same conclusions Caradoc had; Eridor was indeed his father and present in spirit if not physically, Saphira was not his mother, and that she and Eragon were both something approximate to older siblings. Although he tentatively accepted Elva as extended family, he gave her a wide berth, especially after she flashed him that endearing sharp little smile.

Chuckling, Elva climbed to her feet. "He'll come around to his Auntie Elva eventually. Just keep the real humans away for several days. Ancestors know these poor hatchlings have had more than enough excitement recently."

Lowering Caradoc back down to the safety of solid ground, Saphira glanced curiously at the girl. You aren't staying around to bond with them?

She shrugged. "I should probably keep my distance until they're old enough to realize they're not related to everything out there that vaguely looks human. Besides, someone has to alert the world Saphira Brightscales and the King of the wild dragons are now the proud parents of two boisterous little boys." Elva smirked at the young dragons' obvious discomfort. "I'll bring back some sort of meat too, just so neither of you has to part with your children so soon."

Elva skipped off in an unsettling parody of an innocent young girl. While the two hatchlings stared wonderingly after her, Eragon shuddered and shook his head. He had forgotten that part of the ruse.

It isn't right that Caradoc and Trinnean have to grow up with the world not knowing you and Safiri are really their parents, Eragon murmured privately to Eridor. You gave your life trying to protect them, and if it wasn't for you waking up, they'd still be with the sea serpents and Saphira and I would be prisoners.

And you'd rather Galbatorix know the truth? Eridor asked archly.

Fate willing, Saphira and I have centuries ahead of us, he said quietly. I'd rather not spend the rest of our lives together living a lie. Should we ever have real hatchlings of our own, I want by children proud to announce themselves as the sons and daughters of Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Brightscales... not as Saphira Brightscales and a false, nameless King. He shifted uneasily as he recalled how reverently the unwitting people of the Varden looked to him as Majesty, unaware he was simply a hopeless human who had needed a dead dragon to save his skin. After all, wouldn't you like to stop living this lie? Surely you must tire of me taking all of your credit while you're forced to sit silently in the back of my head?

Eridor's mind grew as dark and ominous as a storm cloud as he obscured his emotions behind a wall of fury. What exactly the elder dragon was angry at, Eragon couldn't say, but there was definitely something beneath the furious fire, an undercurrent of e-

Trinnean and Caradoc broke the tension by mutually deciding they no longer liked having the other so close. They lunged at each other, tripping over their over-sized wings and ineffectively slashing at hard scales with butter-soft claws.

Already exasperated with Eridor's behavior, Eragon growled sharply to quiet the latest annoyance. Startled by the new and scary sound, the brothers darted for shelter behind Saphira, who huffed and rolled her eyes in bemusement, thinking Eragon's growl had only been out of irritation with their antics.

I'm sensing a pattern beginning to develop here, the she-dragon said wryly.

Indeed, Eridor replied. Devious as they are, every hatchling soon learns to ingratiate themselves with those that can protect them from the wrath of an angry parent; older siblings, other clan-mates, the parent that they see as the gentler of the two.

Saphira snorted. I'm not sure whether to be insulted that they think me a push-over or flattered that they think I could stand up to you.

Of course you could! When Safiri and I argued, who do you think had to spend the cold nights outside the cave?

Eragon burst out laughing at the mental image and forgot what had upset him so in the first place. Lowering his head to ground level, he stared at the hatchlings peering cautiously out from behind Saphira's form. And what you think of me, little ones?

Trinnean and Caradoc exchanged a considering glance, their simple but intelligent thoughts flowing easily between them. As one, they screeched and pounced on the hapless older male. Reeling back in surprise, Eragon fell onto his belly with the hatchlings clinging firmly to his horns, soft claws digging into his facial scales.

Thrumming in amusement, Saphira hung back while Eridor goaded his offspring onward to victory. Faking indignant rage, Eragon was all too happy to humor the hatchlings, and pretend the dark storm in Eridor's mind had dissipated instead of only slipping back behind his barriers.

Had Jarshan still not been recovering from the monumental effort of regaining a corporeal body entirely his own, his obnoxious little red parasite would have been permanently driven out of his dragon-hold ages ago. Thorn pestered him day in and day out on his past, the extent of his powers, and just exactly how one returned from the dead. Considering Thorn was a Rider's mount, and no doubt shared the same skepticism in the afterlife as his human master, Jarshan hadn't wasted any energy in replying except to growl irritably whenever the little hatchling really started to irritate him.

Thorn's only true redeeming quality was his ability to continuously supply fresh, wild prey. Jarshan would have rather starved if it had been cows, goats, and sheep forced upon him, and he appreciated Galbatorix had remembered his sentiments toward human-bred livestock.

Your silence doesn't intimidate me. Remaining a safe and respectful distance from his natural superior, Thorn's crimson eyes burned defiantly. Just tell me the full story of how you came back, and I'll leave you alone.

I am the King of the wild dragons, hatchling, Jarshan proudly sneered. My power transcends even Galbatorix's abilities, much less those of you and your Rider. Death itself could not have hoped to hold me forever.

My Eldunarya certainly don't see you as a King, Thorn said boldly. They haven't recognized any dragon as King or Queen since you murdered King Eridor.

Jarshan shuddered with rage and revulsion. Galbatorix had taken extreme measures against both bonded and wild dragons that didn't accept both his authority over the Order and his alliance with the true King of the wild dragons. Galbatorix was free to do whatever he pleased to those who had wronged him, even if it meant denying Eldunarya their places amongst the stars. What claim did Jarshan have over Rider's dragons and those wild dragons that didn't recognize him as king?

Those parasites within you are as reliable as a broken wing. The gray dragon sniffed imperiously. Imprisoned as they are, how can they possibly know anything beyond what you think and feel? I bested Eridor and returned from the dead, something no other soul has ever managed. Eridor, a broken soul hanging on in a human's transformed body, certainly didn't count. Should that not be proof enough?

Even if it wasn't, there were no others left to challenge Jarshan's claim. Even after he had died, and ascended to the heavens as an all-seeing star, he had detected no clan-mate worthy of filling the gaping void Eridor had left behind. Aside from Jarshan himself, the last true royal dragon in the world was the egg of the nephew that still languished in Galbatorix's possession, and certainly no dragon destined to be a Rider's mount could ever hope to wield authority over the wild dragons.

Having no response to that, Thorn withdrew into his own mind to brood. Jarshan proceeded to ignore the red male entirely.

Tactless as he was, the hatchling still had a point: Growing up with Vanilor for a father and Eridor as a brother had made Jarshan all too familiar with the powerful magic of a true King dragon, a potent fire that sang through the heart and spirit as nothing else on earth. Even after his miraculous resurrection, it was a fire JArshan still failed to sense within himself.

Traditionally, the royal authority transferred into a new host when a worthy dragon defeated the old King or Queen in battle, but such was not always the case. Jarshan's great-grandfather, King Volos, had died in a freak lightning storm, taking his powers to the stars. While her relatives had bickered over her father's successor, a young she-dragon named Jumora had followed her Eldunari are beyond the clan, underwent the King's Trial, and returned home a true Queen. Her new powers had quickly ended the dispute.

To gain the abilities that should have been his the moment of Eridor's death, Jarshan would also have to undergo the Trial his grandmother had last endured.

Exactly where he had to go and what the King's Trial actually entailed, Jarshan had no idea. Every King and Queen before him that had actually undergone the Trial had taken their secrets to the stars, only vaguely responding that the chosen one's heart of hearts would lead the way.

At the moment, however, Jarshan was still becoming accustomed to his body and cumbersome wings. Weak and uncertain as he was, he did not yet trust himself to fly. It was a long way down from the dragon-hold, after all, and he had no wish to see if he and Galbatorix could repeat his miraculous resurrection any time soon.

Right now, his body and heart of hearts demanded only rest, and Jarshan was all too eager to oblige.

Resting his head on his paws, he closed his eyes and raised his mental wards. Thorn may have cut himself off, but the Eldunarya sealed inside him certainly had not. They were always at the fringes of Jarshan's mind, unnerving him with their bleak silence and simmering resentment that he was free and they were not. One of the five dragon-souls burned with a deeper, more personal rage that felt all too familiar. Jarshan especially didn't want to pay it any mind.

Aside from demanding that he and his wild dragons be left to their own affairs once the war had been won and the Order's old ways permanently abolished, Jarshan had wanted very little from Galbatorix in exchange for their alliance.

Jaded as he was with his own clan, both those who had always blindly sided with Eridor and the Riders and those who had supported him until he had finally dared to take action, Jarshan had cared very little as to what unfortunate fates would befall them if they dared fight against him and Galbatorix's armies. He had cared only for his parents and nestmates (the only souls he could forgive for any and all transgressions), wanting their souls free amongst the stars once their rebellious lives had been ended, so they could be reborn into the glorious new world Jarshan would shape from the ashes of the old.

Galbatorix had swore an oath preventing himself and his followers from taking the Eldunarya of Jarshan's specified family members and that had been the end of it.

That is the end of it, Jarshan told himself firmly. Aside from gods-damned Eridor, they're safe and sound amongst the stars. It. Is. Not. Her.

Banishing the rest of his lingering doubt, Jarshan drifted off into the first sleep since his rebirth that was not dreamless.

Chapter Text

Elva was far from the typical young aunt that had been stuck with her sister's rambunctious children and absolutely clueless in what to do with them. During her years as an actual living and breathing she-dragon she had successfully raised several broods of her own. To her knowledge, all of her surviving offspring had grown up to become respectable adults. There had been no mooches or trouble-makers in her family, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, Elva no longer had many of her earlier advantages. She did not tower authoritatively over these hatchlings, or have a deep growl and flames to scare them into not misbehaving. There was no loyal mate to enforce her decisions.

Oh, and Caradoc and Trinnean were only several days old, but had already developed a hostile rivalry. If it weren't for Angela's healing spells and salves, Elva's arms would be covered in scratches and bite marks from where she had constantly struggled to pull the bickering brothers apart.

"No, Caradoc, no. That is not edible."

Baring her flat teeth in a snarl of aggravation, Elva dove for him. Somehow the stupid hatchling had gotten his jaws around a decently-sized rock and had decided it would be best to swallow it whole.

With Eragon and Saphira away on the pretense of hunting (her mind dared not question the accuracy of that statement, for fear of the horrible images her vivid imagination could conjure), the tremendous responsibility of keeping the world's last true wild dragons from accidentally killing themselves had fallen to a reluctant Elva.

Caradoc squealed in surprise, dropping the rock, as her arms closed around his body in a tight embrace. Struggling bravely, he raked his claws against her bare arms in a desperate escape attempt. For all of his squirming and noisy protests, Elva resolutely refused to loose her grip.

Though growing with the typical draconic swiftness, the brothers were still only a few days old, and still small enough to even by handled by a pathetically scrawny human girl like herself. Caradoc's talons and fangs hadn't yet hardened to the point where they could simply shred through her flesh. For all of his passionate exploration of his surroundings, Trinnean hadn't realized his own limp wings could be used for actual flight. Most fortunately of all, the hatchlings were weeks away from learning true speech. Elva wasn't ready to have their whining hurt make both her ears and her mind ache.

"You'll get vengeance soon enough, little hatchling," Elva firmly told her struggling captive. "Your Auntie Elva will soon be dwarfed by two very overgrown babies and won't be able to do anything to stop you. Then you'll be able to fly off and get on Uncle Eragon's nerves all you want. He won't be even able to fly away from you anymore!"

Caradoc stopped squirming, falling limp in resignation. His brilliant sapphire eyes stared forlornly back at the human campsite he had almost reached. If only that accursed, delicious rock hadn't been there to interfere with his mission!

Elva knew hatchlings well enough to immediately recognize his expression. "Don't even think about it," she deadpanned. "No one wants you back in camp after what you and brother did to that laundry. Now all those poor soldiers have nothing to wear under their armor. They'll be rubbed raw in places your Uncle Eragon would wince to think about."

Elva was unable to conceal her smug smirk. (Not about the last comment. Gods knew she was still very much a she-dragon and had as much desire to think about what human men kept under their breeches as they wanted to think about what precious organs male dragons kept sheathed.) No, she instead thought about the very brief time the Varden had adored Eridor's darling sons before they had forever ruined their reputation in the eyes of humanity.

News through the camp of the brothers' hatching had spread like wildfire. Considering how much the hatchlings had resembled Eragon and Saphira, it was no surprise those not in on the secret concluded they were parents and offspring.

Eragon must have surely been driven mad by the numerous people that congratulated him for 'helping to repopulate his proud, noble race.' Roran and the others who knew the truth were now mysteriously cracking up in public whenever they heard some outrageous speculation about the sex lives of dragons. It had gotten to the point where they were considered immature because they burst out laughing whenever someone wondered exactly what dragons did whenever they were intimate.

Saphira and Eragon, although never outright confirming the hatchlings as theirs, had certainly not denied what was obvious to most people. After all, the questions that would be raised if that truth came out would be most unwelcome, especially if someone realized Majesty and Eragon Shadeslayer were one in the same.

With how close the pair had gotten over the past several days, however, it was obvious they very well could be mates. Both in public and private, Eragon and Saphira both openly brushed against each other, draped their wings over each other, and entwined tails in gestures that were clearly those of affection and trust. It had happened so gradually neither dragon seemed to be conscious of their intimate gestures, only that it was something that felt right to do.

"Hm," Elva mused aloud. "If the last known dragon couple on earth were to procreate, how would those hypothetical offspring be related to you? Siblings, cousins, no familial connection at all? This all so complicates the future of the dragon race. It's not right to mate with close relatives, you know."

Confused, Caradoc only cocked his head and chirped.

The cursed girl sighed melodramatically. "I think you're right, little brother. There had better be a small colony of wild dragons hiding out there somewhere, or Alagaesia can eventually kiss our race goodbye." Violet eyes suddenly flaring with an irate fire, her head snapped in the direction of the one hatchling she'd foolishly left unattended. "Trinnean, no!"

Startled by a harsh tone usually reserved for his mischievious older brother, Trinnean panicked and bolted, still stubbornly clinging the fine-looking tunic he must have snatched out of a nobleman's tent when Elva had been distracted. Unceremoniously dropping Caradoc to the ground, Elva charged after the other hatchling.

Although still small and agile, able to weave through obstacles in ways Elva couldn't, Trinnean had no advantage out on the open plains. Still hindered by his over-sized wings, Trinnean was far too slow to avoid being tackled by his caretaker. While the little hatchling was stunned, Elva took the opportunity to both firmly grab a hold of him and rip the tunic from his mouth to examine the damage.

Torn by a dragon's fangs and stained red from the dust of the Burning Plains, the rag Trinnean had made of the tunic was no longer fit for even a beggar. Elva gave the tunic a respectful end, burying it in a location its furious owner would never uncover. Elva then stood up, her captive still squirming vehemently in her arms.

Violet eyes firmly glaring down at him, Elva released an instinctive growl that managed to sound threatening even in her current pathetic state. Trinnean stopped his struggling to gape up at her.

Mind your matters, little brother, she hissed reproachfully, for I am still the one in charge here. There are to be no more tunics chewed up, or chickens released upon the camp, or undergarments shredded. The next time you or your brother misbehave, I'll go straight to our father. Do you really wish to see him angry?

Elva had reflexively responded mentally. It had always come naturally to her, far easier than true human speech, and proved a far more effective means of communication. Trinnean not only heard her threat, but felt the grave seriousness attached to it, along with the dreaded memories of when Elva herself had been on the receiving end of Eridor's wrath.

Trinnean needed no more convincing than that. Suddenly docile as a kitten, he chirped innocently and did not squirm again.

Elva smiled victoriously. "Very good. Now let's go and collect your brother. Saphira and stone-head should be back with your meal soon enough."

Depending on if they remember the hunt once they get all of that sexual tension out of their system, that is.

Saphira had long since come to terms with her changed relationship with Eragon. They retained the inseparable bond they had formed as dragon and Rider, but her undiscerning instincts now recognized Eragon as a very eligible bachelor. Not only was he a mature male who had proven himself a worthy provider and protector by both hunting for her sometimes and saving her life on multiple occasions, but one of only four adult males in the world, and Saphira's biological urge to replenish her very endangered race certainly wasn't about to wait for any of the other three.

Initially, Saphira had fiercely denied her instincts, both not wanting to forever damage her bond with her Rider and disappoint herself once he was inevitably returned to his human shape. Once the transformation had been confirmed as permanent, however, Saphira had no longer had the strength to fight against her body. Considering she and Eragon were now each other's only real chance for having a family once the war was over and done with, the idea of a romantic relationship with him had no longer become an unthinkable taboo, but a highly possible future.

Eragon had needed longer to adjust to his irreversible transformation. Saphira had certainly glimpsed a few of his earliest dreams, back when he had fantasized about his human life and all that had been lost with it, but had also not wanted to dredge up bad memories by reminding him of them.

Saphira also remembered the transition from secret denial to gradual acceptance; when Eragon had stopped dreaming of human things and instead of hunts and flights and fire. He had returned her touches more readily and more confidently. No longer did he become flustered at the implied relationship between them by those not in on the secret. He was not embarrassed by the world thinking Trinnean and Caradoc his children with Saphira, but dismayed he had to keep up the charade even though the twins' real father was still very much present.

Eridor had assured them that the overbearing desire for intimacy was mostly due to their instinctive impulses to act upon the mating season's intended purpose. With his young sons needing their care and attention, the urge to produce more offspring would taper away.

While Trinnean and Caradoc's presence did indeed take the edge off of Saphira's desires, the tension that crackled between her and Eragon was still very much there and could not by entirely blamed on blind instinct.

She and Eragon had left the Varden's camp behind to hunt... or so they had told everyone. Elva's smirk when she had wished them a good bounty and Eridor's continued smug anticipation made it obvious they thought otherwise.

It was more than either dragon could admit to themselves; but why else had they both flown so far away from camp, circling over the Burning Plains in a halfhearted such for prey, and looking at other more often than they did the ground?

You'd think we'd find some deer so far away from camp, Eragon said conversationally. It's so private out here and so far away from the patrols.

Oh, aye, Saphira said amiably. We certainly can't return home empty-pawed.

The white dragon surveyed the ground beneath them again, blissfully unaware that Saphira had suddenly decided to tighten their circle and bring them that much closer together. I suppose the surviving deer have long since wisened up to us being in the area and decided to seek greener pastures. So long as we make it look like we tried our very best to try hunting for ourselves, Lady Nasuada shouldn't mind us 'borrowing' another cow.

Saphira now drifted directly behind the unsuspecting male, rising slightly higher into the air so she could strike from above. Glaedr had certainly never taught her such risky behavior, but Saphira's instincts had always served her well. Then we should make the most of this time.

Had Saphira had been a human woman, she would have been culturally obligated to wait for her man to initiate the courtship. Considering how Eragon had blundered his relationship with Arya, gods knew how long it would have taken him to have felt confident he could try wooing a woman again without fearing he'd screw up.

Fortunately, they were dragons, and Saphira had boldness enough for the both of them.

Furling her wings, the she-dragon dove sharply, biting his tail as she swooped past. With his pained roar of surprise echoing in her ears, Saphira twisted up to meet him, snarling fiercely. Her snapping jaws barely missed his neck, and as she rose for another dive-by she noticed the bite she had left upon his tail beginning to bleed.

Her bites were not intended to cause lasting harm, but nor were they light and playful. There was a reason why bonded dragons had considered it a great accomplishment to successfully mate with a wild dragon, after all, and Saphira certainly didn't want a male that couldn't withstand a decent challenge.

Eragon's instincts must have been screaming for him to fight back, but he obviously feared harming Saphira too much to lift a claw against her, and so only did his best to shield himself from her blows.

Utterly unaffected by the chaos, Eridor rambled calmly on like a master mentoring a bored apprentice. As you can see, Eragon, she-dragons certainly aren't constrained by human standards of propriety and are well within their right to make their interest in a prospective mate known loud and clear.

Eragon growled in aggravation. I can see that, but what should I do? I can't bring myself to hu-

Show the damn she-dragon some respect! Eridor bellowed. Your petty human chivalry certainly didn't impress Arya, and has no place amongst dragons. Saphira is your equal, so acknowledge her as such, or prove yourself a coward!

Saphira pulled away, surveying him with a neutral expression. Eragon wasn't entirely comfortable with his new strength yet and would never forgive himself if he injured her in the midst of his passion. Perhaps she had pushed him too fast. Perhaps she should just back off completely and wait until he had the confidence to-

She roared in surprise and skirted to the left, barely missing Eragon's snapping jaws. Blue eyes flaring, the white dragon flashed her a taunting grin. Tables turned, it was now he who chased her across the sky, darting in and out of the smoky clouds above the Burning Plains. Sometimes they soared so high they cleared the noxious fumes entirely, took a few thin breaths of fresh cold air, and then plummeted back into the filth.

Why didn't you try talking to me about our feelings earlier? Eragon demanded as he again lunged for her tail. Then we could have avoided all of this.

Saphira returned the favor by clubbing him in the end with the spiked end of her tail. Not hard enough to bludgeon his brains out, but hard enough to make him falter. While he was stunned, Saphira deftly circled until she was once again the one in pursuit.

Perhaps I wanted this, Eragon! Perhaps I've repressed my damn desires for so long this was the only way I could reach out to you without going mad!

Keep in mind that this is only a trial flight to truly judge the worth of your potential partner, Eridor warned sternly. Regardless of your gods damned sexual tension, we are still in the mating season, and Saphira still has a risk of conceiving. Do you think it's the best time to bring a new brood into the world, especially since you still have my sons to look after?

Eragon swerved just as a plume of fire blazed past him, Saphira in hot pursuit. Twisting gracefully, she slipped under him, flaring her wings as she rose to intercept his path. Again, she lashed out, and dared him to prove their weeks of lessons and sparring had not gone to waste.

As Saphira expected, Eragon rose to the challenge.

When Saphira's head snaked in to bite his neck again, Eragon seized his chance. Before she could react, his fangs sank into her neck, biting just hard to get the message across, and that it did.

Blue eyes wide in shock, Saphira gaped at him momentarily. He winked playfully back at her, a joyful challenge singing across their connection.

My turn.

As Eragon reached out again, Saphira folded and her wings and dropped like a stone, sinking through the clouds in a bid to evade him. Her surprised morphed into satisfaction and pure glee he had risen to her challenge, but the critical edge was still there. She was judging his capability as a fighter and a flier, after all, and Saphira deserved only the best at both.

Eragon swooped after her, hurtling a plume of searing blue fire after her. His flames were powerful enough to burn through the strongest of enchantments and certainly strong enough to seriously injure even a she-dragon.

As if she would ever be that slow and blundering. Already able to hear the inferno building up inside his throat, Saphira had already effortlessly dodged his flames long before they had ever reached her, their radiance making her scales glitter like a treasure trove of sapphires. Saphira rose after him, fire now streaming from her own jaws. Thus began a complicated dance of fang and fire that would have seen suicidal to any misunderstanding spectator below. Uncaring of the peril, the dragons continued spiraling around each other, viciously lashing out whenever the other strayed too close.

What lasted only minutes seemed an eternity to Eragon. To his mesmerized mind, he and Saphira had been playing their game from the dawn of time, and neither would be willing to admit defeat until its very end. Eridor's presence in his mind had long since fallen silent, drowned out by the intensity of the emotions flowing between him and the only other soul in the world that existed to Eragon. There was only the shimmer of her scales against the sunlight, the heat of her flames that danced alongside them, the all-consuming passion in her eyes.

Then, reflexively, Eragon and Saphira simultaneously reached out. Their talons, front and back, locked with those of the other and their tails entwined. For a blissful moment, their minds melded so perfectly there was neither an Eragon or a Saphira, but a unified us. Together, they plummeted to the desolate earth below.

Such a sight would have looked suicidal to any uninformed onlookers and, indeed, such a union ran the very good risk of both dragons splattering over the Burning Plains. Eragon certainly no longer had a concept of the ground; his memories and senses had merged so harmoniously with Saphira's his vision was a bewildering blur of blue and white, both simultaneously looking at himself and not.

After having reached perfect unity, both were loathe to release the other and lose such oneness. But gravity cared not for their feelings, and neither had a wish to die anytime soon.

Reluctantly parting from Saphira, Eragon returned to himself just in time to flare his wings and manage an incredibly rough landing. His soul ached at the sudden distance from its other half, for while he and Saphira still shared a connection, it paled in comparison to such a heavenly harmony.

Unable to voice their amazement of such an experience or barely avoiding certain death, the dragons could only look to each other in stupefied silence.

Eridor reasserted himself in Eragon's mind, gently breaking them out of their stupors. Such unity only happens in dragons trying to narrow down their potential mates for that final perfect candidate. No other dragon would bare its soul so honestly to another. From how you two were barely able to pull out of it, you're obviously as fit for each other as they come... and finally have those pesky emotions resolved.

Both dragons sighed in relief, exchanging warm grins. Gone forever was the awkward tension and silent denial of their obvious emotions between them. They might not have consummated their relationship, but, fate willing, they had many centuries of them to think of mating and hatchlings of their own.

At this thought, Eragon winced guiltily. Eridor's own life with his mate and family had been cut painfully short an he would possibly have to endure centuries of watching another dragon live his ideal life before he could rejoin his own loved ones amongst the stars.

Sensing Eragon's unspoken discomfort, Eridor withdrew into himself, firmly sealing his every thought and feeling behind a solid barrier. Remaining just open to communicate with his host, the dragon who had been an eloquent King in life simply responded: Mind your own business, hatchling.

Eragon refrained from growling in frustration. He had long since figured out his body's other inhabitant resorted to insults and sarcasm whenever he felt threatened. Eragon had long since resigned himself to the fact he would be forever called 'hatchling' and 'ignorant fool' long after he was an experienced father of his own. With Saphira being Safiri's near double, and Safiri's reincarnation, there would only be further conflicts down the road.

Saphira flashed him a fanged grin. Eragon eagerly returned it, putting his unhappy thoughts behind him as he challenged her to a race back to camp. Trinnean and Caradoc were awaiting their return, after all, and Elva must have been tearing her hair out in frustration over them.

Best get back before she is completely bald, Saphira teased.

With the tension between them finally resolved and their relationship officially having progressed to the next step, Eragon and Saphira had a new-found confidence in themselves and each other. Whatever the future would bring, they had each other to rely upon for any situation, be it raising impish little dragons or fighting a war for their race's very future. Eragon and Saphira may have had many more trials before them, but never again would they fear about facing their fears alone.

Chapter Text

Arya Drottningu's emerald eyes flashed open, before they narrowed after realizing she had been disturbed from the tranquility of her meditation. Blodgharm, in all of his insufferable blue-furred glory, stood in the entrance of her private tent. The two elves had taken to avoiding each other like the plague since their final confrontation and Blodgharm would not have dared to speak to her unless the matter was of the utmost importance.

"Aye, Master Blodgharm?" Arya kept her voice and expression as neutral as possible.

The elf's blue-black fur bristled anxiously, and Arya realized the gravity of the situation with his amber eyes evenly met her own. "Pardon the intrusion, your Majesty, but I believe these are extenuating circumstances. We have just received a very heated message from Ceunon. Lady Nasuada desperately needs you to act as a mediator between herself, King Orrin, and the contacting party."

"Ceunon?" The elf-woman gracefully leaped to her feet, pushing past Blodgharm and hurrying to Nasuada's pavilion. "I knew our people would encounter Imperial resistance eventually, but what damage has the Black Hand wrought? How far did they manage to penetrate the scrying wards surrounding camp? Was Galbatorix personally involved? Gods forbid, was he the one who-"

Blodgharm silenced her with a look. "We were contacted by he known as Oromis of House Thrandurin, he who is also known as Osthato Chetowa and Togira Ikonoka."

Such flagrant violation of his sacred oaths to secrecy made the normally dignified Arya splutter in surprise. How did he not immediately drop dead for breaking such sacred vows? Or so easily speak of the last true Dragon Rider alive?

Arya didn't have time to throttle the answers out of Blodgharm. The crowd had parted respectfully for such esteemed figures, given them a direct path to Nasuada's pavilion. Eragon and Saphira towered above everyone else, their necks craned down to inspect something far closer to ground level. Their young charges perched on Saphira's head, cheeping excitedly to each other.

The ring of magicians and armed soldiers keeping the crowd at bay momentarily parted to allow them through, and Arya and Blodgharm officially became part of the proceedings.

Very few people actually had the honor of seeing the lost legend that calmly stared up them from the water of the massive scrying pool Trianna's magic maintained. The Council of Elders and the miscellaneous Surdan nobles and generals had been confined to the back of the pavilion. King Orrin listened in rapt awe, perhaps not trusting himself to speak. Angela and Elva stood by the paws of the dragons, serving as their mouthpieces, for mental messages couldn't cross such long distances and were not transferred between scrying pools. Nasuada looked every bit the composed and regal lady, unaffected by the tumultuous emotions the sight of a true Dragon Rider thought long-dead evoked.

"Greetings, my Lady," Arya offered, quickly exchanging the usual tedious formalities with all present before devoting her attention to Oromis. "And greetings to you, Agretlam. May I ask what you are doing so far from the forests of Du Weldenvarden?"

Oromis looked every bit like a Rider of legend should have. He was adorned in magnificent golden armor, one hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed blade. The other was affectionately pressed against the shoulder of the ancient dragon beside him. Glaedr took up most of the background, his stump of a limb not visible from the perspective of those looking through the scrying pool. Both Rider and dragon looked at the height of their prime, brimming with boundless strength and more than a match for Galbatorix and his black beast.

Even from this distance, Arya knew their projected strength to be false. Oromis's face was subtly strained from the toll fighting must have already been taking on him so early in the campaign. His greatest asset was Glaedr, a crippled dragon who would be far too vulnerable to forced to fight from the ground.

"The time has come for all able-bodied elves to venture forth from our woodland stronghold, my Lady," Oromis responded politely. "Our forces have been amassing the past several months. Our ancient soldiers have been summoned and their training in both the blade and in magic refreshed. Ceunon was but the first strategic target on our campaign south. There were few soldiers stationed here, and those that survived the battle have pledged allegiance to our cause. Queen Islanzadi intends for us to march along the coast to capture vital northern port cities and towns before moving east as we near the Empire's heart."

Despite her noble face, Nasuada's dark eyes were hard. "The Varden should have been informed of your plans beforehand, Rider Oromis."

The elf waved a dismissive hand. "Our previous battles against the Forsworn a century prior left both me and Glaedr severely weakened. We needed time to regain our strength and sharpen our abilities to their past efficiency. Our existence was not to be compromised before such a time. Those amongst you who travelled to Ellesmera with Eragon Shadeslayer knew of my presence, and were commanded to swear unbreakable oaths of magic to conceal the truth until the time was ripe. I assure you, Lady Nasuada, such a time has come."

Saphira growled, displeased she too had been left in the dark. Ebrithil, you should have been more forthcoming with your plans of offense! Rebel forces could have taken advantage of the chaos to attack Aroughs or another nearby city while you besieged Ceunon. Queen Islanzadi's discretion cost us the element of surprise down here! Angela relayed her words, her voice a damn near perfect imitation of the she-dragon's infuriated tone.

Oromis sighed as he faced his former student, not about to back down. "Since your victory at the Burning Plains, Queen Islanzadi has waited for you to finally launch open opposition against the Empire since Surda first declared its independence. You repulsed a second attack headed by Galbatorix's new Dragon Rider with minimal casualties. You have a formidable new ally in the King of the wild dragons." He bowed his head respectfully to the dragon he did not know to be Eragon. "And that is in addition to the magicians headed by Master Blodgharm." His eyes searched the crowd. "However, I assume you have finally begun to plan, for I do not see Eragon Shadeslayer among you."

"Eragon is on an assignment of the utmost secrecy and unable to be in attendance," Nasuada replied smoothly. "Details about his mission and our plans of attack against the Empire are highly confidential." She smiled thinly. "Regretfully, my oaths prevent me from disclosing any more information at this time."

Rest assured, Rider Oromis, Eragon Shadeslayer shall receive all pertinent information addressed here, Eragon added hastily. Saphira would never allow her Rider to be in the dark.

Eragon cared deeply for both his mentors, and had obviously intended to come off as pleasant and nonthreatening. Unfortunately, Elva was speaking for him, and her cool voice stripped his words of all their warmth. Oromis himself was deeply unnerved by the girl, knowing her to the victim of his pupil's accidental but devastating curse.

"We indeed have been revising our plans," Orrin interjected calmly, having reined in his awe and curiosity. "Eragon Shadeslayer may be otherwise occupied, but we still have two dragons and Master Blodgharm's formidable enchanters down here." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Theoretically, with these reinforcements and our existing troops, it should be feasible to, say... capture Aroughs without much difficulty."

Gasps erupted from the flabbergasted crowd. Aroughs was a vital port city to the Empire. Its capture would both deprive Galbatorix of precious resources and prevent new supplies and soldiers from being easily sent to the Surdan border. Perhaps a victory in Aroughs would be a stepping stone in a true southern campaign. The human and dwarf forces would progress north along the shore, taking other strategic ports like Kuasta while the elves would advance south. They could converge on the prime target of Teirm, and together march on the Empire's heart, all the way to Urubaen itself...

"Your idea has merit," Oromis replied carefully. Arya could see his mind whirling through the endless possibilities. "I must take it to Queen Islanzadi so it can be discussed indepth amongst the rest of her commanders."

Lady Nasuada nodded. "Of course, Rider Oromis." She turned expectantly to her inferiors. Her pointed look was more than enough to send strategists and generals scrambling like headless chickens as they reached for maps and eagerly starting sharing ideas. "Is this all you wished to discuss?"

"Honestly, my Lady, I was also seeking audience with the new King of the wild dragons." Oromis respectfully bowed his head in Eragon's direction, missing the white dragon's uneasiness at the gesture. "Your mere existence is a miracle in itself, your Majesty, and our side can only benefit from your strength and support. Would you be so generous to one day grant Glaedr and I a personal audience?" His gaze flicked to the hatchlings perched atop Saphira's head. Trinnean was oblivious to his scrutiny but Caradoc hissed defiantly at the face in the scrying pool. "There is much to discuss."

Aye, Eragon agreed neutrally, taking great care to not expose his true identity before the congregated rebels. When we can finally win territory from the Empire, and some peace, then will be the perfect time to bridge the gaps between our people and give us a future to look forward to.

It was the sort of dignified, authoritative answer Arya had expected from Eridor, but she distinctly recognized Eragon's voice. His reply had been instant; there had been no time for Eridor to coach him upon the appropriate answer.

Arya fleetingly thought back to the Eragon she had first met; a hapless farm-boy very much out of his element, and then a besotted admirer who had struggled hard with his passion for her. Both could not have been more different from the dignified King that reminded Arya much of her own royal father, calm and composed despite the storm of emotions surely brewing in his mind.

When the truth of 'Majesty's' identity finally came to light, Arya hoped Eragon would be able to face the shocked and enraged crowds with the same proud grace. Since arriving in Farthen Dur he had been forced to project the image of the ideal hero the rebellion expected him to be, free from any flaw or human weakness.

Remembering her own miserable childhood in trying to conform to her mother's every last impossible standard, Arya knew Eragon would feel as liberated as she had once it was safe enough for him to be simply Eragon, and not Majesty or Shadeslayer or Agretlam.

But there was still a Mad King to kill, and any such future would have to wait until Galbatorix had finally met a just demise.

Days of only sleeping and eating had helped Jarshan banish the lingering lethargy from his rebirth. The dragon-hold, his sanctum of peace and privacy from the gawking humans over his convalescence, had become yet another prison to be escaped.

Restless, Jarshan had taken to scaling all the walls in the Fortress he could reach, gouging his claws into pitted stone and forcing his quivering muscles to take him ever higher. Thorn had "helped" to hone his fighting skills. Jarshan had firmly proved his dominance by doing so, and the soft-scaled hatchling now had a few more scars to be proud of.

By pushing his body so laboriously, he had regained the strength and stamina of his past life, and so was free to focus on his wings. Reacquainting himself with two limbs his human body hadn't possessed had been a long and frustrating process, but Jarshan now had the fine control over his wings needed to subtly change direction and allow the winds to best work to his advantage.

Once control of his wings had been regained, there should have been no more obstacles between him and self-reliance. Still, Jarshan's every attempt at flight so far had resulted in painful crashes to the rooftops below. (He always made sure there was some lower roof beneath him to break his falls- a crash directly to the stone courtyards below would have severely crippled or killed him.)

Fearing for his health, magicians had first tried to heal his wounds after every humiliating failure, but his flames had soon chased them off. Jarshan had cared little for the Riders and their unnatural magic during his first life, and despite his gratitude over Galbatorix's part in returning him to true life, he wanted nothing to do with spells unless it was absolutely necessary. Jarshan's new scars reminded him to try ever harder, and the healers had learned to use their magic only to maintain the Fortress's structure integrity, and not upon the dragon that kept dealing it damage.

You're still at this? Just roused from a brief nap, Thorn raised his head curiously from his paws. How hard can it be so fly?

Having just hauled himself back up to the dragon-hold after another disheartening crash, Jarshan growled furiously at the red dragon, white-and-silver sparks flying from his jaws. You try being dead for over eighty years and see how easy it is to fly! Rebirth was damn near difficult enough.

Against his will, Jarshan's treacherous thoughts again turned back to lingering concern over his full rebirth. Even after he had purged the humanity from his soul and regained his true form, something inside him still felt off. Perhaps Jarsha's influence over his soul had tainted him just enough to forever alienate him from his own body and forever keep him from the sky. Without the cooperation of his wings, the playful pull of the wind had become torturous, and the clouds drifting overhead seemed to mock him for his helplessness.

Right, Thorn agreed easily, now well accustomed to the older dragon's violent temper. How did your rebirth go again?

Jarshan growled in irritation. As Galbatorix's one true dragon (for one couldn't count Shruikan as a true dragon), Thorn was undoubtedly under numerous unbreakable oaths to ensure his utter obedience. He also apparently thought Jarshan held the secret solution that would allow him to treacherously turn against his master.

Go and die to find out for yourself, hatchling, he snarled. Perhaps a second lifetime as a lesser creature will teach you to be loyal to your next superior.

The red dragon cocked his head. Dragons can be reborn as other beings?

...Aye. Turning back to the dragon-hold's entrance, Jarshan unfurled his wings experimentally, hoping to catch a wind that would help carry him upward.

...Is that what you meant by your 'true' rebirth? That you first returned as something else and became a dragon later? Thorn took the gray dragon's pointed silence as affirmation. If I may so boldly ask, what were you before?

Weak. Trapped in a defenseless shell of a body, cut off from the sky and the fire of my heart. I was forced into a dreamless sleep, but I resisted it enough to be aware of myself, of my suffering. In my imprisonment a part of my own soul had become alien, something I could no longer recognize as my own. His talons gouged into the stone floor. So I fought until I could spread my wings again, and burned the part of my soul that had festered to ash.

Thorn silently absorbed this. Dwarves are the ancestral enemies of our race and you love the elves as much as I do... So you were born... human?

There have been no new eggs laid for decades, Rider's pet. When I wanted to return to this world, I needed a physical body to inhabit, even if it was that of a different race. I was dormant at first and I suppose everything was peaceful... and then I awoke. My sanctum became a hell and I could stand captivity no longer. Perhaps it is not the same for you, hatchling, but we wild dragons need our flames, our talons, our wings.

Slowly, Jarshan eased his body over the edge, to the void between the sky above and the earth below. Were he unfortunate, he would push himself out too far, missing the lower roof entirely and having only the hard courtyard to break his fall.

We dragons need the sky.

Thorn roared in surprise when Jarshan flung himself from the dragon-hold, beyond the relative cushion the roof offered, fighting tooth and claw against gravity as he struggled to gain altitude. Wings straining against a body his mind still subconsciously viewed as alien, there was nothing left but the pure instinct to rise.

Just before gravity claimed him, Jarshan's wings remembered, and he was shackled to the ground no longer.

Spirits soaring, true King of the wild dragons bellowed in triumph. He did not know, nor did he care, whether it had been a lingering piece of humanity or a greater power that had struggled to keep him grounded and prevent him from becoming a true dragon once again. Whatever the mysterious resistance had been, Jarshan had conquered it, and the sky was once again his domain.

His victory meant Aiedail was still with him. All he had left to endure was the King's Trial and his rightful inheritance would finally be his.

No other pretender, however they were related to Eridor, would be able to defy the true King of the wild dragons then.

At long last, Jarshan would succeed where so many had failed, the oppressive shadow of Heitgera's folly would hang over his race no more.

Eridor knew he was exhausted, and that it was unwise to waste so much energy in communicating with his sons and of temporarily possessing Eragon's body (with permission, of course) in order to physically interact with them.

But Trinnean and Caradoc were his children, the only two left who did not lie amongst the stars or languish in Galbatorix's hold, be it as egg or Eldunari. Hatchlings did not remain so for long, especially in times of war, and every second spent with his innocent and rambunctious sons was one to be cherished, regardless of the strain it put upon his soul.

By the time of his murder, Eridor had been over thirty, and had been King of the wild dragons for twenty of those years. He and Safiri had raised many broods together, and many of the children that had survived to maturity had chosen to start families of their own. Since he and his father, Vanilor, had been so prolific, the royal clan had grown to a massive size not seen for many centuries. If a dragon out there didn't have a close family relative with a six-horned mate, than someone they knew certainly did.

When Galbatorix and his Forsworn had first become a threat, they had deliberately picked off royal dragons too proud to live in the safety of a clan, preferring to harvest their Eldunarya over those of common dragons. It had become common knowledge that six-horned dragons naturally tended to have hotter fires and slightly more control over their innate magic. Galbatorix had rightly equated greater magic to a stronger spirit and a more powerful Eldunari, and so royal dragons had become the preferred prey of his Forsworn.

Even then, the royal line had been in no danger. The number of viable eggs being produced may have declined rapidly amongst all dragons, but their kind was extraordinarily long-lived, and there would always more fertile nesting seasons in the years ahead.

With Eridor and Safiri's murder had come the upheaval of the royal clan. Despite Jarshan's grandiose claims, the power of the King's Wrath had passed over him, and the wild dragons were without a unifying central authority.

One of the sons from his first clutch, Morokei, had tried proclaiming himself his father's rightful heir. To the mortal races, appointing Morokei as the next King would have made perfect sense. As Eridor's oldest surviving son, he would have been his father's obvious heir apparent amongst the human nobles and the dwarf clans.

But the King's Wrath did not respect the inheritance laws of mortals and had not passed down to Morokei either. Without his father's power, Morokei had as much claim over the crown as his siblings did, and there were many that proclaimed themselves Eridor's favorite and natural successor.

The dispute did not merely stop at his children, either. There were some older grandchildren, and even a great-grandchild or two, that had believed they stood just as good a chance at inheriting as their parents and grandparents did. The ambition of Eridor's siblings had also been ignited with his death. His older brother and sister, Sharoth and Uvuna, had been all too eager to rally their own supporters once it had been confirmed their baby brother was dead. Even some of Vanilor's younger siblings had decided to make another bid for power, having the advantage of size and strength and experience.

Such strife had not wracked the wild dragons since King Konahrik had died from a freak lightning strike. If a daughter of his, Jumora, had not undergone the Trial to prove herself a true Queen, then their race would have surely ripped themselves apart in a gruesome civil war.

Unlike the last time, however, no savior King or Queen had emerged, and so the royal clan fractured and descended into chaos. The Forsworn had used the war to their advantage, slaughtering whole families and harvesting their Eldunarya while their clanmates were focused only on obtaining ultimate power. Some were so power-hungry they encouraged such slaughter of their competition, standing by while the Forsworn murdered and even willingly selling out rivals.

By the time the furor had died down, not only had the ranks of the royal clan been decimated, so had been the numbers of all wild dragons. No King or Queen had yet emerged to rally the remnants of their race, and the surviving royals abandoned their ambitions to focus upon their vengeance. Their strength gone and their last King long dead, the survivors had only magic enough to strip the Forsworns' dragons of their names in punishment for their treachery, leaving them and their Riders to slowly descend into madness.

It had certainly not been enough to stop the last wild dragons, royals and commoners alike, from being hunted down and butchered for their Eldunarya. Uvuna had suffered such a fate. Morokei had died during the last great battle of the civil war and was so safe amongst the stars. Sharoth, proud and dramatic bastard that he was, had regurgitated and smashed his own Eldunari to spitefully deny it to his clan's murderers.

Of the once proud and expansive royal clan, only Safiri's final clutch of three eggs had survived the massacre. Mavalis still languished in Galbatorix's treasure-hold and technically wouldn't count as part of the clan until his hatching. Because of that, young Trinnean and Caradoc made a grand royal clan of two.

Late in the evening as it was, everyone but Eridor's restless consciousness had long since drifted off to sleep. Eragon and Saphira curled contentedly together, his sons nestled resourcefully between their shared warmth.

With Eragon lost in blissful oblivion, it was all too easy for Eridor to possess his body. Even when his host willingly offered him temporarily control of his body, his subconscious mind subconsciously resisted such unnerving domination, and Eridor still exhausted himself in maintaining possession. Asleep as he was, Eragon's subconscious was in no shape to resist, and it was all too easy for Eridor to open the white dragon's eyes and see his children for himself.

Look at my sons, Eridor murmured fondly, curving Eragon's neck to nuzzle them both. Sleep peaceful and dreamless, Trinnean sighed in contentment at his father's touch. Caradoc growled softly, lost in the vivid dream of a hunt and nearly upon his prey. You're growing up so big and strong, just like your father, but your mother's spirit, spirits be praised.

Should Eragon fall in battle or prove incapable of holding the King's Wrath for himself, only Trinnean and Caradoc would stand a chance of completing the King's Trial. The six horns all true royal dragons possessed indicated not only a greater prowess for magic, but the capability to serve as a vessel of the King's Wrath. No other dragon, not even Saphira, was physically capable of holding such momentous power without their Eldunari shattering from the sheer force of trying to contain it. Mavalis, trapped as he was, certainly wouldn't be hatching anytime soon.

Looking over his sleeping sons, so innocent and peace, Eridor's Eldunari burned at the very thought of thrusting the responsibility of kingship and the fate of their race upon their young shoulders.

Gazing up at the stars, Eridor was amazed by how few were left, by just how many souls had fallen between his rebirth and his awakening in Eragon's body.

We know the time for change is upon us, even when we lose sight of what that change is down here. Right now I can only hope that possible future will come to pass, and things do not take a turn for the worse.

For all that passed since sunset, the night was still dark and full of shadows. Sunrise was still so far off, and Eridor refused to rest easy until the dawn had finally broke.

Glancing down at Trinnean and Caradoc, Eridor thought back to the final time he and Safiri had looked back over their eggs, and how they been spared Mavalis's fate only because their mother's corpse had shielded them from sight. The thought of leaving them like again made his Eldunari burn, the rage razing the exhaustion from his soul.

I shall not fail you like that again, my sons, not like I first failed you and your mother. His gaze strayed to Saphira's snoring form and the soul of his own mate that slumbered blissfully within. Whatever happens to me, to Eragon, none of those we love most will be left alone and forgotten again.

There was time yet before Eragon would dub himself ready to undergo the King's Trial and, until then, the world could only wait to see if he would prove himself worthy of the title the world had already unwittingly bestowed upon him.

Eridor let the white dragon's eyelids fall close and his muscles relax as he released control over Eragon's body, but his consciousness remained vigilant through the night, as he would until the time had finally come to lay down his burden.

Chapter Text

Aroughs was a major Imperial port, funneling precious resources from the Southern Isles into Alagaesia and where many ships from the western cities often unloaded their cargo after sailing around Rathbar's Spur. It was also the temporary home of a large portion of the Imperial fleet preparing to sail into Surdan waters as the cold war between the two kingdoms and their allies erupted into a true conflict. Situated at such a strategic location and with a vital portion of the Empire's naval power, Galbatorix could obviously not afford to lose Aroughs.

Should the Varden gain control of Aroughs and the surrounding waters, they would have effectively split the Empire's remaining navy in two, unless sailors wanted to brave the unpredictable waters and sea serpents of the open oceans by trying to sail around the Southern Isles, or running the risk of breaching on jagged rocks or dragged under by whirlpools if they dared sail through them.

The Varden had surprise on their side. Why would Galbatorix suspect them of taking the offensive so soon after several major battles had devastated their numbers (as his 'spies' told him)? Even his reliable sources were telling him that Eragon had departed on a mysterious assignment and had completely slipped off the map. Saphira would be too vulnerable with 'her' hatchlings to risk going into battle. And her 'mate', who had thrashed Thorn and Murtagh during their last encounter? 'Majesty' appeared to be growing disinterested in a war that did truly concern him, disappearing for increased periods of time each day.

With the southern forces obviously not going anywhere for the time being, Murtagh and Thorn had been sent to the northern cities to both curtail the elven advance south and to counter Oromis and Glaedr once their armies finally met in battle.

Asid from those in on his secret, none knew Eragon had never left the area. Aye, he slipped away to supposedly 'brood' by himself, but always remained within mental range of Saphira and at least one of his elf guards. His mentor, Eridor, was within his very mind, constantly assessing his strengths and weaknesses and correcting every little mistake he made. Ancestral memories of all those who had warred against humans before, from Rider's dragons besieging King Palancar's forces to wild dragons resisting attempts made by local villagers to drive them from their territories, fed his knowledge.

Remembering how he and Saphira had fought in the first battle of the Burning Plains on foot, Eragon cringed at his earlier stupidity. So long as she had been protected by wards, Saphira would have been best useful in the air, razing entire lines of enemy soldiers and destroying their war machines long before they ever reached the front lines.

Despite no longer having traditional magic, Eragon had flames that could burn through enchantments, and even Dragon Riders had come to fear and respect the wrath of a provoked King or Queen.

When the southern generals finally rallied their troops, the Imperial spies falsely reported them to be heading north to unite with elven forces. Intelligence now showed Imperial soldiers converging on Urubaen and the central cities in an attempt to intersect and massacre the rebellion's southern army before such a union could come to pass.

Those soldiers ordered to mobilize had marched north only until out of range of the Imperial spies still stationed in the Burning Plains. Those that had infiltrated the mobilized legions had been discretely hunted down and killed, with only the double agents alive to keep feeding Galbatorix false information. Once all leaks had been uncovered and nullified, the legions instead marched southwest, magicians strategically dispersed amongst them to help conceal their presence.

The forces left in the Burning Plains had been ordered to further fortify themselves. Should all go according to plan, they would unite with the main army and resume the campaign north, or else retreat into Surda if the gamble failed.

Eragon and Saphira had flown reconnaissance for the mobilized army, the elves perched upon their backs swiftly silencing all Imperial scouts they encountered and charting the most efficient route to Aroughs.

Now dawn was close to breaking, the skies around the horizon lightening. Even so submerged beneath the waves only his eyes and nostrils crested the surface, Eragon could clearly see the countless ships that bobbed in the harbor, their crews just bound to be waking up around now. With his mind tightly closed off to every external presence, Saphira included, he had no idea just how many of those thousands of soldiers would be prepared for what he had in store.

Keep your mind sealed tight, Eridor intoned. His calm and composed presence was always there, an inner strength that stripped away Eragon's doubts and fears, leaving only an iron resolve behind. If those magicians can't sense who or where you are, they can't immediately kill you with a spell of death. Leave defense of our mind to me. Just remember all of those memories on sea serpents, and that you use up air when you ignite your fire.

After hearing this advice so many times, Eragon no longer nodded in understanding, burning blue eyes focused on Aroughs itself as he awaited the signal.

Not a minute later, a light most would have attributed to the coming sunrise flashed above the city.

The white dragon took a final breath, an inhale so deep his lungs strained from the pressure, and vanished entirely into the ocean's dark depths.

Keeping his wings tucked to his sides and his limbs beneath him, he advanced on his oblivious targets. Big, bobbing hunks of wood that stood no chance against a dragon's flames. Sailors that would never get the chance to fight back before they were flung into the ruthless sea.

Human sentimentality can no longer afford to get in the way. They are the enemy, those who will eagerly kill your kith and kin if given the chance. Would you rather see Trinnean and Caradoc slaughtered by those too bloodthirsty to spare the innocent? Your cousin, your last true relative, to die in vain and leave his wife and unborn child behind in a tyrant's world? To see Saphira, our beautiful and proud Saphira, the beaten-down and broken plaything of an abomination?

Visions of blood-stained blue scales flashed in his mind's eye, the sight of a fantastically fierce she-dragon helpless against unholy creatures that threatened her very life, and the bitter memory of himself being powerless to stop it. The burning rage surged up, and again Eragon gleefully embraced and acknowledged that primal fury as his own.

He aimed toward one of the largest vessels at the edge of the harbor, the one closest to him likely to hold a hostile magician, and didn't hesitate as he surged forward. Six sharp horns gouged the wooden hull and wrenched themselves back out. Ocean water surged into a hole far now beyond repair.

Eragon seized the one opportunity given to him, his horns and spiked tail ripping into every ship he could reach before the stunned sailors could rally against the destroyer that stalked them from below. There was no time to pay any mind to the screaming figures he sent spilling into the sea. The ocean, but could not silence, their terrified cries, the wooden hulls that cracked like broken bones, and the last groans of ruined ships falling to their graves on the seafloor.

Finally, even the last reserves of air his massive lungs could store ran out, burning for fresh oxygen. Eragon surged toward the surface, exposing himself just enough to take a greedy gulp-

ERAGON!

Eridor's warning came just in time for the white dragon to duck back under the waves, narrowly missing the supernatural green fire that struck where he had been not a moment before. The flames boiled the water around them and Eragon reeled back as the flesh beneath his scales was scalded. His agonized shriek brought salty death flowing into his lungs.

Eragon exploded forth from the debris-laden waves with a furious bellow he managed between his chokes and splutters. Below were entire crews fearfully captivated by his overwhelming presence, those that had prepared for battle against a single aggressively tenacious sea serpent and found themselves facing an adult dragon.

But already the spell of awe was breaking. Men fumbled for their quivers while their superiors screamed for catapults and magicians to be readied. Some opened their mouths, words of power forming on their lips as the furious white dragon descended on them. Flames straight enough to burn through every enchantment thrown his way ravenously devoured every ship and unfortunate soul they touched. Another inhale, and another four ships attempting to raise their anchors were consumed by a blaze of blue.

Rising further above the harbor, Eragon glanced back toward Aroughs. From the faint shouts he heard in the city, the fleet would receive no rescue. There were far-off explosions of magic as Blodgharm and his elves ruthlessly hunted down and executed their counterparts. Varden soldiers swarmed through cracks the Du Vrangr Gata had made in Imperial defenses. Somewhere amongst them Nasuada was delivering orders, Arya had entered a deadly dance with those unfortunate enough to underestimate her, and Angela and Solembum were happily throwing themselves into fights anyone saner would have considered suicide.

Above the city he saw Saphira continually swooping down to raze rows of archers or to knock out a catapult. One of Blodgharm's elves, Sindri, was perched upon her back, protecting her from magical offenses while firing off her own spells. Saphira was again a force of majesty and destruction, a wrathful demigod who demolished every obstacle put before her.

Then Eragon folded his wings and dove, sending out a final burst of fire before he vanished beneath the waves.

While submerged enough to avoid normal attacks, Eragon could now feel unfamiliar magicians swarming around his mind, searching for cracks in his defenses. Eridor fought them off, sending out waves of burning rage so strong the magicians were sent flying back to their bodies.

Feeling his confidence in his abilities growing with every felled ship, Eragon grew bolder in his attacks, head rising from the waves to send off more devastating bursts of flame as he advanced deeper into the harbor and to some of the strongest ships in the fleet.

Far off, he could notice other ships sailing into the bay. At first glance, they appeared to be typical Imperial ships, flying the colors of the Empire while their crews wore the typical uniforms. Only the bottoms of their hulls, painted white or any other striking color their crews had gotten their hands on, marked them as allies. They easily inserted themselves into the Imperial navy, firing off shots that turned the enemy against each other.

Even the Dragonwing, the massive battle ship Roran had helped capture to carry Carvahall's villagers to safety, was amongst the allied ships. While the battle ship had been battered by the time it had made it to the safety of the rebellion, it had been repaired and refurbished in the time between the first Battle of the Burning Plains and the assault on Aroughs. Rather than being operated by a ragtag crew and carrying desperate refugees, the ship was now commanded by a crew of experienced Surdan and ex-Imperial sailors that were no strangers to naval combat. Someone had even persuaded a magician to help carve a new figurehead, a sapphire-scaled she-dragon that snarled fearlessly at her enemies from her perch on the bow, a loyal guardian to the ship that had been aptly rechristened the Dragon's Vengeance.

With new allies in his mission, Eragon soldiered on his assault even as catapults and shrapnel from the ships he wrecked took a toll on his hide. Only able to hope that Saphira was still well, as his mind was still completely severed from hers, the white dragon turned his attention to one of the largest surviving frigates in the fleet and tried to keep the worry from his mind.

Trinnean had been to young to understand what had been going on when his kin-dragons and the leader-humans had argued over what to do with him and his brother-nestmate. He had only comprehended Uncle-Eragon and Auntie-Saphira had been seriously discussing leaving him and Caradoc behind. They had even ignored what their wise-father-king had ordered, convinced that they had known best.

So Trinnean and his brother had done their best to convince their parent-siblings otherwise, never leaving their sides and sending them all the pleading-thought-pictures they could.

Only now, over a whole month old, was Trinnean mature enough to realize that Eragon and Saphira were to again head into battle. Like the brave-warriors of ages-long-past, they had gone to war to avenge their fallen kin and make the world once again safe for dragon-kind. Their cause was noble, their spirits as hot as the flames they breathed, and both adult dragons more than ready to teach the egg-breaker-traitor-king to never again underestimate their mighty race.

Caradoc had yearned to throw himself into the battle alongside his family and make their father-king proud. Even when Trinnean had tried telling his brother-nestmate how dangerous it was to charge into danger at such a young and vulnerable age, Caradoc had been determined to defy the orders father-king, Auntie-Saphira, and even Uncle-Eragon had growled at him.

The moment they had flown off, the human-warriors following in their wake, Caradoc had tried to drag Trinnean along after them. Camp had been left mostly empty, save for the not-warriors and those ordered to watch over them. Even their human-cousin, Roran, was absent, having chosen to stay back in the Burning-Plains with his pregnant mate while the others of their clan had marched to the human-city-Aroughs.

The only family member left to watch over Trinnean and his twin was Elva, the strange sister with the human's body and she-dragon's sharp mind. Caradoc had argued that since they were now bigger than their care-giver, that they were thus strong enough to go and and protect her.

Now, with the roars of distant battle and his Uncle-Eragon ringing faintly in his ears, Trinnean found Caradoc had still managed to get his wish of protecting their little-big-sister.

Sister-Elva was more handicapped than even her scrawny human-girl appearance let on. A mistake made by Uncle-Eragon had left her with the need to shield all others from the pain. When she did not, she would be agonized by all the strange pain she couldn't just shake off or block out. With a battle raging within earshot, and the agonized thoughts of the wounded and dying raging in her mind, their normally strong-stubborn-sister was curled up and crying like a wounded hatchling.

With the humans pretended she and her agony did not exist, it was Trinnean and Caradoc, her annoying-little-brothers, curled up around her, doing their best to embrace her as she had done for them when they had been helpless hatchlings. Their wings blocked out the sights of humans worrying over their own kith-and-kin and their hums drowned out the sounds of far-off-battle.

Hush, little-big-sister, Caradoc soothed in unusual tenderness. Father-king and the not-blood-siblings will return victorious.

Sister-Elva thrashed again, her agony broiling over into their young minds. Despite the pain, Trinnean only held her closer and did his best to drown out her suffering in wave upon wave of calming blue. Keeping Sister-Elva as comfortable as possible was a battle in itself, a debt repaid to a little-big-sister that had looked out for them since long before their hatching. It was a reason that made even Caradoc glad their clan-elders had demanded they remain in camp.

Sister-Elva needed her annoying-little-brothers, after all. Far, far more than their elders did.

Ever since Eragon had gone and gotten himself transformed into a dragon by a dead king squatting inside his head, Saphira had not been fond of wearing the damn saddle, or having to adjust her flight to prevent inexperienced passengers from falling right out or vomiting all over her beautiful scales.

Sindri had proven herself an exception to that rule.

Saphira did not have the luxury of simply ramming into ships from the refuge of the ocean like a slippery sea serpent. Nasuada and her tacticians had needed her flying overhead to directly decimate the city of Aroughs, but also putting her at risk to arrows and enemy spells. Everyone had refused to let her go charging into the fry without one of Blodgharm's strongest elves as an escort.

Slender and silver-haired Sindra had proven herself herself to possess the lethal grace and beauty of a sleek wild cat. Her wards deflected arrows and othe projectiles Saphira couldn't afford to dodge. When unable to use one of the simple words of death and conserve her energy, Sindra would politely request Saphira to swoop down low over the tides of soldiers streaming out of Aroughs.

Not even the resourceful Imperial magicians had been prepared for the very air they breathed to become poisonous, preventing their use of verbal spells and scrambling their concentration. In their desperation for life, more than one magician had blindly lashed out with their magic, and took multiple Imperial lives along with their own when the magical whiplash hit.

Damn, Saphira swore as she completed another circuit around the still impenetrable walls that surrounded Aroughs. Those wards on the barricades just aren't coming down. Do you see any weaknesses, Sindri?

With the enchantments on the city walls still standing, rebel forces were constricted to storming the port's few gates. The entrances were blocked by bodies and tenacious defenders ready to protect their homes and families down to the last man. While the allied rebels had more than enough men to simply butcher every last Imperial soldier, such wholesale slaughter would both excessively drain their own reserves of able-bodied men and further the belief that the Varden were unappeasable monsters. Bringing down the walls of Aroughs would allow the rebellion to easily capture the city and reduce the number of lives being lost at the gates.

"I see no way, Saphira Bjartskular," Sindri intoned grimly. "The Black King weaves his enchantments too skillfully for a single elf to undo them all alone."

The silver-haired elf momentarily glanced in the direction of her comrades. They were effortlessly hacking through enemies like a farmer would weeds. Blue-furred Blodgharm was the most visible of them all, fangs bared in a bloodthirsty grin that made him seen a demon incarnate. All were too far away to reach, and Saphira could not risk landing in such a crowded and bloodied field to risk picking one up.

Saphira turned longingly toward the harbor, where Eragon helped the Dragon's Vengeance and other allied ships rip the Imperial fleet to pieces. His magic-burning fire was sorely needed at the moment, but he had his own battle to win, and she had not seen him harness the full power of the King's Wrath since that fateful confrontation with Thorn.

Saphira paused thoughtfully, hovering safely above the carnage below as she considered their options. Her fanged smirk was an ominous warning to any Imperial who saw it.

Sindri, would you be so bold enough to temporarily join your strength to mine?

The elf-woman gasped in that sad but flattering way all elves did when in their dragon-worshiping state. "Brightscales, such melding of the minds is an honor reserved for but a dragon and her Rider. I could not dare intrude upon such a sacred-"

I have no Rider, Saphira answered brightly, just someone I can now possibly call my mate. Besides, since you act like I am so high above you in rank, I can order you to do so.

Reluctantly, but with a tinge of nearly feverish excitement, Sindra lowered the last of her mental barriers. Elf-woman and she-dragon briefly became one, the carefully honed and concentrated magic of a a master magician combined with the raw and primal power Saphira herself had no true control over. When Saphira let loose a plume of yellow-fringed fire at the walls of Aroughs, the tips of her flames flickered with the potent edge of magic.

It was nowhere near a match for Eragon's blue fire. Saphira and Sindri's creation drew strength from traditional magic, and thus was immediately inferior to a flame that could burn right through it. Common dragon-fire only enhanced every last drop of the elf-woman's power, channeling it into a force that sent Galbatorix's wards toppling with audible snaps. It did not take long afterward for the walls to finally start blackening under the onslaught of flames.

Just in time, too, for Sindri's magic reserves were nearly depleted by the time the magic would release them. The elf was pale and quivering, nearly having fallen off the saddle were it not for the straps that kept her secured. Saphira faltered in her flaps, dropping several storeys in height before managing the energy to hover.

Such an unnatural fusion of elf and dragon magic had nearly sapped their lives along with their energy reserves. The connection between them had felt so wrong, in a way a natural bond between dragon and Rider, or between two dragons, never had. By the fierce pounding in her heart, Saphira grimly assumed she would have one hell of a night ahead of her.

Until the feel of victory overwhelmed her soreness, and Saphira roared her deafening triumph to the heavens. Her bellow drew the rebellion's attention to the newly vulnerable walls. Trianna pushed her way through the crowd, coming together with the elves and other Du Vrangr Gata as they sent the walls toppling down and allowed their soldiers to swarm straight into the city.

"No offense, noble Brightscales," Sindri managed weakly, "but I think I shall have to refuse your orders the next time you demand this of me."

So do I, Sindri, so do I.

Saphira made a slow circle around Aroughs, satisfied to see the Varden was rapidly gaining ground against the city's defenders. Her strength and fires largely spent, she drifted back behind the front lines while fresh waves of soldiers eagerly swarmed forward to seize advantage of her success.

Her part in the invasion was complete. With the walls breached, Blodgharm and his elves could entirely dedicate themselves to crushing the last of Imperial resistance and helping to capture the local lord likely cowering in his estate. Trianna and her magicians would hunt down the last of their counterparts and begin tending to the wounded. Arya would somehow find a way to involve herself in everything and be there for the official surrender of Aroughs's soldiers as miraculously immaculate as ever. Nasuada, still covered in the blood she had shed for her cause and people, would of course be there to gracefully accept the surrender of a cowardly lord who had not made such a sacrifice for his own city.

Retreating behind friendly lines, Saphira glanced over to the harbor. Most of the ships left afloat were Varden vessels bobbing amongst the remnants of the Imperial fleet. Enemy soldiers still treading water or trying to make it to shore were picked up by rebel crews and taken as prisoners of war. Eragon had given up his attack and was focused on regaining the air he had been rationing for hours.

Sapphire eyes locked with those of burning blue as the dragons finally restored their connection. Leaving so soon? Eragon asked in genuine surprise. I thought you'd remain for the surrender. I certainly never thought you'd miss the opportunity to make defeated enemies piss themselves from fright.

And show our enemies how exhausted and undignified I look right now? Saphira sniffed teasingly. Please. I need time to collect myself, eat a cow or three, and check up on the hat- er, the little ones. Why did the adorable younglings of her kind had to grow up so quickly?

Unfurling his wings, Eragon rose to fly alongside her, sparing the half-conscious Sindri a respectful nod and his gratitude for her selflessness in offering up her own magical energy to break Galbatorix's barriers. But it was Saphira he had still managed to worry over the entire battle, and he resumed his private conversation with the she-dragon as soon as he could.

I hope Elva is faring fine. The white dragon closed his eyes and shuddered, self-loathing seeping across his link with Saphira. I avoided the sailors whenever I could, to try and spare her as much relief as possible, but I...

Both dragons fell quiet as Eridor's distress escalated. Although the disembodied spirit remained silent, his emotions all too clearly rang out in their shared minds. How terrible it felt to have three children in dire need of a loving guardian and yet be unable to physically touch them without temporarily stealing the body of another.

My sons should be watching over her, Eridor replied gruffly. I've raised all of my children to think of their clan first and foremost, above any and all selfish desires, and Trinnean and Caradoc should always be there at a clanmate's side in their hour of need. Finding an acceptable emotional outlet, Eridor's distress flared into a fiery rage over his sons' hypothetical shirking of their duty. If I return and saw that they abandoned Elva, their own sister, to try and chase some damned glory, I swear I'm going to-

Eridor's rage sputtered and died the moment he saw his sons protectively curled up around their surrogate sister. Landing as quickly as they could, the elder dragons did their best to console Elva until Angela, the only healer she trusted near her, arrived to ease her agony.

Eragon and Saphira no longer had any wish to attend the surrender ceremony and the massive celebration that followed. Even after Elva had largely recovered from her curse, Trinnean and Caradoc remained too shaken up to stray far from their sides and wanting to hear nothing more of the battle that had left their proud 'little-big-sister' curled up and screaming in utter agony.

Leaving the soldiers to their drunken revelry, the dragon family retreated as far away from camp and battlefield as they could, settling down for a calm night under the stars. The sight of a cursed little girl comfortably nestled amongst four dragons would have been enough to raise some eyebrows if anyone was close and sober enough to care, but Elva had the heart and soul of a dragon, and that was all that mattered. Eridor, after all, was nothing but heart and soul and yet the cornerstone of their unlikely family. Without his awakening, Eragon would have never transformed, Elva would have never revealed her true identity, and Caradoc and Trinnean would still be wasting away beneath the Mother of sea serpents.

Exhausted from the trying day and safe and sound beneath the wings of their guardians, it did not take long for Elva and her brothers to nod off, and Saphira couldn't help but follow them in blissful oblivion.

Such peace did not come to Eragon. Beneath a cold and clear sky, the stars were far too prominent, countless dragon souls impassively staring down at the least free members of their race. Did they consider him to be a member of their kind or simply a mere human pretending to belong, lacking the heart and soul that would burn on long after his body had died and rotted away?

We can't afford to waste any more time, can we?

No, Eridor agreed simply. We cannot.

Aroughs had been but the first of many battles that would have to be won before the Empire's heart could be reached; there were still many long weeks of marching and grueling conditions ahead, precious time for Galbatorix to consolidate his forces around Urubaen and deliver a devastating blow to all the armies that had united to defeat him.

Despite the rebellion's confidence in an inevitable triumph against evil, for they now had more than double the dragons Galbatorix controlled and the last of the original Riders to boot, a little voice in the back of Eragon's head whispered something would go terribly wrong. Galbatorix had annihilated an ancient Order once believed invincible, after all, and he'd had decades to further hone his powers and grow in strength. And Eragon no longer had the gifts of a Rider to counter him.

Yet, despite the blessing given to him at the Blood-Oath Ceremony and the long months of training he'd endured in Du Weldenvarden, Eragon and Saphira had both been forced to rely on Murtagh's mercy to let them go after that first humiliating defeat on the Burning Plains. Eragon had returned the favor only after Eridor had awakened and kindled the terrible power of the King's Wrath within him.

You're going to have to teach me how to harness the King's Wrath on my own, Eragon said quietly. It takes too much out of us when you have to channel that power through me. We might have caught Thorn and Murtagh by surprise the last time, but Galbatorix will have heard the stories and be prepared. We're going to need more than sheer dumb luck to kill him. I-

North.

Eragon blinked. ...Pardon?

North, Eridor repeated in a tone that brooked no argument. You need to fly north. Saphira and you did promise to return to your masters when able, and 'Majesty' must meet with Oromis to begin forming a future in which elves and wild dragons will be living together again. After all, I know how I despise oath-breakers.

NORTH!? Do you know how many cities are still between here and-

The cities the rebellion face will be nothing like Urubaen, Eridor growled. How could these humans ever hope to take the capital if they need dragons to do all of the dirty work for them? The spirit had always disguised his emotions well, but not even he could completely disguise the peculiar undercurrent of both anxiety and eager anticipation to his voice.

Eragon's burning blue gaze unconsciously fixated north, his mind's eye focused not on Ceunon or Ellesmera, but on flying far, far past them. I take it you intend for me to do more than just speak to Masters Glaedr and Oromis.

Eridor neither confirmed nor denied his broad hunch and his memories betrayed nothing more than the all-consuming thought of north, ever north, to where He Called, ever north to answer His Call, ever north to ri-

Sleep finally claimed Eragon, Eridor's memories melded with his dreams and into a feverish blend of a desperate flight north, north, ever north.

But whether he flew to absolution (AND ROSE) or damnation (and was dragged down screaming), he could not say until he had actually gotten there.

Chapter Text

The servants and nobles who inhabited the Fortress had not taken long to notice their aggressive new resident, especially since he had introduced himself by scaling the castle walls to the dragon-hold and spitting fire at anyone who got too close.

With the dragon race nearly extinct, down to a mere three confirmed individuals and only several more rumored about, the sudden appearance of another dragon allied with Galbatorix was news all loyal to the Empire rejoiced in. When stories of the so-called 'Majesty', the King of the wild dragons, had come trickling into Urubaen, its population had thanked their gods and lucky stars for a third dragon guardian. Just because Galbatorix hadn't formally confirmed Majesty's existence of that of other dragons that had supposedly sided with the rebellion didn't mean they weren't out there, after all.

Those who actually saw much of the Empire's dragons had once thought quite differently. The gray-scaled dragon had a ferocious temper, a love for spitting fire, and no Rider to control him like Galbatorix kept Shruikan's wrath in check. After his arrival, the newcomer had stuck to the dragon-hold for days, and the humans that kept a close eye at his progress whispered he was too weak to serve the Empire any use.

When the gray-scaled dragon had emerged from his isolation, his reappearance had been far from encouraging. His attempts at flight resulted only in painful collisions and harried magicians and architects that frantically worked to keep the Fortress from suffering structural damage.

The barely-concealed smirks at the dragon's clumsiness, however, morphed into expressions of fear and awe as he had finally regained control of his wings and showed himself to have a power and grace that outshone even Thorn in flight.

Jarshan had reveled in their moments of terrible realization that he was a force to be reckoned with, and that they had likely earned his loathing by silently mocking him for so long. He had clawed back from beyond the veil of death, after all, and defying the bonds of gravity seemed petty in comparison to such a feat.

Having poured all of his iron resolve into waking from his dormancy and freeing himself from the fragile cage of a human body, Jarshan had next focused on regaining his prior strength. Thorn's usefulness as a sparring partner had rapidly diminished as his old strength and prowess had finally returned to him. Those who still doubted his strengths would only have to look up whenever he thoroughly trounced the far younger red dragon and remember that the Shadeslayer's she-dragon was not much bigger.

By now fully recovered, Jarshan had expected to feel the same pull that had guided his grandmother to her destiny so long ago, for he was now strong enough to shoulder the burden of the King's Wrath.

But that fateful revelation had yet to come and until then Jarshan remained at the Fortress. Galbatorix might have largely ignored him since his full resurrection, but he had still ordered the dragon to keep close by unless he had damn good reason to leave. As Jarshan had yet to hear his destiny finally calling him and had no idea of how to initiate the King's Trial by himself, at the Fortress he stayed, with the decades of rage and regret only growing heavier in his mind.

The lack of proper companionship was maddening in itself. The spineless hatching and his treacherous Rider irritated him to no end, Shruikan was a mindless husk, and the Eldunarya of the countless dragons forever trapped in Galbatorix's horde were downright unnerving.

Galbatorix. Jarshan didn't bother stifling his exasperated snarl. The rebels pressing in on all sides and he only calls his soldiers further away from the front lines!

Aye, the Black King may have been consolidating his forces in the Empire's very heart, but he was also abandoning countless towns of loyal subjects to the rebellion's full onslaught. Rather than trying to meet the bastards head-on and scorch the weed before it could go grow any further, Galbatorix was sealed up in his personal chambers for days at a time, violently turning away any who dared intrude upon his solitude. Shruikan was alarmingly unattended in the throne-room, growing ever more restless and ravenous by the day. Only Jarshan's intimidations kept the beast in line during his master's absence, and no amount of cows given could slake his single-minded urge to destroy.

Then again, Galbatorix had always been an enigma. Jarshan had sought out his help only as a desperate last resort, and had demanded a variety of magical oaths promising utter freedom and protected territories for himself and his loyal dragons once the war was over and done with before he had dared swear loyalty in return. Perhaps the Black King was planning to decimate his enemies in a single blow, allowing them all to congregate in one place so he could decapitate the rebellion for good.

But that would only stop the elves and rebel humans. The abomination Eridor had made out of himself and his reincarnation was one that controlled a twisted version of the King's Wrath. Galbatorix, for all of his cunning and power, was still only human, and not even his magic could contend with the force that had unified the dragons long before the first elf had ever step foot in Alagaesia.

Jarshan glowered at Thorn. The red dragon had been confined to Urubaen and its outskirts long for even longer than he had, and had long since developed a routine of long afternoon naps. Jarshan both scoffed at his laziness and envied his ability to rest so easily.

Not that you're particularly concerned about any of this, Jarshan sneered, his vitriol not directed at Thorn, but the five treacherous souls sheltered within him. Since your precious Eridor is still a part of that twisted mix of man and dragon, I suppose you're still on his side, if only out of the vain hope he will liberate you. But why would he? The elves have countless reasons to use your power still, and Eridor is pathetic enough to allow himself to go along with them. You'll never join the stars, even if a false King rules!

The gray dragon snarled at disembodied enemies who could not see his face, but felt every last bit of his burning rage as he dared them to respond. The small hatchling that had been condemned only for the allegiance of his clan was far too young and scared to speak. The ancient and apathetic elder had long since lapsed into catatonia. Two minds that must have been nestmates, together from hatching until their deaths, kept their thoughts tightly woven and left no room for his own to enter, even when he mockingly tapped against their mental barriers.

Better an eternity under an abomination than a kin-slayer.

Jarshan's narrowed eyes snapped open to an almost impossible degree. He growled warily at the all-too-familiar voice and the unpleasant memories it carried.

King Vanilor reigned long and unopposed. He and Ocurni cranked out countless broods, and most lived to spawn their own brats. I care little for the bonds of blood, sister, especially as my clan chose to tore themselves apart over accepting me as their true King.

He could almost see the vibrant green she-dragon standing before him. In his mind's eye, she was roughly his size, with their mother's graceful build and the six horns that identified an heir of Aiedail's royal line. Her green eyes were narrowed in venomous hatred and her snarl the same one Vanilor had given before executing one sick rogue that had taken a liking to devouring younglings.

And where are your followers, Jarshan? Condemned to burn eternally alongside the mountain-lord for aiding you in the massacre of our race? Or granted the mercy of the stars, where they are free to turn their backs on you? Before Jarshan could defend the loyal followers that had given their lives for a greater good, the voice icily continued on. Father impounded the law into you just as he did to me. Eridor was held down by the magic of the Forsworn while you slaughtered him in cold blood. Aiedail's power should have passed to a worthy successor, but no one was chosen, and certainly not you! The crown truly died alongside Eridor, and forever shall it stay dead, regardless of what happens to his twisted soul... just like whatever promises that madman made to you.

Jarshan growled aloud. And what do you know of the ancient language and-

Whether you choose to acknowledge it or not, little brother, the five of us were nestmates once; Verdani, Eridor, Kelda, me, and you. We were closer than mere kin, together from conception and until years afterward. While the Forsworn was all too eager to torture our clan for their Eldunarya, Verdani and Kelda were granted swift deaths and an eternity amongst the stars. For all you dishonored Eridor, you spared him and Safiri an existence under Galbatorix. Obviously you must have made some sort of agreement with him, for why else would our nestmates have been allowed to die free?

A beat. And then you died, little brother, and with you any obligations your master had... and here I am. How does it feel to have been used so callously, to be as much as a pawn to Galbatorix as Eridor was to Vrael-

His furious roar was thunder from the heavens, a terrible sound that startled Thorn from his sleep and set Shruikan yet again pacing restlessly through the lower floors. Jarshan snarled hatefully at a sister who now existed only in memory and as a spirit to whom true death would never come. He snarled in defiance to a dark truth that had long since laid at the back of his mind, even when he had been caged inside a human body, even as a dark star that had only impatiently awaited his return to the living and to prevent Eridor from reversing everything those long years of loss had accomplished.

Oh aye, Galbatorix had agreed to Jarshan's terms... for as long as he and those loyal to his cause had lived.

Shut up! Jarshan tried to scream, to silence his sister and the terrible sense of betrayal now tearing into his heart. But he was too upset, thoughts too muddled, for true language and came out only as a furious maelstrom of fury and denial.

I still have hope left, little brother, hope of an atonement you so foolishly threw away for nothing. How did it feel to be amongst the stars? Because I certainly know you will never be welcomed amongst them ag-

Jarshan pounced, trapping Thorn beneath his paws as easily as a cat would a mouse. Oblivious to the red dragon's struggles, to Murtagh's rapidly approaching presence, he sensed out his target, and reached for it with razor-sharp claws.

She had been the last placed, almost too large to have been squeezed in at all, a lump in Thorn's side that disturbed the leanness of his hide. Jarshan's claws had no effort in ripping through scales and muscle to reach her, yanking out what looked like a massive glowing emerald.

Jadine, his sister, his nestmate, his victim, fell silent; mocking, expecting, pleading, and emotions far too complex for the simple language that had been gifted to their kind.

There were idle promises, empty words made by the mouths of fallible men that had only fickle resolve to keep them fulfilled. There were unbreakable oaths of magc that could transcend even death, binding a spirit to the will of another until willingly released or radically changed in a way Jarshan could never hope to manage.

Above all else in a dragon's mind were ties of blood and bond, the cornerstones of their clans and King long before they Blood-Oath Ceremony had ever granted them language and complex reason. Their history was one of connections wordlessly made before nestmates even hatched, a silent obligation that had virtually led a powerful race to their deaths, an ingrained sense of right and wrong beyond all other codes of feeble morality.

To break those bonds was to go against all that made a dragon a true dragon, and Jarshan was no mountain-lord.

Jarshan's claws were not strong enough. But his jaws were, and they clamped down until the Eldunari's shell shattered in his mouth. As the shards dug into his soft mouth, the gray dragon tasted blood and something so innately foul he vomited the entire mess up.

Again, he felt for her, scouring every last bit of the shattered Eldunari for a trace of her presence. Not even the smallest remnant of that hatred, of that mockery, of the fiery spirit who had once been Jadine, lingered.

Jarshan absently released Thorn, uncaring of the blood and vomit, and only patiently awaited for his master to catch wind of what had befallen in the dragon-hold.

Undoubtedly there were would be rage and curses, a torturous punishment Jarshan would certainly never be able to forget. Every last loophole in his oaths, even those that allowed for technical bending of the rules that was inherently obedient, would be sealed by Galbatorix's scrupulous mind.

From the beginning, Jarshan had always been his pawn, a figurehead to rally the wild dragons behind and a way to harness the powers of the King's Wrath. Their relationship had always been one of master and servant, no matter how Jarshan had tried to imagine themselves as equals, and Galbatorix would be all too eager to show him the chains around his neck.

Jarshan could bear the humiliation of slavery and he would shoulder his burden with dignity. Compared to decades of near-nothingness as a dark star and years of hell within a human body, obeying a human's whims for several weeks would be nothing.

After all, it would still be in Galbatorix's best interests to keep his pawns as strong as possible. Once the new restrictions were in place and he was positive Jarshan's lesson had been learned, he would let his servant undergo his King's Trial, and gain an incredible power he could both use to his advantage and to discredit the rebellion and its so-called 'Majesty.'

Galbatorix, for all his power and cunning, was still as ignorant as any mere human. Arrogant as they were, even the long-lived elves had forgotten their prized Riders existed only out of a King's senseless sacrifice and a father's foolish wish to spare a treacherous son.

Jarshan was no mountain-lord, and he certainly was no Heitgera. If such power had been used to build up the Order in the first place, then the righteous Wrath of a true King would be enough to tear it down for good.

Despite Murtagh's best efforts to heal his flesh, Thorn's hide would bear yet more scars from Jarshan to show off to a mate he would likely never have. There was also one less uncomfortable bulge in his skin, one less alien presence uncomfortably close to his heart of hearts. He also far more questions than ever before, the good fortune of not being the one who had raised Galbatorix's ire, and the profound revelation that he did not enjoy seeing his tormentor tortured.

Jarshan had not resisted when a fuming Galbatorix had stormed up to the dragon-hold with burning black eyes, a pained and bewildered Murtagh at his heels, had done nothing but dip his head in silent acknowledgement of his sins.

That had still not stopped the Mad King from his using his magic to haul the great dragon like a helpless kitten, tossing him from the tower to the courtyard below, before moving in for further punishment. Murtagh had been given just enough time to heal Thorn's wounds and share a private moment with his dragon before his master had summoned him with explicit orders that left no room for mercy.

Thorn felt like he owed it (to Murtagh?, to Jarshan?) to someone to watch. He had endured such punishment countless times, and to look away when another now suffered was too cowardly to consider.

To Jarshan's credit, the stubborn old lizard had stubbornly hid his agony than what Thorn had ever thought possible, even when he and Murtagh had been at their most defiant. He grudgingly admired his 'King' for that.

It had also made the screams of utter agony, the desperate thrashings of a helpless mind desperately seeking solace, all the more unbearable to hear. Thorn forced himself to listen, to commit the nightmare to memory, so that he could remember to kill Saphira before Galbatorix could have such unspeakable things done to her, before the red dragon's future oaths forced him to inflict such hell.

Who was she?

Thorn had no idea who he was even asking. Jarshan suffered as no dragon should, enduring what Shruikan and Thorn himself had once experienced on a daily basis before their master's fickle attention had turned elsewhere. Those remaining four Eldunarya were as still and unresponsive as the dead. Murtagh had sealed his mind off entirely to spare his dragon another stain on his relatively young soul. And there was no way he would ever dare asking Galbatorix him-

Sister. Gray-scaled's sister.

Thorn first thought the Eldunari of the little hatchling inside him had finally decided to speak. Only, as he felt for that vaguely familiar presence, his crimson eyes came to rest on the glittering black gem on Galbatorix's ring. A lost soul, whose body was now a broken and battered beast his so-called Rider used to only strike fear into his enemies, reduced to nothing but a piece of jewelry for a madman.

Do I answer, do I answer- Ah, damn it... How do you know?

Was there for great-bloody-battle, the little stone that was Shruikan's true soul answered. Gray-scaled was six-horned, so was green-scaled, both King's kin. She near his size. Had his face. Sister.

Thorn supposed he could request to peer into Shruikan's fractured recollections, or just glance at his own ancestral memories, but had no desire for either.

His own imagination vividly envisioned Jarshan diving down into a throng of vengeful wild dragons, the Forsworn behind him with a force that would turn this battle into a massacre. Near the front of those doomed to die was a she-dragon; six-horned, slender, green-scaled, with much family resemblence to Jarshan. She flew toward her brother with no fear in her blazing eyes, only promises of vengeance for her fallen loved ones spewing through her mind.

Shruikan- if I can call you that...

I know no other name, little-one. No memory of First-Rider.

Shruikan, then. Did she kill Jarshan the first time?

Aye. Gray-scaled hit first, slashed her neck with razor-claws. Green-scaled reached, ripped out Eldunari. Crushed it. Gray-scaled fell, nowhere to go but scales. Shruikan paused thoughtfully. Painful death, but good. Nothing left for Master-Rider. Brave green-scaled not so lucky. Bled out, fell, skull crushed on rocks. Eldunari broken. Then came seemingly impossible regret from a force Thorn had always both feared and pitied. Had to grab green-scaled's Eldunari. Master-Rider made me. Wish I didn't. She in stars now, little one?

Looking up at a day-time sky that held no stars, and having no faith in the fact his ancestors were looking down on him, Thorn supposed blissful oblivion was better than a disembodied eternity imprisoned inside the body of another.

Her Eldunari is broken, aye. Jarshan saw to that. Can't say I blame him either, for having that sort of courage. Not when there was no hope for his sister.

Then gray-scaled still good, at least better than me. Perhaps he can have stars. I can't. Not after what I did for Master-Rider. You, go to stars. Know what you want for blue-scaled female. Good, over this. Second chance on earth for both of you when ready.

Thorn, for the first time, wished he could look the true Shruikan in the eye. How could such a simplistic mind manage to be confident in a way Thorn never could?

Well see, Shruikan, we'll see.

With the dragon race as it was, either beneath Galbatorix's control or all too easily stamped out by him, Thorn honestly couldn't foresee any future for their kind except as servants for the Black King's bidding. (Except if it was under Majesty, and Thorn's pride still balked at such a possibility, even the prospect was no longer so infuriating.)

Jarshan shrieked again, but Thorn's mind was no longer on the horrible present of his torture. He was still valuable to Galbatorix after all, so the hell would neither be lethal nor crippling. Eventually, when their master allowed, Jarshan would black out from the agony and awake aching and as ravenous as he'd been when he first clawed his way into the dragon-hold.

Whether an eternity amongst the stars or one of eternal enslavement awaited them both, Thorn did not care. All he knew was that Jarshan would survive today and that he himself could do nothing by just staring around and gawking at his torment.

Looking toward that future, Thorn spread his wings and left the Fortress behind. He needed the simple satisfaction of the hunt, the power over prey he would never have over his own life or that of his Rider's, just as Jarshan would need sustenance to begin the slow and painful road to recovery.

Let the serpents have their seas, the elves their forests, the dwarves their mountains, and mankind their towns and cities. No matter how proud or mighty each race claimed to be, all were still shackled to earth by gravity's bounds and only able to stare longingly up at a sky they could never reach.

Let them have their earth. So long as he had the endless heavens, a boundless freedom he had regrettably discovered so late in life, and the loved ones who made such blessings worth while, he was the happiest soul alive or dead.

Far beyond the influence of civilization, where even the boldest dwarf had never dared to tread, he and those he treasured above life itself enjoyed in flight and family.

He had hatched in the Beor Mountains, after all, and had started his family in a cave not far from the one he had grown up in. It was in the Beor Mountains that he had won his crown, had raised many strong sons and daughters as head of the royal clan and King of the wild dragons. It was only natural that he and his loved ones returned there in defiance to all that had been stolen away from them.

Trinnean and Caradoc flew miles beneath him, not as ungainly younglings, but as the proud and confident adults they should have become decades ago. Still, for their size and strength, they played with the reckless abandonment of hatchlings, chasing each other and their siblings through canyons and over small peaks as if they had never been left in a sea serpent's care. Mavalis was with them as he always should have been, playfully snapping at Caradoc's tail as if they had grown up together.

Elva, her true form restored, was not too mature for their antics. She effortlessly avoided being tagged, a streak of violet lightning not even the most persistent of her little brothers could catch.

Yet, proud as he was of his children, he could not keep his eyes away from the beautiful she-dragon that flew right alongside him, wings beating in tandem with his own. She who was Safiri, she who was Saphira, she who was half of his soul and half of his heart. Teasingly, she nipped at his neck, urging him higher and higher.

Once, he would have cowered at such a challenge, for his feeble human lungs would not have been able to breathe in such thin atmosphere. But in his natural element, in a body gravity could not hold, he matched his mate stroke for effortless stroke of his powerful wings.

Until even the towering peaks of the Beor Mountains were far below them, when their children had been nothing more than small blurs of speeding color, when the spirits of the ancestors above were close enough to touch.

He glanced curiously up at the night sky and the stars that mischievously winked back. There was no way he could count them all, not before the night's end, but even then he could tell the multitude was nowhere near as infinite as they once had been.

They all should have been flying alongside the First King; his brothers and sisters, his extended clan, all of his sons and daughters save for the four that goofed about below. Had even the souls of dragons faded away into the night, giving up on the world and those few survivors who struggled to rekindle their dying race?

He flew ever higher, though he knew the strain would be too much for his flesh-and-bone wings to handle. So high above the world, above the chaos and confusion of life, the stars could see all that had been and ever would be. Though their vast memories faded upon their rebirth into the world below, to not be reclaimed until death, up there in the sky they could still see what eluded him so desperately down below.

His wings nearly brushing the stars, he looked back down.

Alagaesia in its vast entirety was spread out before him in vivid detail no mapmaker could ever hope to capture. The world looked to be alight with fireflies that shimmered every color of the rainbow. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, amethysts, topazes, a thousand other glowing gemstones he had no names for. Almost a mirror image of the sky above, he had initially mistook the lights for a reflection of the stars... and then he realized they were moving.

With neither the earth nor sky having the answers he suddenly so desperately required, he turned his gaze eastward.

There was light on the horizon. His only thought was why it had taken so-

Eragon snapped awake with a grunt. Raising his head from his paws, he blinked against the haze of sleep still clouding his vision, looking blearily around him as his mind struggled to catch up.

His right wing was draped over Saphira's slightly smaller form and their tails had entwined during the night. Trinnean and Caradoc were comfortably nestled between them, fast asleep from a long day of flying.

With Aroughs conquered and the march to Urubaen steadily underway, Eragon had heeded Eridor's urging to fly north to converge with Oromis's force. Naturally, Saphira had joined him for the journey, and there had been no question on whether Eridor's sons should join them. However, rapidly as the younglings had grown, their young bodies had not yet built up the endurance for young flights.

Rather than risk precious time stopping for frequent rests, Eridor and Saphira had allowed the younglings to perch on their backs until they had recovered. They were still just small enough to carry for short periods of time, and allowing them to rest in midair allowed the journey to progress that much quicker.

Trinnean and Caradoc had stubbornly refused to leave without Elva, not about to leave her alone with the agony of all those still injured from the assault on Aroughs. With the girl's dress and skin magically toughened to protect them from rubbing against dragon scales, Eragon and Saphira had been able to leave the cumbersome saddle behind. Bold as ever, Elva had squeezed herself between her brothers for the optimum warmth, uncaring there was a very real possibility one of them could roll over her in their sleep.

Eragon glanced up. The stars glittered coldly back at him from a blue-black sky that held no sign of an impending dawn. There was time yet before the others would appreciate him waking them up.

Eridor? Eridor, are you-

For the first time since his transformation, Eragon's mind was entirely his own, and disturbingly silent.

Eridor! Can you-

As the volume of his thoughts had risen, and his fear and alarm had built, something in the far corner of his mind stirred faintly. Eragon instantly honed in on that familiar presence, picking up nothing but glimpses of memory too faint to make out.

Dreaming... in his own way.

The white dragon quietly withdrew from his own mind, not liking how alarmingly faint Eridor's presence grew when he thought no one was paying attention, at how increasingly common it was for him to drift off in a conversation and become lost in his own thoughts. Eragon hadn't felt like arguing with the spirit again and exhausting him further and so had never fanned the flames by bringing up his increasing listlessness.

Worryingly, Eridor remained silent on exactly what Eragon was supposed to do after making amends with Oromis and Glaedr. Everyone, even his sons, had questioned him at least once about what he meant by 'north,' but the spirit had either stubbornly remained silent or directed the conversation into safer territory.

There was time yet before Eragon would be forced to confront Eridor... and time yet to hope that Eridor's mystery destination included a way to restore his former fire.

(make the bastard burn for his insolence, burnBURNBURN!)

Tempting as the thought had been, to set Jarshan alight and keep him alive as long as possible, even when his scales and flesh slowly burned away, until even his pride broke and he shrieked for mercy... Well, Jarshan still had his uses, and his new and improved oaths would keep him in line until he could finally be disposed of.

Galbatorix smiled down at the black gem on his ring. "No freedom for you, dear Shruikan." He directed his black gaze upward. "Or to any of you, for that matter."

Those (the fools who denied me my right!) who had previously occupied Ilirea had kept very little prisoners. Galbatorix had been forced to convert many underground store rooms into the dungeons he had needed to keep his Empire running smoothly and safely and the storage area left had been inadequate for his needs.

So, employing only his most trusted magicians, Galbatorix had dug even deeper beneath the Fortress to create a massive artificial cavern suitable for his tastes. Only one secret passageway had been constructed, and those searching for it would have to make it pass both his formidable wards and Shruikan's ravenous body.

Not that there was any except Galbatorix who still remembered this place. Once the cavern and its passage had been constructed and warded, its contents safely placed, the magicians who had assisted in his labor had been promptly executed and fed to Shruikan. No matter how loyal their souls or ironclad their oaths, he had taken no chances, not when the secret to his unrivaled power was at risk.

Although his cavern had never seen sunlight, Galbatorix had needed neither candles nor magic to illuminate his surroundings. His treasure trove, beautiful and alluring as it already was, further proved its use by giving off its own glow.

Shruikan's Eldunari may have been the first he collected (and perhaps the most useful, for his body helped fulfill the role Jarnunvosk had vacated with her death), but it had certainly not been the last. Even now, Galbatorix grinned as he recalled the pleasure of breaking a stubborn spirit and bending it to its well, pouring over the darkest fears and secrets of an utter stranger who would never know privacy again. Every Eldunari in his hoard was a star that would never rise (like he never would), a thought that had always given him the strangest satisfaction, for who else out there could hold their prisoners for eternity?

There were countless Eldunarya in his cavern, haphazardly piled on top of each other and dead silent as he stalked past.

The Eldunari Galbatorix stopped at was far from remarkable; it was far from being the biggest or the brightest, and was only a dull dusty-brown in color. Still, the sight of it was enough to make the Black King smile wistfully.

"Ah, Soner." Galbatorix sighed. "You were my last soul, were you not? A coward who hid away even as your brothers and sisters screamed for their lives. Morzan and his beast had to sniff you out, didn't they? Too timid to go out in a blaze of glory? Or to try avenging the massacre of your clan?"

Soner had been the last addition to his collection, and his acquisition had been decades ago. The abominations his Forsworn had been bonded to were worthless; the curse the last royal dragons had inflicted upon them had not only robbed them of their names, but had cause their Eldunarya to wither in their chests. They had been nothing more than beasts by the end.

With the last Riders and wild dragons hunted down, and his three eggs stubbornly dormant, Galbatorix's hoard could go no larger. By the time Thorn had hatched decades later, Galbatorix had familiarized himself with every last one of his prisoners and had been loathe to remove a single one from his trove, even if just to transplant it into a loyal servant whose own Elundari would one day join his collection after it had grown to a suitable size.

So he started with a young and worthless hatchling, then the boring soul of some catatonic elder. Those sisters had been interesting to break, but had yielded him no further amusement, and so into Thorn they had went.

Jadine, however, had been quite a prize, the only nestmate of King Eridor (wretched little pest) who had survived Jarshan and his pesky oaths. Thorn, however, needed the power boost only a royal dragon's Eldunari could provide, and Jadine's soul had always been troublesome and trying to stir up mischief. Galbatorix thought he had been punishing her by placing her into the body of another, a hell that had only worsened once Jarshan had returned.

"AND THEN HE TOOK WHAT WAS MINE!"

Connected as they were, Shruikan's body raged with their shared anger, and the cavern shook as the black dragon went into yet another tantrum. Better the beast damage the Fortress than have Galbatorix shatter even more of his precious Eldunarya in a fit of rage.

"I'll have more soon enough." He stroked Soner's Eldunari with a single finger, smirking at how the dragon's soul shuddered at his touch. "Thorn, Jarshan, the she-dragon, the so-called Majesty, their children, and that green male, once I can force him out of the egg. Every last hope you have now will be mine."

The Black King frowned thoughtfully. "Still, Jarshan's little display today reminded me that I have more planned than fawning over you. It's high time I got back to my task."

Remembering that fragile human boy, and the powerful dragon he had summoned from that pitiful form, still brought a quiver to his heart. There were other dormant souls out there, a dragon race (loyal only to him!) he had yet to create.

After all, Darnell, the loyal Black Hand who had brought Jarshan's human shell to him in the first place, was still carefully stowed away somewhere in the Fortress under the belief he had been reassigned to serve his king personally. In another life he had been Serdar, one of Jarshan's few loyal followers, and would serve Galbatorix far better as one of his new dragons than as a human magician.

"But the process will have to be perfected first, and Serdar is too valuable to waste in a second trial." Bending the stolen power of the Eldunarya to his will, Galbatorix reached out with his mind, and smirked when his search turned up a test subject. "Fortunately, there are others out there."

Discovering Jarshan's human host had allowed Galbatorix the opportunity to devise a simple spell that would allow him search for other dormant dragon souls. Unfortunately (and unsurprisingly), most reborn souls knew to give Urubaen a wide berth, and there was but one subject within easy reach.

"We'll make her enough for now, won't we everyone?"

Leaving his treasure trove behind, Galbatorix began the long ascent back up to the Fortress. It was his good fortune, after all, that his test subject had apparently chosen a very... accessible profession for him to reach her.

Chapter Text

Jarshan did not appreciate the poetic irony of having been pinned down and rendered helpless by magic, like he had once ordered Eridor and Safiri to have been. During the torture, the tiny portion of his mind that hadn't been lost in agony had been flashing back again and again to a proud King made helpless by underhanded enchantment, to the accusing gaze of his lifeless corpse, to the single egg that had been wrenched from beneath his mother's cooling-

Growling deep in his throat, Jarshan ripped himself another bloody piece of meat. Even his new set of restrictions didn't prevent him from imagining the mutilated deer corpse as his master's.

Is a simple 'thank you' too much to ask for? Thorn quipped from the other side of the dragon-hold.

Jarshan bared his fangs halfheartedly, secretly relieved for the return to a normal routine. I'm eating your gift without complaint. From a senior clan-mate, especially your clan head, that's thanks enough.

So you consider me part of your family now?

The elder dragon briefly entertained the idea of hurling a blast of fire at his impudent little room-mate. Maybe Thorn would appreciate yet more scars to go along with his blackened belly and the marks Jarshan had previously made in ripping Jadine's Eldunari from his body. And then his growling stomach intervened, and Jarshan went back to devouring his deer in the most violently intimidating way possible.

Should've known that rat of a human would find a way to deceive me in the end. It's human nature to always act in self-interest, after all, even after all I sacrificed in siding with him.

Thorn's curiosity was noticeable from even across the dragon-hold. Like what? Killing your own brother and stealing his crown?

Jarshan couldn't help but gape, one bloody strip of meat hanging absently from one side of his mouth. How uneducated was this hatchling?

The younger dragon growled warily, retreating several steps. What? My Rider grew up in the midst of Urubaen's political intrigue. Murdering a relative to gain the power and prestige of their rank is dreadfully common here.

Jarshan could think of several ruthless punishments to correct such terrible ignorance from a dragon on the nature of his kind, but the elder dragon was in now condition to carry them out. Passively enlightening the Rider's pet on the true nature of his wild ancestors would have to do.

Long before the first elf stepped foot in Alagaesia, long before even Aiedail breathed his first, wild dragons had loyalties that went beyond their own personal needs and those of their mates. The bonds of blood and mind between close family members allowed for clans that would support one another through the darkest of times. Second only to our own mates and broods, wild dragons were expected to act in the good of their extended kin, for the benefit of the entire family...

The so-called King of the wild dragons staggered to his paws, shoving the deer aside as he limped across the dragon-hold. Heavily injured and humiliated, he still managed to tower over Thorn with the inborn grace of a royal dragon. Do you know the sort of circumstances it takes for a wild dragon to willingly betray such bonds, little orphan? Greed, envy, ambition- do you think that is what truly drove me!?

Thorn shrunk back like the coward he was. Jarshan's heart of hearts soared with furious triumph as the rightful order finally asserted itself, as a member of the most heinous perversion of nature's balance realized how broken his artificial bond with his Rider had made him, how it had robbed him of the comfort of his own clan.

Slowly, however, it dawned on Jarshan that Thorn was not horrified at how twisted the Riders had made him, but afraid of him. Unable to understand the older dragon's rage, Thorn only thought him mad, and braced only for another attack.

Everything left of Jarshan's common sense shattered. His injuries and new oaths may have prevented him from physically pouncing, but his mind was free to completely overwhelm Thorn's.

Jarshan said nothing, merely the messenger as he allowed the flood of ancestral memories surging into Thorn's mind to speak for themselves. Let them tell of the treacheries, the atrocities, the slow and inevitable slide into oblivion that had defined their kind ever since that first foolish elf had stumbled across a dying she-dragon and her egg...

Is that the elf-forest? There, in the distance?

Eragon glanced over to his right. The emerald expanse of Du Weldenvarden was little more on a smudge on the horizon from this distance. Aye, Caradoc. That is Du Weldenvarden. You'd do well to remember its proper name.

The light blue dragon snorted mutinously. He and Trinnean did their best did their best side by side in a straight course to Ceunon. Saphira dutifully glided beneath them, both a graceful example to imitate and a guardian to prevent either one of the overly curious younglings from once again straying off-course. Eragon brought up the rear, a shepherd keeping his small and rebellious flock on the right path. They'd all learned their lesson after Caradoc had nearly crashed after trying to chase after an unfortunate hawk.

It's too hard to say right! he complained, the complex name too difficult for his still-developing mind to process.

I can say it. Trinnean flashed his brother a smug grin. Du Weldenvarden, Du Welden-

Enough! Eridor roared. Caradoc, who had been reaching over to snap at his sibling, smartly snapped back into position. You two are about to meet a dragon revered as a wise elder long before I was even hatched. How are you two to act when you meet him?

On our best behavior, the twins muttered.

Doubt prickled at Eridor's mind at their ability to follow through, but withdrew from their minds without further comment. As the buildings of Ceunon began to grow more defined, he and Eragon mixed minds, just as they had practiced over the course of the journey. Their souls were nowhere near to being truly fused, but the technique blurred their thoughts and feelings enough to make them seem a single unique entity. So long as Oromis and Glaedr didn't pry too much, they could all get to a private place for a proper explanation before all hell broke loose.

Don't worry, Elva vowed. I'll keep them to it.

Elva was casually sprawled out over Saphira's back only because Eragon was expected to be King of the wild dragons, and thus above being a beast of burden. Trinnean and Caradoc had both volunteered to carry their 'little-big-sister', but their father had bluntly vetoed the idea over their still-small size and inexperience.

Look. Saphira nodded at the sea of tents that still encircled Ceunon. The elves haven't moved out yet. Oromis must have really been insistent upon this meeting.

She was apparently correct, for Eragon glimpsed a massive form rising from a nearby copse of trees moments later. Glaedr's golden scales glittered magnificently in the morning sun. His heavy scarring and missing limb only increased the twins' terrified awe of him. Deep in the private corner of their shared minds, Eridor snorted in jealous derision.

While Caradoc and Trinnean only had eyes for the far more awe-inspiring Glaedr, Eragon was more riveted to Oromis. His mentor was clad in golden armor near-identical to his dragon's scales, and couldn't have been from a farther sight from the tired and insightful elf Eragon remembered during their time in Du Weldenvarden.

Eragon raised his head in his best imitation of Eridor's haughty grace. His masters were making their best first impression to an alleged King, after all, and he didn't want to be remembered as the clueless and hotheaded boy who had arrived for tutelage those many long months ago.

Leaving the group behind, Saphira flew ahead to converse personally with her former mentors. Eragon was unable to eavesdrop with dropping the illusion of being a different soul, but their visual reactions were telling enough. Glaedr's massive amber eyes narrowed as he noticed the little girl sitting in Eragon Shadeslayer's customary place. Smirking, Elva waved cheerfully back to a behemoth large enough to swallow her whole.

Everything had been going relatively well until Glaedr had turned to survey the newcomers to the dragon race. Their courage breaking, Trinnean and Caradoc had both attempted to duck behind Eragon, one of their wings slamming into his body. Eragon had immediately corrected his position while Eridor snapped at his sons for their 'unacceptable cowardice.'

The illusion of one kingly mind had shattered. Oromis and Glaedr possessed long memories time had been unable to dull. They both recognized that disembodied voice as Eridor's as clearly as they knew his mind to be inexplicably to their former student's, although the young Rider was nowhere in sight... and then realized the white dragon held both the souls of Eridor and Eragon.

For what seemed like an eternity, stunned silence reigned between the eight of them, until Eragon's brave voice dared to pierce it. Hello, Masters...

In an isolated clearing far away from the prying eyes of Ceunon, Oromis struggled to align his glaring misconceptions with the far more impossible reality standing before him.

Back before his world had been turned upside down, he had believed the young white dragon with the uncanny resemblance to Eridor to have been the old King's son, an egg that had miraculously survived both the purge and capture by Galbatorix to hatch as Alagaesia's first wild dragon in almost a century. To Oromis, it had made perfect since for this 'Majesty' to have claimed his father's crown, to have allied himself against the destroyers of his race, to have taken the last she-dragon in the world as his made.

Leaning heavily against Glaedr, Oromis had nodded absently to everything he had just been told.

Eragon's accidental mispronunciation of the ancient language had forced an infant child into growing up unnaturally fast in order to live up to her oaths. Oromis had already known that much. The fact that the strain from such pressures had completely killed innocent Elvana's spirit? Or that the soul now inhabiting this little girl's body was that of the she-dragon who had first chosen to be reborn and had failed to stop Elvana's demise? Aside from the existence of spirits and an afterlife being apparently confirmed, the story was not the most tragic Oromis had ever heard, not after the butchering of Riders and dragons alike.

Oromis turned to Caradoc and Trinnean, the youngest dragons he'd seen in a good long while. The nearly identical brothers were cowering behind Saphira, peering up every so often to gawk at Glaedr before ducking back down again. Elva herself stood between them, stroking their horns and scratching between their horns.

These little miracle children were not Saphira's, but rather two of Eridor and Safiri's last brood together. Oromis had not been surprised in the slightest to hear the sea serpents had fully reclaimed Vroengard. They had always resented the first Riders into forcing them underground and making them into glorified guard dogs for Doru Araeba. Only Prasavitri had kept her 'children' grudgingly in line. The Mother of sea serpents was an enigma Oromis had never understood, and she had watched over the eggs of her ancestry for reasons known only to her.

"I... see," the last true Dragon Rider said after an eternity of silence, finally facing the biggest headache of them all. "There's no way for you to... change back?"

Eridor snorted. Is there a way for elves to be transformed into dragons?

Oromis barely contained his exasperated huff. He definitely hadn't missed the wild dragons for their bluntness toward everything. Gods, he was having a difficult enough time just handling the existence of an afterlife for dragons...

Are there any gods? No, Oromis, best not think about that now.

Glaedr glanced at Eragon and Saphira, a dragon and former Rider whose familiar dynamic had been so unnaturally contorted. Are you two...?

The she-dragon shook her head curtly. Oh, no! Not until after this war is over. Sne and Eragon glanced thoughtfully at each other. Or, at least not until mating season is done. Having Trinnean and Caradoc helps with the... urges, but there's still the risk to conception. There'll be time enough for more hatchlings after the Mad King's been slain.

Glaedr simply nodded in understanding.

Oromis internally frowned at his dragon's nonchalance. I don't see how you can be so unfazed by this.

Are you kidding, Oromis? You weren't the one that had to put up with Saphira's lovesick advances for all those torturous weeks! And look on the bright side, no one has to worry about Eragon mooning over the Queen's daughter anymore! He's found someone much closer to his own age, my race is no longer doomed to inevitable extinction, Eragon and the princess are no longer compatible-

Having a new set of unsavory images to go along with his nightmares, Oromis shoved his dirty old dragon out of their private connection. "Your resounding victory at Aroughs has shown our side we no longer need a Dragon Rider in his prime to win this war. The Varden needs to so desperately depend upon Eragon Shadeslayer no longer; they have Master Blodgharm and his elves, Arya Svit-kona, an improving Du Vrangr Gata, and three more dragons than they had at the First Battle of the Burning Plains."

That should at least appease the Queen when she realizes Eragon is no longer completely vulnerable to her influence, Glaedr privately drawled. Her beloved dragons have more than doubled in these past few months and seem well on the road to recovery. To the others, he asked, What are your plans now? Surely you're more needed on the southern front than the northern.

We head north, Eridor said curtly, for Eragon has yet to undergo his King's Trial.

Oromis couldn't help but raise his eyebrows in curiosity. The wild dragons had always jealously guarded their secrets, and even a respected elder Rider such as himself knew little about the extent of the power a King or Queen dragon wielded. Oromis recalled King or Queens typically won their titles by defeating their predecessor in a fair fight, as Eridor had done to Vanilor, but knew nothing of the other possible Trial.

Judging from the surprise on the others' faces, Eridor had waited until this exact moment to tell them their true destination. Secretive old bastard, Oromis groused to Glaedr. Eridor always had too much of his father in him.

Openly, Oromis only bowed his head in silent defeat. With Eridor once more there to oversee the next generation, the old divide between wild dragons and the Riders was there to stay. "Don't let these old souls keep you then."

Eragon's face went blank as he retreated into the privacy of his own mind, dragging Eridor along with him. Everyone else tactfully averted their gaze from the catatonic dragon and the two minds arguing within.

At long last, emotion returned to Eragon's face as the dragon returned to himself. While the dragon was barely holding back rage at being kept in the dark for so long, Eridor exuded only serene confidence, his true thoughts concealed behind a barrier Oromis doubted even Eragon could penetrate.

Elder Oromis, Elder Glaedr, I hope this time we can have a proper farewell, the former King said smoothly. Our last... was not on the most civil of terms.

Memories carried Oromis back to that last fateful encounter. Vrael had called for an emergency meeting between his council and the most significant individuals of the wild dragons, their King first and foremost amongst them. Ordinarily, this group would have also included the leaders of the strongest clans and the oldest and strongest of Eridor's offspring, one of whom would be the most likely to one day succeed him.

Yet Vrael had summoned the wild dragons late in autumn, the season of mating, and many she-dragons were either heavily expecting or looking after newly laid clutches. Their maternal instincts at their strongest, whether for their own children or those of close relatives, the she-dragons had refused to attend. In such troubling times, their mates and close relatives had been loathe to leave them alone, especially as they had never thought highly of the Order.

Despite Safiri expecting yet another clutch, Eridor alone had grudgingly defied his protective instincts to fly to Vroengard, and only out of obligation to the ancient oaths that kept peace between their races. He had been eager to return home to his mate the very moment he had landed in Doru Araeba.

The number of the dead and disappeared, amongst both the Order and the wild dragons, had been rising with each day. Reports had been constantly streaming in of Galbatorix and his Forsworn spearheading the persecutions, of Urgal tribes ambushing nesting mothers in their most vulnerable time, of rogue human magicians banding together to strike down Riders that had strayed too far from their outposts.

Such devastation to the ranks couldn't have come at a worse time. She-dragons, both wild and bonded, seemed to have been laying fewer eggs each year. Out of those shrinking clutches came fewer eggs that proved viable, fewer hatchlings that survived to adulthood, fewer mothers that had donated eggs to the Order. The wild dragons had not reacted well when Riders seeking new eggs had come more frequently, more insistent in their pleas, until one desperate Rider had foolishly dared steal the one remaining egg of a clan that had never forgotten the atrocities committed against their ancestors in the Du Fyrn Skulblaka. The charred remnants of the fool Rider and his unfortunate dragon had been tossed out for the scavengers.

That descent had continued until Vrael himself had personally checked the stores... and found the Order had a single red egg left to its name.

Oromis and Glaedr had been among the majority of the council members convinced that Eridor would persuade his subjects to donate more of their eggs to the effort, to replenish the Riders' depleted ranks before Galbatorix could diminish them further. After all, Eridor had been one of the last clutches King Vanilor had ever sired. From a very young age, he had often journeyed with his parents to Doru Araeba on diplomatic affairs, and thus grew up understanding the Order better than most others of his kind. In his late thirties, Eridor had been far younger than many of his stubborn kin, far less set in his ways, far more likely to listen to reason.

Eridor had not been convinced. He had snarled at Vrael, rumbling that he could command no dragon to sacrifice their children.

Then the youngest council member had snidely suggested the King of the wild dragons offer up his own offspring.

Never before, in his many centuries of life, had Oromis witnessed the King's Wrath before that day. Never did he wish to witness it again.

Eridor's eyes had burned with righteous fury, and the flames he had breathed could have come straight from hell. Those unnatural flames had seared straight through the protective wards the council member had tried throwing up around herself and her dragon.

Eridor had slipped away in the aftermath, leaving behind burns that would never fully heal and scorch marks in the council chamber that had outlasted the Order itself. He had intended to teach a painful lesson, not kill, and that was the only reason the council member and her dragon had survived to be cut down by Galbatorix.

Not long after that disastrous meeting, news came that had Eridor and Safiri had been found murdered in their cave, and that no successor had stepped forward to fill the vacuum power left in their wake. Without a single dragon to hold the wild clans together, to act as a between the Riders and their volatile race, the delicate balance between the two had crumbled for good, and the fates of both sides had been sealed.

"Aye," Oromis replied at long last. "We're all in need of a more amicable goodbye."

Eridor growled with a fire not even death had been able to douse. If you're still expecting an apology for what I did to that impertinent youngling and her oaf of a dragon, wait another lifetime, Elders. My children are my own, and they will live their lives as they choose. He sighed, Eragon's eyes involuntarily moving to gaze upon Trinnean and Caradoc. Look at my sons, innocent and untouched by the travesties of this war. Where would they be now, if I had given them to you? Long dead alongside their Riders, languishing in Galbatorix's treasure trove, or mindless slaves of his like Shruikan? I will never regret giving them their freedom of choice. Never.

Glaedr silently looked upon Eridor's sons for a moment. Oromis knew his dragon had never expected to see another child of his kind again. Even Saphira, the first dragon Glaedr had had contact with in decades, had departed Ellesmera a dormant egg and had returned a grown adult.

And yet here were Trinnean and Caradoc, months away from breathing their first flames, and without the haunted looks in their eyes Eragon and Saphira already carried in theirs.

Those innocent souls are not worth regretting, your Majesty. Glaedr inclined his head in the deepest respect, even the younglings to reach out and touch him before they darted back behind Saphira. May we meet again someday, be it amongst the stars or elsewhere.

The same to you, Master Glaedr. And so we depart here on relatively good terms, Master Oromis. Eridor chuckled humorlessly. As good as I can ever manage them.

Everyone else exchanged their farewells. Leaning once more against Glaedr's side, Oromis watched in bemusement as Elva imperiously chose Eragon as her new mode of transportation, then outright laughed when Trinnean tripped in his take-off, dragging Caradoc down with him as he struggled to regain balance. As the strange group became blobs on the horizon, only then did it occur to the two ancient masters they had forgotten something.

Do you think we should tell Eragon the truth about his parents? Glaedr muttered. Or at least let him know Brom was his true father? We may never get another chance after this.

Oromis looked up at the magnificent white dragon his overly curious student had become, and knew the distant past was the furthest thing from his mind. "In the end, what does it even matter? Surely Eragon doesn't have to worry about any of his future children resembling anyone from his side of the family. Besides, Saphira still has Brom's message. She'll give it to him when he's ready."

Glaedr hummed absently, licking between the claws of his one remaining front foot. I wonder if I can myself reborn as one of their hatchlings, just to see what sort of parents they'd make. You can find me in my new life, too... if it's possible for elves to do that.

Oromis momentarily pondered this enigma... and then cursed Eridor for giving him yet another unsolvable mystery to waste his free time upon.

Of course Eragon was still furious Eridor had hidden their ultimate destination from everyone until the last possible moment, and angrier still that the damned bastard still refused to either reveal what the King's Trial actually was or give any more explicit instructions other than 'north.'

But Eragon also realized now was not the time for he and Eridor to exhaust themselves in a confrontation. After what had happened outside Ceunon, Eridor had fallen into a dark and dreamless sleep, and no one had been foolish enough to wake him until they'd landed for the night.

After they refreshed themselves on fresh meat and fresh water, Trinnean and Caradoc both curled up close to Eragon, their eyes glimmering in the darkness as they gazed up at him awe.

Or, rather, Trinnean and Caradoc gazed up at their father in awe.

Eragon had temporarily relinquished control over his body, and Eridor relished relished in the opportunity to physically drape his wings over his sons to shield them from the cold night air, to take in their faces and scents without relying on the senses of another. Having been allowed to rest well after departing Ceunon, Eridor had plenty of energy for what was to come.

Elva? he expectantly called to the she-dragon he considered his daughter, regardless of appearance or blood relation. Would you care to join us?

The girl's violet eyes brightened in realization, before she smirked. "The old family tradition, father? I'm not a hatchling anymore, you know."

Eridor chuckled hoarsely, savoring the feel of the rumble deep in his throat. No. But you're smaller than your younger brothers now, so I figure your pride can make this one exception. Besides, Eragon and Saphira are listening too.

Eragon snorted wryly, for once the disembodied voice in the back of their shared mind. I don't really have a choice here.

Saphira rolled her eyes playfully, curled up a slight distance from the others. Eridor might have been in control of their body, but he had no desire to impose on the intimate bond she and Eragon shared. Quite an example you're setting for the little ones, stone-head.

Elve remained quiet as she burrowed herself between Trinnean and the body that Eridor temporarily called his own. With his audience settled down for the night, he followed his memories back to far happier days, and repeated the old story to a new generation that would hopefully survive to pass it down again.

We are wild dragons, and we have no need for exaggerations or wild lies to make our stories interesting. We have no need for anything but the truth, for what truly is in this world. That which I am about to tell you tonight is no mere myth or legend, but an ancient truth my father passed down to me when I was your age. And my father learned it from his mother, and she her father, and back and back until we reach the first ruler of the wild dragons. Now, the time has come for that truth to be passed down onto you...

Long before I ever breathed my first, before the first elf step foot off his silver ship into this land, there were no Kings or Queens to maintain order amongst our sometimes fatally proud kind. Each dragon was loyal only to their own clan; their mate, their offspring, and their extended family. In those times, every clan had their own unique features, those to mark them as either friend or foe. One clan would have white-speckled wings, one curled horns, another no horns at all. A dragon knew his mate could come only from within his own clan, with his own clan's marking; all others were the enemy, yet more competition for precious territory and prey.

Every clan possessed their own ancestral cave, a homeland their earliest ancestors had chosen for their future generations. As more eggs were laid, as more hatchlings matured to adulthood and produced broods of their own, clans found their territories overlapping. Terrible wars would either make clans once again small enough for their borders, or wipe them out entirely so the victor could take their place.

In their own haughty pride, one individual dragon could drag his entire clan into a war over something as petty as having glanced too long at another clan's pretty she-dragon. Too proud to admit fault, each side was willing to fight down to the last hatchling to defend their family's honor. Their fatal pride and blind devotion to their clans would have proved our entire race's undoing, and our ancestors knew it. Yet, again their arrogance, none dared to admit the traditions of their most ancient and venerated ancestors as self-destructive.

And this vicious cycle would have continued until there were no more dragons left, had not something miraculous happened in the greatest of these clans.

What physically set this clan apart from all others has been lost to even our memory. Some say they all possessed pure white scales, but how can this be true, when a black egg can be born to two yellow parents? Others believe that this clan had always been set apart by the intensity of their flames, which burned far hotter than any other.

But what truly set this clan apart was their leader, by far the oldest and largest dragon in the world. Having long outgrown his clan's ancestral cave, he was as massive and as mighty as the mountain he had first hatched in, able to curl entirely around it as the Mother of sea serpents does the eggs of her unborn children. This mountain-lord had outlived not only all of his children, but his grandchildren and most of his great-grandchildren. Many died of natural causes, but many more died in battle against rival clans.

Ancient as the mountain-lord was, his heart had long since grown accustomed to the grief every parent feels when a child is lost, and he became as hard and impassive as the mountain he had outgrown. What did their deaths matter? For every descendent cut down, several more were being hatched and more still ready to replace their fallen kith and kin and increase the extent of the mountain-lord's power.

You see, the older a mated pair gets, the less desire they feel during mating season, and fewer are the healthy eggs they produce. For the mountain-lord, it had been decades since he had last felt the need to couple with his mate, and decades more since their last fertile clutch had been produced.

Yet, for a final time, the mountain-lord felt a faint spark of passion rise up within him, and from that brief union his mate laid a single egg the color of storm clouds.

At first, the mountain-lord felt an idle interest for the child in this egg, for it had been decades since his last child had died to further his personal glory, and he could no longer remember if his own offspring had proved stronger and more competent than their lackluster descendants. But when the resulting son hatched with six horns? Oh, was there an uproar amongst his distant nieces and nephews, but his father most especially.

The mountain-lord dared call his loyal mate, she who had bonded her soul to his centuries ago, a traitor, for what dragon in their clan had six horns? Not a single dragon in their clan, nor in any of the neighboring clans. Though the ancient male searched far and wide for someone to take his wrath out on, he found no one else with six horns, and his mate's memories proved she had been nothing but faithful to him and their sacred bond.

Still, although the mountain-lord had no choice but to recognize the six-horned hatchling as his own son, that did not mean he would have to tolerate such peculiarity polluting the gene-pool of his clan. Thus the little abomination was cast out. Without a clan for support and protection, the predators would surely claim his unnatural life. Even he survived to maturity, what was the point? Surely no female would claim such a freak for a mate, and how long could a dragon survive without the company of his own kind before falling into despair?

Despite the odds stacked against him, the six-horned male survived until his chest had broadened in physical maturity and his inner fire had ignited with the passion of his spirit. When his first mating season came around, he acted upon the instincts most other young dragons his age felt, and flew off to the closest clan to prove himself worthy to one of their eligible females.

Naturally, everyone in the clan he found attempted to drive this freakish intruder out, but none could hope to even touch him. In addition to being to being too swift and cunning to be caught by his blundering elders, the six-horned male possessed an inner fire that burned even hotter than those of the mountain-lord's clan. Not wanting to be burned by such intense flames, the clan grudgingly left him to his own devices.

Though still rejected by the clan's available she-dragons, the male was persistent. He would always chase off other interested suitors, leave fresh kills at the mouths of their caves, and defiantly belt out mating calls every night until one of his potential mates roared at him to shut up.

Eventually, one of the she-dragons noticed the interloper's temerity. He had bested all of her other suitors in battle, provided her with a fresh kill every day, and would undoubtedly sire offspring with both his intense flames and his tenacious spirit. Though her clan had roared in outrage, the she-dragon followed her own heart and sound reasoning (for the six-horned male was matched by none) until the day she and him became one in body and spirit.

Now, this she-dragon was the favorite daughter of the clan leader, and killing the six-horned male would have certainly been the death of her once they were mated. So the pair was allowed to live, though the clan kept their distance from them both. In time, eggs were laid and hatched, the resulting offspring all bearing both their father's six horns and unusually strong fires. When mating season rolled around again, these children were ready for mates of their own, and all shared in their father's dogged persistence when it came to seeking partners. Taking their mates from their mother's clan and its neighbors, their numbers continued to expand with each new year.

Though every last one of the original six-horned male's offspring shared his unique traits, they were lost among subsequent generations, and most of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren had only one or two pairs of horns and average flames. The clans were readily mixing now, their own signature features vanishing as bloodlines blurred too much for anyone to tell apart.

Too large to remain a single clan, the six-horned male's descendants spread throughout Alagaesia, forming smaller familial groups of their own. Despite this, all were astoundingly loyal to their progenitor, the six-horned male responsible both for siring many of them and eliminating the old clan rivalries that had kept so many apart. When these smaller 'clans' squabbled over territory, or with now dragons that preferred either living alone or in small family groups, they all turned to the six-horned male for guidance. As he was quick to beat any who challenged his rulings into submission, his word soon became law.

Meanwhile, as the neighboring clans crumbled to pieces around them, the ancient mountain-lord couldn't have cared less. Their losses were hs gain, as the upheaval had greatly allowed his clan to expand in territory size and sheer numbers. Never before had his forces been so strong, and their power was still only increasing.

Yet the mountain-lord's apathy to his new way of life evaporated completely when he caught six-horned intruders trying to steal his young male and females away. Against all odds, that botersome bastard of his had survived to spawn abominations of his own, and had surely spread his taint further.

Calling his clan together, the mountain-lord took flight for the first time in years to personally track down and kill his errant son, uncaring of when new dragons were quick to move in and claim the caves and hunting grounds his family had completely deserted. The mountain-lord had been entirely consumed by his lust for vengeance, and not even his poor mate could pierce the madness clouding his mind or the stone encasing his heart.

The mountain-lord discovered his bastard son on a lonely northern mountain with only his mate and several half-grown offspring for company. Thinking this to be his impudent hatchling's entire clan, the ancient male thundered down from the heaven to obliterate the root of the problem before having his clan wipe up its remnants.

The mountain-lord was a behemoth that had personally finished off countless sons and daughters, countless clans, that had tried to wrest power from him. He was as large as the mountain the six-horned male called home, large enough to blot out the light beneath him.

But the six-horned male fought his sire head-on. He used his smaller size to his advantage, twisting and turning to avoid his sire's clumsy swipes. His searing flames melted centuries' old scales right off, burning straight through to the flesh and bone beneath.

Increasingly unstable, the monster of a dragon tried to swallow his son whole... and was blinded a plume of blazing white fire for his efforts. Far from defeated, and absolutely furious, the mountain-lord decided it better to destroy the six-horned male's entire family while he was powerless to interfere. Loyal to the bitter end, even with their leader a burning mess, the mountain-lord's clan obeyed and moved in for the massacre.

...And then the six-horned male reared back his head and roared. The terrible call was enough to stop even the mountain-lord in his tracks.

From every corner of Alagaesia, from every surrounding mountain, the six-horned male's 'clan' answered.

The heavens themselves flashed every color of the rainbow as dragons dived down from the clouds, swarmed forth from every cave and valley. Too late did the mountan-lord and his clan realize the six-horned male's subjects included everyone but them.

The skies darkened, the dragons closed in, and the bloody reign of clan against clan came to an end as the six-horned male incinerated his mountain-sized sire into ash.

At long last, the dragons finally knew peace, a peace which the six-horned male by resolving the most troubling problems that still simmered between different clans. Even then, the clans were finally families again, where individual members were free to come and go as they pleased, and no longer obligated to die for another's pride or ambition.

The six-horned male ruled for many decades, until the time was finally ripe for change. In time, even the six-horned male would die, he and his mate departing to the heavens when they felt they had lived their lives to the fullest. His star is the first to rise every afternoon, and the last to set every dawn. Some elders say he will not fall for rebirth until the end of the world, to burn away the earth itself so it can rise anew from the ashes of the old.

Long before the ancient pact was sealed with the elves, long before our ancestors learned 'civilized' tongues of speech, the six-horned male had a name. Above all else, he was the First King, The First To Rise, The Last To Fall, the Morning Star. Now, he is more simply known as Aiedail.

Chapter Text

Ginna Ednasdaughter was pleased, but unsurprised, when she received a summons to the Fortress one starless night. She was one of the most sought-after courtesans in Urubaen, after all, and had warmed many a nobles' bed before. To avoid scandal, many of her clients used aliases or utter anonymity in their dealings, and so the fact the page arrived without a name for his master was not unusual. The page had brought a fine purse of golden crowns, with the promise of more upon his master's satisfaction, and that had been all the excuse Ginna had needed to accompany him.

The Sultry Sorceress had always catered to high-paying clients and so was comfortably located close to Urubaen's heart, within easy walking distance for the officials and wealthy businessmen that frequented it. The journey to the Fortress was not long, and one Ginna had made many times before, and the walk back home would be all the more sweeter with the rest of her promised crowns.

There's nothing wrong, Ginna, she told herself firmly. Nothing except your gods-damned paranoia.

Ginna's instincts had usually served her well. She'd had both a good nose in sniffing out the more desirable clients and a keen sense in how to satisfy them so. They had also helped to protect her from situations that had cost many young and inexperienced girls their lives.

By the time she had made it to the Sultry Sorceress, Ginna had been a young and inexperienced girl no longer, and had long since learned to keep her boys begging for more and herself out of dangerous situations. It was a very good thing she no longer had to rely upon blind instinct- since hers had been shot ever since she had moved beneath the shadow of the Fortress. (Ginna personally blamed the Black King's damned dragon for screwing up her innate senses. The glass trinkets in Ginna's room shook whenever the beast really worked himself into a rage, and who wouldn't be afraid of that thing getting loose?)

Tonight, however, Ginna's heart was pounding faster than usual... and it wasn't the King's dragon setting her off.

Must be another one of those twisted lords that likes choking his girls before taking them, Ginna decided as the page discretely let her in through a back entrance. Better get him drunk and sleepy bef-

"Slytha."

Eyes rolling into the back of her head, Ginna limply fell into the Black Hand's waiting arms, and knew no more.

Remembering maps of Alagaesia, Eragon found he couldn't recall any that had detailed knowledge of the lands north of Du Weldenvarden. Imperial mapmakers had no way of venturing any beyond the enchanted forest's southern boundaries, and the elves had apparently found the region north of their home too cold and barren to bother exploring any further.

Eridor had not led them over Du Weldenvarden. Upon reaching Ceunon, he had guided them across the massive body of water that fed the Anora River. When they had reached the mountains of the Spine, they had followed the mountain range north and eventually left the known parts of Alagaesia behind.

Not that Eridor had actually been guiding them, of course. He had fallen entirely silent after they had reached the Spine, locked so tightly in his mind not even Elva or his sons had been able to reach out to them. Not wanting to upset matters further, Eragon had only heeded his earlier, vague direction of north, and quietly hoped Eridor would become more detailed in his instructions the closer they got to their ultimate destination.

Hours later, however, they had not only left the known world behind, but had nothing more than north to go upon. And, while Eragon hopelessly dithered beyond the boundaries of the most expansive map, the rebellion continued its steady march to Galbatorix and Urubaen. While soldiers fought and died in the hope of finally ending a century-long war, Eragon still had nothing to show for not being there alongside them.

When they landed for the twins to rest and Elva to stretch her legs, Eragon pointedly refused to take off again.

Eragon, Saphira hissed privately, as Caradoc and Trinnean began to grow concerned at his stubbornness. If Eridor hasn't corrected you, then we're still on course. Why-

Eragon, whose temper had been quietly simmering ever since Eridor had revealed their destination at the last possible minute and then refused to talk to them about it, finally boiled over. He had enough restraint to keep his explosion from reaching the twins, but Elva and Saphira took the full force of the frustrations Eridor had stubbornly walled himself off from.

The war's reached its peak, Saphira; either we triumph at Urubaen, or Galbatorix slaughters us there and sends his cronies to wipe up the remnants. While being able to harness the King's Wrath without relying on Eridor would be a great help, I won't allow us to wander aimlessly in the middle of nowhere while the people who placed their trust in me die in my stead.

And Eridor had not been the first adult to deliberately obscure information from Eragon. Brom had kept the secret of his past until his final moments. No one (because surely Brom, Oromis, and Glaedr must have known) had seen fit to reveal his true parentage until Murtagh had revealed so on the Burning Plains. After all he had lost and sacrificed since finding Saphira's egg, Eragon could stand being the ignorant child in the dark no longer.

You shall tell me where we are going, Eridor, and what this Trial will ask of me, or I shall go no further. I may not have the power of a King dragon on my own, but still strength enough to face the enemy on the battlefield.

After hours of silence, Eridor lowered his shields. I can not.

Eragon growled viciously as his self-restraint snapped, ready to unleash hell upon the stubbornly obtuse King.

Saphira, her mind not clouded by such fury, honed in on his choice of words. Will not tell us, or can not tell us?

The white dragon's fury froze over at this realization. He had not taken magical oaths into account when Eridor had turned stubbornly cryptic. Eridor had always been reluctant in revealing sensitive information, but perhaps that caution stemmed from secrets that could be shared only by breaking a magical contract and reaping the terrible consequences?

Can not, Eridor replied gravely. I know of the King's Trial only in passing from my own father, who never went through it himself. We both won our crowns the conventional way, by defeating the previous King in combat. My grandmother, the last ruler to actually partake in the Trial, told us nothing of it other than that she had flown north and proved herself worthy in the eyes of our ancestors.

Eragon and Saphira exchanged a dismayed glance. Simply tell a man in Ceunon to head 'south to a city' and he could wind up anywhere from Gil'ead to Reavstone!

"What about ancestral memories?" Elva asked. "Surely Jumora left some memory of her journey behind!"

Eridor huffed in frustration. How do you've think I've been spending the past few days? I was not only searching for Jumora's memories, but those of every King and Queen that underwent the Trial! Every time I think I'm closing in a clue, the memory drifts off as if...

Her Father-King was unlike no dragon that had hatched before, and she doubted there would be anyone like her Father-King ever again. No other dragon could have struck down the mountain-lord with such devastating force, after all, nor rallied the dragons against the last and greatest of the Old clans.

Compared to his monstrous sire, her Father-King was young yet, still not even a hill to his father's mountain. The clans still had centuries of peace to enjoy before their King died and the delicate balance between them shattered, plunging their race back into the chaos of the Old Times.

Yet her Father-King was not strong and fearless anymore, not like he had been in her youth, when he had personally flown out to the most distant of clans to settle even minor grievances the local elders could not. Before, he and his mate had been the center of their race's largest and most powerful clan, surrounded by the hatchlings of their great-great-grandchildren and all those of prior generations.

She had hatched from one of her Father-King's last clutches, and just several mating seasons later her Mother-Queen had ceased laying eggs for good. After tiring of their own hatchlings, her parents had soon tired of their descendents, of the constant squabbling and younglings constantly pestering them for guidance and solving their problems.

Where the mountain-lord had surrounded himself in an army of his descendents, her Father-King had pushed them all way, retreating with her Mother-Queen to a quiet, isolated mountain in the distant...

(north)

Eragon blinked out of his stupor, only now aware that the others had been trying to snap him out of it. Trying to show them the memory that had him so enthralled, however, his mind touched only emptiness. Even to Eridor, who shared his soul, it seemed like Eragon's mind had blanked for several worrying moments.

Yet he hadn't been hallucinating it. There, buried deep down in the private part of his soul Eridor could not reach, Eragon found a lingering impression of the memory.

What he felt was nothing like the instincts that had helped him fly for the first time, but it pulled at him nonetheless. Now aware of its presence, Eragon realized the sensation had been with him for quite some time, ever since Eridor had first directed them all (north.)

I'm fine, everyone, he said at long last. He touched noses with Trinnean and Caradoc to alleviate their fear over his earlier rage and nuzzled Saphira to assure he was in a clear state of mind. Despite his assurances, there was still panic when he unfurled his wings.

Elva crossed her arms. "And where you think you're going?"

To test a theory. I promise I'll be back soon.

Lifting into the air, Eragon felt his body automatically leading him (north) in a very particular direction. Now aware he was being guided, the white dragon deliberately steered west. He certainly wasn't hallucinating the very real tug on his Eldunari that was trying to nudge him back on course.

Feeling his host's body physically react to being steered off-course, Eridor reeled at the revelation and the memory Eragon described to him. So that is the Call my father spoke of... but I have no idea who that she-dragon was. She wasn't Jumora, for her Father-King was nothing like the one in your memory.

Eragon's Eldunari thrummed with the feeling of utter rightfulness as he corrected his course. Looking at the ground beneath him, it barely resembled the unknown she-dragon's memories. Her journey had been in the dead of winter, the forest beneath her alien. Yet, Eragon also knew in his heart of hearts that he was recreating her flight wing-beat for wing-beat; the mountains gradually eroded away and the forests altered by the passage of countless centuries. Their destinations would undoubtedly be one in the same.

Confident in himself, Eragon turned around to collect his group's wayward members, for at last the way forward was clear.

Once the girl had been located, Galbatorix had wanted nothing more than to retrieve her personally, to perhaps even observe her for a short while. After all, Jarshan had already been awake and begging for release when his human shell had come to Urubaen. How would a dormant soul unused to his presence react to him (two foolish humans ignorant of the inner fire that would burn burn BU-)

Clenching his fist, Galbatorix rammed his ring hand into the stone wall. Shruikan's mindless puppet of a body, worked into a restless fury that shook the Fortress's foundations by his master's all-consuming excitement, roared in agony and fell quiet. His shriveled soul, long since broken by the abuse, no longer even bothered to react to his body's physical pain.

"I won't need you soon," Galbatorix growled at the small, battered Eldunari upon his finger. "I won't need any of you." (and I won't need you)

Through both the damned she-dragon (for she had been his once, and nothing escaped him!) and other awakened souls like Jarshan, he would resurrect the dragon race anew. Free from the taint of the Riders and those damned wild Kings, the dragons would be his to perfect, answerable only to him. With the living, breathing creatures at his disposal, what use would the Eldunarya serve, other than as a treasure trove nearly big enough to match the stars in the sky?

Once he had his perfected dragons, perhaps he could do away with his other tiresome subjects for good. Elves and dwarves had certainly proved themselves useless, and the Urgals had ultimately turned against him. Even those humans loyal to him were needy, short-lived nuisances likely to rebel when he refused to lift one little tax or law they didn't like.

Still, no matter how desperately his ambitions rested on repeating his success with Jarshan, Galbatorix was a king and the girl who held what he desired but some high-class whore. He certainly wouldn't demean himself by fetching the bitch personally.

While his underlings had secured the girl, he had paced his dungeon like a caged animal. Once she had been delivered to him, the king had impatiently waved off his men and banished all magicians from the vicinity. No matter the oaths of loyalty were required to take, Galbatorix trusted his greatest experiment with no one, at least not until the process had been perfected. Not even Jarshan had any idea of his plans, for Galbatorix had erected the strongest wards he could muster around the dungeon.

Before Jarshan had found his way back to him, Galbatorix had been forced to hunt down dormant dragon souls by himself. Having no clue on how to resurrect the dragon within back then, he had lost countless specimens in searching for the perfect spell. He had studied and dissected the deformed failures for all the information he could, tossing their broken bodies to Shruikan when they had served their purpose.

Although Jarshan's restoration was a stunning success, his case had been unique, for Galbatorix certainly had no other conscious King dragon souls out there that answered to him. While his resurrection had pointed Galbatorix in the right direction, there would doubtless be more failures had finally been achieved.

Fortunately, Galbatorix did not have to waste loyal men like Darnell to obtain perfection.

The man sneered as he strung the girl up like a smoked ham. "Whether I fail or succeed, you'll thank me either way, little she-dragon." His black eyes narrowed in distaste. "A mighty creature such as yourself, reduced to prostitution by your whore of a host. Surely there's more dignity in death."

Galbatorix had not allowed his men to waste precious time with their physical lusts, but that had not stopped them from helpfully stripping the girl naked before presenting her to him.

Not that the king felt one hint of desire as his black eyes critically swept over her form. As a boy he had focused only on leaving his hellhole of a childhood behind, and then there had only been room in his heart for Jarnunvosk when she had hatched for him. After her death, there had only been thoughts of vengeance, filling the aching void with another dragon's soul, and then ensuring his dreams became reality (and reminding the world of what it had so foolishly forgotten).

"Such a soft and fragile prison." He poked idly at one round, unnecessary breast. "And I am your liberator."

Digging through her mind, Galbatorix collected only the pertinent information, pulling himself out of the whore's mind before he reached the memories of her foul profession.

"Vakna."

Rising from a dreamless slumber, Ginna Ednasdaughter awoke not to reality, but a waking nightmare.

Before, the long days on the journey north had dragged by without end. Now that he had the faint memories of a long-dead she-dragon to guide him, a conscious pull on his Eldunari toward a greater purpose, Eragon could barely keep track of the time. When he was not conversing with Saphira or Eridor's children or consulting Eridor himself, his mind was lost in memories that grew only stronger the further (north) he flew.

Her Father-King had grown increasingly ornery as of late, driving even his own children from his territory with claws and fire. Eventually, even the most tenacious dragons had learned to keep away, and left him and his mate to their solitude. No one would ever dare to knowingly draw the ire of the same dragon that had struck down the moutain-lord with a King's Wrath, after all.

Still, despite the vast distance between them, she felt her Father-King reaching out for her. Although none of her siblings heard his Call, that did not stop her Eldunari from aching with the force of her Father-King's insistence.

Her Father-King called her north, so north she would go.

In time, the memories of other dragons had joined her, sons and daughters grieving the loss of their mothers and fathers, but still heeding a Call (north)from those long dead.

Eridor had even identified the memories of his own grandmother, Jumora, who had been so lost in her grief that her clan had thought her mad when she claimed her Father-King was Calling to her. Where her clanmates had been preoccupied in bickering over who was worthy to succeed the old King, Jumora alone had followed his summons (north)... and returned to them a Queen.

In turn, Jumora and her predecessors had all unconsciously flown the course of the same she-dragon that now guided Eragon forward, retracing her journey and following the Call of a King or Queen that had supposedly already died. While Jumora and the ancient she-dragon had followed the Calls of their fathers, Eragon didn't know whose summons he heeded, only that Eridor didn't recognize his presence.

The further north they flew, following the never-ending Spine's, the colder the air became. Eridor explained that few dragons had voluntarily chosen to live so far north, where the winters were long and good prey scarce.

Still, the tug on Eragon's soul grew only stronger, the memories of the prior Kings and Queens now sometimes so overpowering he had trouble telling the past from the present. When forced to stop for the night, he could no longer sleep. While Elva and the twins slept soundly, his mind and soul were filled with a deafening Call that also kept Saphira and Eridor awake out of their concern for him.

One night, as Eragon glided down to land beside Saphira, the Call (NORTH) drowned out everything else.

Deaf to Saphira's horrified scream and to the twins' startled cries, the white dragon's wings failed him before he could even complete his landing. Crashing to the ground, Eragon was unconscious even before the impact, his mind drawn into some deep, dark place where not even Eridor could follow.

Upon awakening to discover she was stark naked and strung up like a butchered pig, the whore naturally began to scream and curse at the top of her lungs. If Galbatorix had not needed her fully conscious and clean of any extraneous spells, he would have gladly either spelled her silent or unconscious.

That necessity, however, from wishing he could wrap his bare hands around that scrawny neck and silence that incessant voice forever (why bother with hands, when teeth were all he-)

"SHUT! UP!"

Galbatorix had merely meant to silence the madness in his head, but his roar also had the unexpected benefit of shutting the whore up. He needed a clear mind for the complicated magic ahead, and while he could tolerate the bitch cursing her head off, such internal disturbances were too dangerous to work.

"Very good," he said absently to the girl. "Now keep quiet, little vessel, or I shall feed you to my Shruikan."

The whore's eyes widened as she realized his identity, but Galbatorix had no time to indulge his ego tonight. With a few quick spells to ensure she didn't bleed to death or faint from fear or agony, he pealed back the skin over her chest and cracked open her ribcage with a casual "Mor'amr."

Unfortunately, his earlier threat did not prevent the girl from shrieking at the sight of her own beating heart. Although the massive muscle was now pounding wildly, as if trying to leap out of her body altogether, the lack of a sudden blood-spray ensured Galbatorix the procedure had not killed her.

"Amazing what a few simple words in the ancient language can accomplish when you have very detailed intentions behind them." Galbatorix's tone was conversational as he leaned over to inspect her exposed chest cavity. His black eyes sharply focused on the organ nestled snugly just above the whore's heart, no bigger than the Eldunari on his ring. "Just as it is amazing what an otherwise unremarkable human body can hide."

Prior to his discovery of Jarshan's vessel, Galbatorix had been far too eager with his experiments to study them properly until their autopsies. By then their bodies had been so contorted between human and dragon it had been impossible to ascertain what they had been like beforehand.

Yet, before undergoing any of his body-altering spells, this otherwise mundane girl proved herself extraordinary with a dragon's Eldunari, physical proof that she shared a body and soul with a fallen star.

"So this is what my Eldunarya honed in on when they helped me to search your kind out." The king smiled grimly. "Like calls to like, I suppose."

The whore responded by spitting directly onto his face.

(rip out her throat, crush her heart, burnburnBUR-)

With superhuman effort, Galbatorix reigned in his murderous impulses, and settled for back-handing her. Her head cracked against the stone wall behind her, but the impact thankfully did not kill her or render her unconscious. After all, his true experiment had yet to even begin.

Careful to not disturb the whore's pounding heart, he laid a single finger on her golden Eldunari, and ruthlessly tore his way through the she-dragon's dormant mind until he found her name.

"Awaken, Ginevra, Daughter of Ossian and Malukah, and arise," he intoned in the ancient language and with the power of his Eldunarya behind his words. "Arise!"

With the connection established, and the she-dragon having endless magical power to rebuild her body, Galbatorix withdrew his hand and closed the whore's chest with a simple spell. He had done all he could, and now it was the she-dragon's turn to fight for her freedom.

Compared to his parents at the end of their lives, he was but a small fraction of their size, with a small fraction of the many centuries they had lived behind him. His eldest surviving children, those not much younger than himself, still had decades, perhaps centuries, before they would feel any inclination to give up their physical bodies and lives for an eternity amongst the stars.

Yet the mountain-lord had clung to life only as long as he had by sacrificing the younger generations, his children and grandchildren and countless great-grandchildren, to fulfill his ambitions. The more food and space he had required for his ever-growing body, the larger his clan's territory had needed to grow, and more descendents had needed to die in battles to win that territory.

In the end, when all of the deer and bears and countless other animals his clan had caught for him had not been enough, the mountain-lord had feasted upon the bodies of his own descendents. Few creatures could grow larger than a young adult dragon, after all, and the dead could still their mountain-lord one final purpose after starvation or sickness or battle wounds had claimed them.

And he was no mountain-lord, but the first of a new generation, the dawn of a new age for dragons.

Despite how far his race had come, part of their mindset still belonged in a long-gone past of warring clans and eternal blood feuds. Like the mountain-lord had grown to define his age-of-battle-and-bloodshed, so the mountain-lord's final son had come to symbolize the age-of-peace-under-One-King.

He had not cast the mountain-lord down into the fires-beneath-the-earth just for his race to crumble back into chaos upon his death. The peace he had brought their kind deserved to last for an eternity, his Kingly power surviving in a perpetual line of Kings and Queens.

Even as his physical body slowed, and his soul looked increasingly upward to the stars, his clan had been blind to his impending ascension. Had he been any other dragon, a younger and fiercer relative would have long since sniffed out his weakness and defeated him for control of the clan.

But he was the moutain-lord's slayer, sire to a new age of dragons, the King-of-all-dragons, and none would ever dare challenge the son who had reduced his own sire to ashes.

He had soon tired of his clan altogether, the young and active souls who had themselves firmly settled in the physical world even as the stars grew all the more brighter to him. In their twilight time, he and his mate had retreated to the edges of the known world for some long-deserved peace. Up in the north, the winter nights were all the darker and longer, the stars ever more brighter.

Gazing out from the edge of his cave, he noticed that the stars were particularly bright, and seemed to be whispering his name.

Yawning, he limped back to where his mate lay huddled in their nest. He could no longer leave their cave and she no longer had the strength to stand. But that was alright; neither of them had felt hungry in weeks or thirsty in days.

His ancient bones creaked in protest as he settled down beside his mate, but that did not stop him from draping a stiff wing over her. Although the air outside was cold enough to freeze a younger dragon to death, the inner fires of himself and his mate had grown only stronger in the past few weeks, so hot the air around them shimmered with steam.

Their quiet little cave on the edge of the world was the perfect place to die. His mate had no regrets or reservations as she peacefully drifted off beside him. His own concern in finding a worthy successor was little more than a distant memory now. With the stars now so close and so bright, he felt as if he were already amongst them, able to look far into the future and know that his race would be fine without him, that a descendent of his would finally prove themselves worthy by heeding his Call...

...north.

Eragon's eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly as he tried to separate his life from the one he had just watched end. After several moments he realized that the four concerned faces peering down at him were not strangers, but his clan, the oddest one any dragon must have ever belonged to.

Trinnean? Caradoc? I'm fine now, I pro-

Eridor's sons tackled him, their momentous relief overwhelming his own thoughts.

We thought you were dead-

Or unconscious for life-

-which is as good as dead!

Elva silenced her brothers with a single look. "Perhaps it's best to give your Uncle Eragon some breathing space now?" She leveled her violet eyes ominously at him. "So he can tell us what knocked him unconscious this time."

Saphira snorted irritably, but that did not stop her from leaning into Eragon's side the moment the twins retreated. Give him some time, Elva, considering that he's been unconscious since sunset! She nosed his wing anxiously, and he winced at the twinge of pain from it. You also bruised yourself quite badly in that crash. If you need tonight to rest, you can tell us in the-

No. Eragon rose to his paws, uncaring of the aching protest his stiff limbs gave. I can't rest. Not now.

I take it you just had a vision, Eridor remarked. One so intimate not even I could sense it.

Aye. Aiedail's final moments. He ignored the sharp gasps from all around him, much less Elva's insistence no one could have such intense visions from so old a memory, much less from that of the First King himself. Eragon's blazing blue eyes came to rest on a desolate mountaintop only several leagues away from the one Saphira had chosen as shelter for the night. He and his mate died over there. He sent out that Call that ancient she-dragon followed. I... think she was his daughter.

Then wait until tomorrow to go! You're injured, exhausted from a long day of flying, and have no idea what this King's Trial could entail. Saphira leaned her head against his own. I love you and your selflessness, Eragon, but you're of no use to anyone if you die because your were too fool-hardy.

It physically pained Eragon to back away from her warm embrace. It can't wait any longer, Saphira. He grimly looked skyward, where the stars glittered coldly down. They won't let me.

Saphira growled. Then I'm coming with you, stone-head!

This is something Eragon must do on his own, Saphira, Eridor murmured gently. Would you have appreciated him interfering in your fight with Thalassa, in denying you the chance to prove yourself worthy to a higher power?

I wouldn't call that sea snake or her mother higher powers. Reluctantly, she stepped to stand beside Elva and Eridor's sons. Don't fail your Trial, Eragon. A she-dragon with my pride simply cannot accept failure in her mate.

Elva opened her mouth for a witty retort, but settled for, "Go and prove you made something of yourself, stone-head."

Eragon wanted to only fold his wings over them all and never let go, but another violent tug on his Eldunari had him unfurling his wings and soaring to that all-too-close mountaintop, to where the bones of the First King and his mate lay.

Will you leave me too, before the Trial starts? Surely your grandmother didn't have a dead King helping her along.

I don't know. Surprised at his own candor, Eridor laughed. I suppose we'll find out when we get there.

Perfect. You're absolutely perfect.

Galbatorix smiled as he indulgently ran his hands over pristine golden scales, curved ivory horns, and sharp spikes. He had not created yet another half-formed abomination, but a physically flawless she-dragon no different than the sapphire one that had eluded his clutches for so long.

Perfect, but for one minor flaw...

Her blank eyes didn't see, her lungs didn't draw breath, and her heart didn't beat. In that regard she was no different from Jarnunvosk as she had stilled and froze in his embra- (nonononoNO-)

"Unfortunately for you, little she-dragon, not even I can resurrect the truly dead. Everything would be so much easier if I could."

The transformation had been going smoothly right up until its completion. Just as the she-dragon had been restored to her true body, she had expired, and her first free breath had become her last. Although the body looked physically flawless, just one mistake on the inside could have been disastrous; a misaligned blood vessel, a blockage in the brain, or a hole in the heart-

Acting on instinct, Galbatorix reopened the she-dragon's chest, no longer having to bother with the earlier spells designed to preserve her life. Although her heart looked fine, her heart of hearts did not, for its shattered remnants had torn through her lungs and the major blood vessels leading into her heart.

"Her fragile little soul must have been unable to take the strain of suddenly having her true body restored." He sniffed disdainfully. "No matter. There are stronger souls out there, ones far more deserving of having me for a liberator." (they served me once, twice, and now shall serve me thrice)

Normally, after completing his dissections, he allowed Shruikan the left-overs. But the she-dragon's body was too large to smuggle out of the cell, and the sight of a previously unknown dragon's fresh body would only raise unwanted curiosity.

Oh, well. At least I know this spell works.

"Brisingr."

When Jarnunvosk had still shared his heart and soul, his magic had been the same lustrous copper of her scales. Now, the flames that consumed the golden she-dragon's body burned black. They had done so since his dragon's death, before he had ever forced a bond with her replacement.

Galbatorix had sought specifically Shruikan out for the color of his scales, so that his magic would against match his dragon and raise no unwanted suspicions from his supporters. When Jarnunvosk had been at his side, his eyes had been a mundane brown, but her death had changed that too.

New eyes and new magic for a new soul, he reflected as the flames rose higher, devouring the she-dragon at an unnatural pace. Whatever the color, fire burns, and I shall soon have a new race of dragons to burn my enemies for me.

(but the runt would be his!)

Chapter Text

Standing at the threshold of the cave where the first King of the dragons had died, Eragon fought back a wave of trepidation. He didn't exactly know what awaited him inside and the dark gloom of the growing night obscured all but the cave's mouth.

You don't think I'll have to battle his bones, do you? If you and all the past challengers had to fight living Kings and Queens, why shouldn't I be fighting an undead one?

Dragon magic works in mysterious ways. Perhaps Aiedail did leave a shade of himself behind to judge successors that didn't have a living ruler to rely on. Eridor paused as something dawned on him. ...I'm actually just surprised I'm allowed to be here with you right now. With how secretive past rulers were about the King's Trial, I expected to black out when we got this far and leave you to fend for yourself.

Eragon shivered at the mere prospect of being alone with the same bones of the ancient King who had struck down his own monstrous father. Even if you and I don't always get along, I've always appreciated you being there to guide me. Without you awakening back at Helgrind, Saphira and I would be slaves to the King.

I did what I had to do. Eridor gently but firmly nudged against his mind. Now's the time for you to do what you must.

The white dragon tentatively stepped into a darkness so absolute it took even his sharp eyes several moments to adjust. Looking down at his paws, he couldn't but recoil at the sight at awaited him.

Even gnawed at by scavengers, worn and yellowed by the passage of countless of centuries, the bones of two long-dead dragons remained entwined in an eternal slumber. From the six horns that crowned the skull of one (although one had broken off long ago), Eragon believed beyond a doubt that he was gazing upon the remnants of Aiedail and his mate.

...That's not Aiedail.

Eragon's head shot up in alarmed bewilderment. What!?

Before, Eridor had been the calm one, but now his mind was a chaotic maelstrom of emotion. If the old King had lungs, he would have been hyperventilating.

The smaller skeleton has curved hones just like... my mother and... I could recognize my father's bones anywhere. I was the one who ripped off that last horn, in the thick of our battle over the throne.

Eragon's mind recalled the time Eridor had shown him memories of when he had challenged his own sire for the kingship. Vanilor had been wounded in the battle, aye, but not fatally so. Even if his injuries had been lethal, the battle had taken place in the Beors, countless miles away from this lonely mountaintop at the far edge of the Spine.

After a long moment of silence, Eridor finally murmured, After I won my crown, my parents both chose to desert the clan and live out the rest of their days in peaceful solitude. I suppose Aiedail's Call was still strong enough to draw my father here, so that he and my mother could quietly slip away without the clan to hold them back. Another pause. I think... if Galbatorix had never reared his ugly head, Safiri and I would have been drawn here too.

Eragon considered the thought and didn't find to be so terrible. A King or Queen dragon would spend decades as the ultimate authority for their kind, constantly sought out for guidance and to mediate troubles regarding their subjects. After such a hectic life of responsibility, this quiet little mountaintop so far away from the troubles of the world could not have looked more appealing.

At least they had peace in the end, Eragon offered. It was more than could be said of any of his parental figures; Morzan had been cut down in a bloody battle, Selena had succumbed to a terrible sickness, Garrow had suffered grievous burns from the Ra'zacs' cursed oil, and Brom had suffered a lethal dagger to the gut.

Aye. Better to fall asleep and never wake than happen upon one of the Forsworn. Both souls were suddenly exhausted, and paused as their shared body yawned. I think I'd like to sleep now, too.

Eragon felt it in his bones, an aching weariness that dragged his body down even as his soul strained for release. For Aiedail, the pull had grown so strong his spirit had left his flesh-and-blood body altogether and ascended to soar amongst the stars.

Curling up alongside the bones of Vanilor and Ocurni, Eragon could only hope his own slumber would not yet be so eternal, for he no longer had the energy to keep his eyes open.

Eragon awoke to oblivion. No matter how frantically he flapped his wings, he could not escape the darkness, and the air was far too thin for his flames to take light. The chill in the air was as worse as the one in Prasavitri's lair, only this time he had no heat to keep the ice from seeping into his soul to slowly suffocate the inner fire that burned within his soul.

Worst of all, however, was the loneliness. Eragon did not realize how strongly he had come to depend upon Eridor's presence until it had been ripped away from him completely, leaving only a gaping emptiness in his soul. This time there was no voice of reason to drive the irrational fear from his heart, no one to lend him the courage to steady his panicked mind. There was only himself and the grim certainty he would die alone in the dark.

Just when Eragon was about to give up hope and surrender to oblivion, the blackness retreated, burned away by flames of blazing blue. Those flames were not his own.

Then a brilliant form swooped down to stand before him, and he was no longer alone.

Dwarfed by a dragon with scales the color of starlight, Eragon thought himself in the Morning Star's presence. Then he gazed up into burning blue eyes and recognized not Aiedail, but Eridor.

In his final moments, Eridor had been helpless and simmering in impotent rage. The figure before Eragon was not a broken and vengeful creature at the end of his life, but a magnificent King at the height of his power, the strongest he had ever been.

Before Eridor's brilliance, Eragon was insignificant, a puny little human in a skin not his own, a pale shadow of the glory that had preceded him. He suddenly longed for the darkness again, feeling naked and exposed beneath such radiance, and lowered his head in shame.

Eridor reached out with a claw, not to strike down this poor imitation of his magnificence, but to gently tip Eragon's head up until they were locking eyes again. His touch did not have the pleasant warmth of a living creature, but burned as if an inferno raged just beneath his skin.

Come now, the old King chided, do you think that little of yourself?

You are the King amongst us, Eragon murmured, feeling himself growing smaller by the moment. If you hadn't spoken for me, I would have made myself look like a fool before the council. His impeccable eyesight dimmed until he couldn't stand Eridor's radiance, and so closed them in disgust. If you hadn't lent me your power on the Burning Plains, I wouldn't have been able to drive back Thorn and Murtagh. His scales flaked away, and Eridor's burning touch became unbearable. Had you not awoken in the first place, I wouldn't have saved Saphira. I am no King, no true dragon.

His wings failed him at this revelation, for they had never been his in the first place, but ones merely constructed before him on Eridor's power. As he was no dragon, Eragon could not fly, and so fell away from Eridor altogether, tumbling into the dark oblivion below.

Eridor gracefully dove after the human's helpless form, but made no move to catch him. Funny, that you think so little of yourself, and so highly of me. I was not the one the Kings called out to, was I? Which one of us was following the path of Aiedail's daughter, Eragon, and which one of us was left in the dark?

Dull human eyes sharpened, and Eragon was again able to look the King within the eye, but he still had no wings to spread.

Arya, Roran, Nasuada, Oromis, Glaedr, Angela. Which one of us do they trust, Eragon, which one of us would they gladly fight for, because they know he shall be the one to restore peace to this land? Who did Brom gladly die for, which one of us did he have faith could continue on without him? Which one of us left their people without a ruler, and to tear themselves apart without him?

White scales grew to shield delicate human flesh and a body that grew more powerful by the second, but still the changes were not enough.9

Who did Saphira hatch for, Eragon? Who did she choose above all other souls? Whose side did she stand by, no matter how they faltered or failed in their quest? Who does she look for to be her eternal companion, long before I ever awoke? Eridor's voice broke. I failed my Safiri, Eragon. I could not keep our children safe. I could not keep her safe. You have not failed Saphira or my sons yet. Will this be the time you let them down?

At long last, mundane brown irises flared blazing blue. With a roar, Eragon spread his wings and rose to meet Eridor, leaving the darkness far beneath him. No longer did he feel insigificent in comparison, and so he was able to levelly look Eridor in the eye.

Was that it, then? Was this my Trial?

The older dragon actually chuckled, grim humor in his eyes. You haven't even started yet. My task is just to get you there.

B-b-but what was that!?

I merely appeared before you how I truly am, and your insecurities spoke for themselves. In this place, we have no mortal constraints to hold us back, and our souls are simply free to be what they are. Whether in your body or not, I know who I am. Eridor touched a paw to his own chest. You do not yet have such confidence in yourself, and so your image is conflicted.

If Eragon was still in his physical body, he would have vomited in anxiety over the possibility of reverting to a vulnerable human form during his actual King's Trial. How do I stabilize it?

By having faith in yourself, in what you want to be. There are many at this Trial who are enraged that Aiedail's sacred power could possibly pass to one they do not see as a true dragon. They will do everything in their power to expose your human weakness and show you as unfit. You must not only prove yourself a dragon, but a dragon others can bow down to as King.

It would not be the first time Eragon would have had to test himself. The Twins had grilled him on his magical prowess and Vanir, greatly resentful that Saphira had chosen a human over an experienced elf as her Rider, had tormented Eragon for weeks until he had proved himself to him.

Will you be there for me?

In the back of the crowd, but one King among many, and far too biased for my opinion to be of any worth. Eridor peered into his eyes as if searching his soul. Besides, do you really want my help there? For me to come to rescue again?

The younger dragon frowned shook his head. No matter how strongly he had depended upon Eridor's wisdom and power in the past, he found the idea of going into his Trial without his mentor to be oddly invigorating. Vanilor and all of the fairly defeated rulers before him, after all, certainly hadn't lost to their successors on purpose.

Saphira put her faith in me. I'd like to show her faith was not unfounded.

The King's Trial (or the Queen's Trial, as it was called when the candidate was female) was indeed just that, a trial.

Caught somewhere between death and dreams, the dragon souls descended to perch upon the peak of an impossibly tall mountain, clinging to every bit of its craggy surface. They glared down at him with eyes that burned like stars, and just as silent and stoic. Here was his audience.

His judge was the ultimate authority for all dragons, their First King, he who would pass the final sentence. Perched above the others, Aiedail was far from being the largest or strongest dragon, but his eyes glowed the brightest, burning with an inner power not seen since before or since in any soul. Directly beneath him were the Kings and Queens who had also held their power. Small and young as he had been when he'd died, Eridor was lost among their number.

Regardless of their rank in life, every dragon had an equal opportunity to be heard in death. Once Aiedail nodded, they erupted in a deafening clamor, jostling for a chance to be heard.

Morokei had been Eridor's surviving son at the time of his parents' murder. Powerfully-built, with battle scars proudly adorning his silver hide and a regal tilt to his head, he looked every inch a true King. Had things gone differently, he very likely would have fairly defeated his father and become King of the wild dragons in his place.

Whatever love and loyalty Morokei felt for his father and clan did not extend to Eridor's reincarnation. Glaring disdainfully down at the white dragon, he sneered, Aiedail's power has passed down through his line since time immemorial. I see no reason why it should pass to a false dragon when I have younger brothers alive and well.

Eragon met Morokei's silver eyes unflinchingly. And which brother do you mean? The one who still slumbers within his egg? Or the two unblooded younglings still months away from breathing fire?

Our kind matures swiftly, growled the son of Eridor. Surely your little resistance can last a few months more... unless the elves and humans plan on failing the dragons again.

Every Rider's dragon present snarled, their shared growl like a rumble of thunder. A massive white dragon Eragon inherently knew to be Umaroth, Vrael's dragon, spread his wings menacingly. Your damned clan destroyed itself from the inside out! You, Sharoth, Uvuna, and the rest of your ilk were too preoccupied with your power struggles to notice the kith and kin being killed beneath your very noses! You were driven by your fatal pride, the same that led the mountain-lord to his doom!

Morokei sneered. Then I take it you support the abomination's cause, Umaroth? He and your... master were once compatriots, after all.

Umaroth hesitated, eyes guiltily flickering away when Eragon turned his beseeching gaze upon him. Had fate unfolded as it should have, you would have been the leader of a new generation of Dragon Riders, Eragon Shadeslayer. He snarled up at the crowd of Kings and Queens. And then Eridor intervened, and you became neither Rider nor dragon... but an unnatural mix of the two. Wild dragons and bonded dragons purposefully kept their ranks separated to maintain peace between our races. As you are neither, I cannot in good conscience allow you to inherit the King's Wrath.

Numerous other bonded dragons murmured their assent. Considering Eragon's luck, of course Rider's dragons and wild dragons (who had apparently been at odds since the first Blood-Oath Ceremony) would find common ground in denying him the King's Wrath.

A young she-dragon with blue-gray eyes and scales the color of a summer sky shoved her way to the forefront. Eragon's heart ached as he instinctively recognized her as the first Saphira, the secret Brom had kept until his final moments, the she-dragon whose death had spurred him into helping to form the Varden and obtaining vengeance against Galbatorix and his Forsworn.

Eragon is both, she declared to the massive crowd. A dragon with a human's past. His love for Saphira and their unlikely little clan makes him as draconic as any of us here. Yet, he does not have our arrogance. He maintains love and loyalty toward his human cousin as any clanmate should toward their kin, and is not above treating with humans and elves alike as equals. They do not look upon him as a savage beast or a god beyond reproach, but a brother-in-arms working toward a common goal of freedom. Her reproachful gaze fell upon bonded and wild dragons alike. Perhaps, if we had bothered to interact more earnestly with each other and the other races, our kind would have not suffered so badly for our foolish pride.

You are one to talk, sneered Eridor's sister Jadine. The boy's mentor was your Rider in your first life and we all know exactly how you had your reincarnation reunite with him in your second life. She snorted in Morokei's direction. I may think my nephew an overly ambitious fool, but I agree with him. Eridor's little experiment needs only power enough to protect Trinnean and Caradoc until one of them is old enough to heed the Call. Certainly you can defend your own sons that long, brother?

If I must, Eridor replied neutrally.

Eragon simmered with impotent rage when Brom's Saphira dipped her head in shame and vanished into the multitude. Still, if the entire dragon race disagreed so strongly with him becoming the next King of the wild dragons, he would respect their decision. Although the thought of Trinnean or Caradoc having to shoulder a King's burden pained him, he would be there to help support and guide them every step of the way.

A great light suddenly blazed beside him, and Eragon momentarily had to shut his eyes against the blinding brightness. When he opened them again, he realized a beautiful golden she-dragon had materialized directly beside him. The crowd broke into surprised and worried murmurs.

Ginevra!? a she-dragon named Malukah exclaimed. Daughter, your human life had decades left, how are you-

He found me, Mother, Ginevra explained blankly, her gaze a thousand miles away. He found me, mother, and he would have had me, like he has Father, if I hadn't shattered my own heart of hearts. Her golden gaze dispassionately swept over the crowd. You do not have several months. You do not have several weeks. He comes, he comes now, and he shall have us all-

Ginevra's voice was drowned out by roars of denial, rage, and pure panic. Eragon didn't understand the hysteria sweeping through the crowd, but he felt how his own Eldunari reflexively tightened in dread, and knew they had good reason for their fear.

Just once, Aiedail growled softly. Complete silence immediately fell upon the crowd as all eyes turned expectantly up to him, but the Morning Star did not speak.

Eridor's whelps would never be able to take such power at this young age, Sharoth mused. Even if one could hold the King's Wrath without being consumed by it, they're so young and tiny Shruikan would pick his teeth with their bones.

A male dragon rose from amongst the ranks of the bonded dragons. Eragon didn't even need his instincts to recognize him as Iomungr, the father of his Saphira, for his scales were only a shade lighter than her own.

My daughter has faced Thorn several times before, and even survived a fight against a sea serpent unscathed. She has the interests of both wild and bonded dragons at heart, and is just as much a descendent of the First King as any of you royals-

Sharoth barked a laugh. Every dragon alive at your daughter's conception was somehow descended from Aiedail. She hasn't the six horns, Rider's pet, and thus doesn't have the strength to hold the Wrath. She'd be consumed from the inside out.

Umaroth stepped forward again, his magnificent white presence instantly demanding attention. Saphira Bjartskular cannot bear the burden, aye, but you all forget of the one true dragon outside of the egg that managed to survive the Fall. He is centuries old, a wise and seasoned veteran, and can bear whatever burden we place upon his shoulders. Glaedr-

His words were not only drowned out by roars and growls from the wild dragons, but outright laughter.

A Queen with fiery scales perched at Aiedail's paws bared her fangs in a vicious smirk. There shall never be a Rider's pet worthy of the Morning Star's power. Not even my little brother was, and we all know what he is to you.

All heads turned to stare at a massive dragon at the back of the crowd. With a jolt, Eragon recognized the white male as Bid'daum, the very same dragon who had hatched for the first Eragon and spelled the beginning of the end for the Dragon War. From his six horns, he had been a royal dragon in life, but certainly didn't have the pride of one. Embarrassed by the scrutiny, Bid'daum did his best to duck behind the even larger copper she-dragon beside him. Eragon wondered if Bid'daum had been just as bashful in life, or if centuries of both admiration and derision from future generations had gradually worn away his confidence.

Sharoth heaved a sigh. As much as it pains me to admit it, there is one royal left out there aside from Eridor's whelps.

Eridor looked toward his older brother in confusion. My three youngest sons were the last royals left. Unless you're implying another survivor somehow managed to escape our notice-

More like your notice, little brother. Since your rebirth, a dark star fell... a dark star that, unlike you, lives and breathes again in truth.

There was a moment of silence, the calm before the storm, and then the terrible revelation dawned. The Kings and Queens surrounded Eridor scattered as the very air around him shimmered with the heat of his rage. The blackest smoke Eragon had ever seen was rising from his nostrils, and he could practically feel the searing inferno burning in the back of his throat.

Safiri's. MURDERER. LIVES!

In the end, it was not Eragon or Vanilor or even Aiedail that prevented all hell from breaking loose, but Ocurni. The slender green she-dragon was the only one who dared approach Eridor in his hysterical touch. Draping a wing should her son, the simple act of maternal comfort was enough to douse his fiery rage, but not to keep it from silently simmering.

Aye, through the Black King's magic, Jarshan lives. Vanilor spat in disgust. The spineless little shit never had the courage to challenge me, and relied on a Forsworn's magic to dishonorably murder his own nestmate. I'd rather see Aiedail's power die forever than see it in a traitor's paws.

Not all dragons were so eager to condemn him. Those once loyal to Jarshan, or even those simply sympathetic to his cause, both urged the dragons against the idea to reconsider or outright pledged their support. Eragon was disturbed at just how much support a treacherous murderer could rally.

We pledged loyalty to Galbatorix only out of necessity, and because he vowed to honor our wishes for an independent race once we overthrew the Order, one of Jarshan's supporters declared. We were certainly all dead before the Black King showed us his true colors!

The little shit certainly had the right idea when it came to keeping our race seperate from the Riders, Sharoth rumbled. Why should free mothers have been forced to give up their children for enslavement, to give up their territories because humans bred too quickly to be satisfied with the land already theirs?

Jarshan was at least not one of the radicals that called for the total destruction of the Order, Umaroth concurred grudgingly. He would at least honor a peace if any future Riders and their dragons agreed to honor his terms.

Everyone turned their attention to Morokei, who had previously been one of the more outspoken dragons in the debate. Jarshan was his blood, aye, but he was also the dragon responsible for the murders of both Eridor and Safiri.

The silver dragon was silent for what seemed an eternity, before he ventured, I never completely agreed with your politics, Father, and our options are limited here. Faced with either the complete annihilation of our race, or granting my uncle, the only dragon worthy of such power, the King's Wrath... I choose the lesser of two evils.

A white blur went flying for Morokei, throwing him against the mountainside while the dragons around them frantically gave the pair their space.

It was not Eridor punishing his treacherous son, but Eragon, who was hopelessly dwarfed by a powerful male more than twice his size.

Eragon wasn't thinking of either Eridor or Jarshan, but of Safiri. More than once, he had caught glimpses of her final moments through Eridor's eyes, as the helpless King had frantically begged for her life. It was all too easy to imagine her lifeless form as Saphira's, especially when memories of Helgrind still haunted him.

Regardless of what rivalry the brothers had shared, Safiri had been innocent of all crimes except loving her mate and standing by him and their family when their politicial differences had torn the clan apart. Jarshan claimed he had killed Safiri first to spare her the agony of her mate's death, but he had never given either of them a fair chance to defend themselves. Once Safiri was dead, Jarshan had hypocritically allowed her child to be ripped from her arms and taken by those Riders he so supposedly disavowed.

Eragon had no children of his own, but he knew exactly what he would do ever so callously dismissed their own mother and sided with her murderer. Massive as Morokei was in comparison to him, he was not fueled by the same rage that consumed Eragon's every cell and did not stand a chance.

By the time Eragon's burning fury subsided, Morokei was a bloodied mess beneath his paws. The silver dragon's delicate wing membranes had been shredded, his throat raw and red, and blood pooled from where Eragon had bashed his head several times against the rock. Dragons stared at them in varying degrees of shock, disbelief, anger, or admiration. Aiedail's expression was unreadable, but his burning eyes were firmly fixated upon Eragon.

Stepping away from his opponent, Eragon momentarily feared he had somehow managed to kill Morokei again. But the silver dragon was already dead, nothing more than a representation of his soul. Already, his wounds were winding themselves shut and his ruined flesh rebuilding itself. By the time Morokei dragged himself onto his paws, he was completely healed, but not unscathed. The wounds upon his throat remained as scars, an embodiment of the humiliation he had suffered at a 'false dragon's' paws.

If you're going to annoint a King here tonight, make sure it's a King who doesn't kill she-dragons in cold blood and steal her eggs from her corpse, he growled. A King like Jarshan is no King of mine!

Sharoth chuckled. So the little human has fire in his heart after all. His eyes narrowed. But you are no King yourself, whelp. If we cannot agree upon a King tonight, then let us wait until better times for one. Surely, with that dishonest elf magic on your side, and five-and-a-half dragons against three, even he cannot stand against you in the end.

Then you do not know my Rider.

Like water, the crowd parted for a beautiful copper she-dragon. She carried herself humbly, and there was nothing but earnest sadness in her eyes. It was difficult to believe such a pure heart had ever shared a soul with one so black, for this she-dragon was Jarnunvosk.

Sharoth snorted derisively. Your 'Rider' no longer has his Forsworn, their abominations, or even his lesser creatures anymore. Thorn and Morzan's brat serve him only to the bare minimum that their oaths will allow, and Jarshan shall turn upon him the first chance he gets. Shruikan's body is a broken shell and his soul still fights after a century in captivity. It will be a difficult battle, aye, but not impossible.

The copper she-dragon that Bid'daum had previously hid behind rose to her full height. She was nearly Jarnunvosk's double, but far dwarfed her. Against the impossibly massive mountain the dragons perched on, it was impossible to know her true size for certain, but Eragon estimated she could have been as large as one of the smaller mountains in the Spine.

You know he is far more than that, she chided. You know he is not alone. How many of you here have parents, siblings, mates, and children that languish within his hoard? Her amber eyes settled somberly on Eragon. It will take no less than a true King to conquer him again. That King shall have to be you.

From her place beside Eridor, Ocurni snarled. Perhaps, had you not abandoned your mate in his darkest hour, he would have never felt the need to crawl his way back to this world! Are you proud, mother-to-monsters, that your mate and his brood managed to have such a final vengeance upon my family, upon our race?

As another argument broke out over events Eragon didn't understand, a stranger crept his way to his side. From the brightness of the red dragon's eyes, Eragon knew the male, Heitgera, had been a King in life. Heitgera regarded him pensively, without the anger or disdain most royal dragons had sneered down at him with.

What would you do, Eragon, if you had the power of a King?

There was so much he could say to that, but he settled for the simplest answer he could think of. To make things right, whatever it takes.

Heitgera nodded knowingly. I did what I had to do once. Many here today still hate me for what I did, but I knew in my heart of hearts it was the only way to bring peace to our race. Even if future generations look down on you in shame, and use your story as a tale of caution, will you still do what is right?

Back during that first fateful battle on the Burning Plains, Murtagh could have very easily captured him and Saphira. Not only would the war be all but won for the Empire, but he surely would have earned Galbatorix's approval and more power and freedom than his station had previously afforded. Murtagh had still chosen to exploit the loopholes in his oaths and to not only leave Eragon free, but with a warning he could not be so lenient next time. Any in the Empire who knew of Murtagh's failure that day surely cursed him for his sentimentality, but he had kept the faint hope of finally slaying Galbatorix alive in doing so.

Aye. There was no doubt, no hesitation in his thoughts.

The red King smiled. As I'd thought. Spreading his wings, he rose into the air until just beneath Aiedail, so that all were forced to stare up at him. I think most of you forget that this is a King's Trial. That someone had to Call Eragon here, because someone thought him worthy enough to stand before the stars while he still lived and breathed.

Sharoth sneered. I suppose the whelp's your new pet project, chain-maker?

When Heitgera shook his head, all eyes instead turned to Eridor, the last true King of the wild dragons.

The white dragon had the audacity to laugh. I haven't been amongst your esteemed ranks for close to two decades now.

With Eridor discounted, attention then fell upon his father. Vanilor's stony scowl spoke for itself. The question passed to his mother Jumora, then her father Konahrik, ascending up the succession of Kings and Queens until it came to Saekja herself, the daughter of Aiedail who had first answered his Call. When even she shook her head in denial, the stars all turned to gaze upon their First King, who remained as impassive as ever.

Then Aiedail spoke, the power in his voice so strong Eragon felt it in his heart of hearts.

When King Eridor fell that day, I allowed my Wrath to die.Aiedail's burning gaze silenced the shocked outpouring before it even begun. The old ways had failed us, and our race was stagnating, dying, just like it had been during the final days of my sire. I allowed our race to purge itself so it would be reborn from the ashes of the old anew. His scorn fell upon wild and bonded dragons alike. So I allowed no Call to be sent, to see if my descendents were capable of surviving without a King or Queen. Even with certain death stalking you, none were able to unite against your doom, for your petty feuds and prejudices prevented you from seeing the bigger picture.

The price of Aiedail's vision of 'rebirth' had been virtually the entire Order of Dragon Riders, and nearly the entire dragon race itself. Only Shruikan, Glaedr, and five eggs had survived the purge. The entire future of their kind now depended solely on Saphira, the last she-dragon. Even before their First King's scorn, many could not help cry that Aiedail had condemned their race to death.

Fools! Aiedail roared. For it is who you were unable to survive without a King or Queen strong enough to beat you into obedience, even in the face of the greatest threat to our kind since the Dragon War!

Which we could've won! bellowed an old, bitter veteran of the war. Had Heitgera the courage to-

To slay Bid'daum, his mate's last child, in cold blood? As my sire had once wished to do to me? Silence reigned. You all forget that I was once new, the freakish little anomaly with six horns that cared not for clan boundaries or petty blood feuds. The mountain-lord and his ilk once tried to stamp me out, as you once bid Heitgera to strike down Bid'daum. Where would our kind be if my sire had succeeded?

The red King dipped his head. The ancient elves were as proud and stubborn as any wild dragon. Like the clans in the days of the mountain-lord, we would have destroyed ourselves, for neither of us had the grace to admit defeat. The bond Bid'daum formed with the first Eragon transcended the hatred and ignorance our kind felt towards the elves, and allowed a peaceful understanding to be reached. I gave my life to see that pact come to fruition, for no other had the magic to power such a spell. Heitgera's gaze flickered from Bid'daum to the fiery queen at Aiedail's paws. I also knew Bid'daum's connection to an elf prevented him from fully understanding the ways of an unbonded dragon. That is why I sent out my own Call to Aldrnari, for she is the one daughter I could trust to both respect my people and honor the peace I gave my life to secure.

Aiedail's blazing eyes honed in on Eragon. This child is something new... a new King for a new age. He will do as I once had, as Heitgera and Bid'daum and Alrnari once had, and lead our kind into a new dawn. You shall burn away the old to make way for the new... and you shall make yourself worthy of your crown.

The Morning Star spread his wings, majestically descending to where Eragon stood in awe. His blazing eyes burned holes in his soul, and his touch was almost impossible to bear, but Eragon did not shy away when Aiedail pressed his snout to his forehead, as Saphira once had for Elva.

For a moment, Eragon saw the world through a star's eyes, and the fog of the past and future fell away to reveal all that ever was and ever would be. He saw the grand rebirth that had yet to unfold, the sleeping souls below that mirrored the stars above, and knew what he had to do.

Rise, Eragon Brightfire, Aiedail commanded. Rise!

His Call spread through the ranks like wildfire, and soon all the stars were chanting. While Eragon knew the other memories of this night would fade, for no mortal could keep the stars alive in their mind for long, but one thought would always remain with him: Rise, rise, RISE!

One day, Eragon knew that he would, and he would no do so alone.

The air was alive with magic, and the stars seemed so bright that night Saphira wondered if the dawn had come early. Young and exhausted as they were, neither Trinnean nor Caradoc could sleep, and so joined her and Elva in their vigil. No one was quite sure what would emerge from the cave where the first King of the dragons had died and ascended to the stars, but all hoped for another King.

In breathless anticipation, the unlikely family watched as a white form emerged from the darkness and rose into the air. Even from this distance, Saphira knew Eragon had been irrevocably changed by this night. He perhaps would never be able to tell her much of his King's Trial, but that would never stop her form supporting him every step of the way.

As he neared, Trinnean and Caradoc tried to meet him, but Elva gently held them back. That night, Eragon's blue eyes burned with starlight, and their blazing gaze was only for Saphira.

Knowing Eridor's sons to be safe in Elva's care, Saphira left them and the earth behind as she flew up to embrace her mate. Together they flew away from prying eyes and, in the darkness of the night, a King claimed his Queen in truth.

There was light on the horizon and soon the stars, even Aiedail, would have to give way for daybreak. Eragon knew his perfect knowledge of this night, of all that was yet to come, would fade with them. It would be perhaps until his own death that he ever saw so clearly again.

They were now truly one in heart and soul now, but no eggs would yet result from their union. The mating season had passed, and there was still a long war to be won.

Curled up with Saphira beneath the fading stars, Eragon wished he could watch the sunrise with her, but tonight he had not the time.

Saphira, he murmured hesitantly. It was the first true word he had spoken in his time as a King. The she-dragon entwined her tail with his expectantly. Tonight, everything is so clear to me. I know exactly what we have to do to ensure a new dawn... but that will fade soon. Some of the things I do may seem backward and confusing and most of the time even I'll be doubting myself. No matter what happens, I need you to-

Trust in you? Be there for you? Keep up for faith even through your darkest hours? She nuzzled him soothingly. I've always been there for you, stone-head, and I certainly don't plan to stop anytime soon. His mate frowned, finally noticing a familiar presence had been absent the entire night. Where's Eridor?

Sleeping.

Saphira blinked as she processed this. Permanently?

Not yet. He absolutely refuses to let go until he sees his last vow fulfilled. But last night exhausted him, and he needs time to recover. The white dragon smirked. Besides, we certainly needed the privacy.

Saphira thought last night had finally slaked her desires, but her mate's damn lewd comment stirred her arousal again. She eagerly moved to claim him again, just one more time before dawn, and growled in frustration when he gently refused her advances. Her exasperated confusion only grew when he moved to the edge of the ledge they'd claimed for the night and unfurled his wings.

I certainly hope you have a good excuse for leaving me like this.

We have all the time in the world now, Saphira... but I need to do something before I completely forget how.

Bewildered, the she-dragon followed him back to where they'd left the rest of their clan. As he landed, Trinnean and Caradoc could no longer hold their relief back, and eagerly threw themselves upon him. Eragon embraced them warmly but absently, for his gaze had fallen upon Elva.

How blind he had been before, to leave her in such a sorrowful state. Had he never interfered, Elvana would have grown into a proud and beautiful young woman, whose cunning intelligence could have risen her to the most powerful of positions. The compulsion magic he had unwittingly cursed her with was a dark and ugly thing, one that had worn Elvana's bright and promising soul down to nothing.

Saphira had been too late to save Elvana, but her blessing on Safiri's behalf had awoken Elva from her dormant slumber and gave her the power to resist Eragon's fatal blunder. Still, she suffered. He could see every bit of hardship in the premature lines on her face, the hollows beneath her cold, bitter eyes. This little girl's cursed and fragile body no longer suited Elva. Her heart of hearts burned within her, as if it had power enough to burn away its too-tight prison.

The King of the wild dragons humbly bowed before the soul he had so nearly broken.

I have done you and Elvana both a grave injustice. I can never bring Elvana back, and you may never forgive me for it, but I can right two wrongs here. Blazing blue eyes locked with bewildered violet. If you allow me the honor, that is.

Elva trembled in nervous anticipation, but dipped her head in silent acquiescence.

Eragon touched his snout to the silver mark on the girl's forehead, the sign of Saphira's earlier blessing. Her Eldunari thrummed strongly at his touch, and it took only the slightest nudge with his magic to set it free.

RISE!

The King of the wild dragons opened his jaws, and unleashed his magic. His flames were not only hot enough to burn away the taint of his own mistake, but the human shell that no longer suit the dragon's heart burning within.

Just as the sun breached the horizon, Elva spread her wings and obeyed.

Chapter Text

On the night of his trial, Eragon had felt nigh omniscient. His time amongst the stars had not only allowed him an unobscured view of the past and present, but of the future, and all the myriad ways it could unfold.

While most of his knowledge had faded with the stars the following dawn, some bits and pieces remained. While some vestiges of his memory were fainter than others, and his scattered recollection paled in comparison to the original crystal clear image he'd had of his ideal future, they were enough to help him ensure that future came to pass.

He would have never found the campsite otherwise; hundreds of men huddled together in a quiet village just outside Aroughs. They were not Varden soldiers.

With the battle for Aroughs so effectively won, and all thought turned to further planning for the next leg of the journey north to Urubaen, Eragon doubted the Varden had any idea of the extent of the rebellion the occupied Imperials were plotting. Even then, the Varden would have anticipated a typical daytime engagement, not a desperate attempt to scale the city walls in the dead of night and slaughter any rebels they could find.

No matter how Eragon handled this moment, the Imperial resistance would end in failure. Their numbers were too small to manage anything more than a minor setback to the Varden's plans.

Still, they were desperate men abandoned by their King, and they had nothing left to lose if Alaegaesia should fall to the rebels. If they managed to breach Aroughs, hundreds of men and thousands of innocents could be caught in the massacre. With Urubaen still so far away, such massive losses on only the first city claimed were unacceptable.

They are not fighting honorably, Elva pointed out. In the end, neither did the dragons, but by then it was too late. Freed of her curse, she no longer had reason to fear the pain of others, and so looked down upon the Imperials without mercy. If they aren't fighting honorably, then you have no reason to.

In the dark of the night, the men would never see the dragons swooping down upon them until it was too late. By then, Eragon's Wrath would be unstoppable, and devour every last remnant of Imperial loyalty left in the area. Aroughs and the Varden would see only the fires, and know that not only had the King of the dragons returned, but had once again saved them.

Should that be the decision he made, Eragon knew Saphira would stand by him, for war was no easy feat.

His gaze strayed to Trinnean and Caradoc, who silently circled with them above the camp. They were both too young to breathe fire and participate directly in the massacre, but they would still witness the precedent their new King made here tonight, one that could possibly echo for centuries to come.

Eridor slumbered on, of no help to anyone, but Eragon didn't need him tonight.

Aiedail didn't fight honorably either. As four bewildered dragons turned to gawk at their King, he steadily continued, When the mountain-king rallied his clan, Aiedail knew how hopelessly unmatched they would be against him and his people. That did not stop him from not only bringing his clan's wrath down upon the mountain-king, but also those who followed them because they knew no better. To Saphira and Elva, he privately added, Some of those younglings cut down were younger than Trinnean and Caradoc.

There are no children here! Elva bared her fangs. Only men prepared to die for their foolish cause!

Because they believe us gone from Aroughs. Eragon's eyes blazed. I was chosen because I am the first of something new, so I shall start by doing something new: I shall give them a warning, the warning Aiedail never gave to the mountain-lord's clan.

Saphira may have been his faithful mate, aye, but that didn't mean she had to support him something so suicidal. You know I am with you always, dear one, but they shall shoot you down before you can speak your piece. With the magicians here, I also doubt you could reach out to them mentally before inciting similar alarm.

With half-remembered visions of the future flashing before his mind's eye, Eragon knew what had to come next... and that he could very well alienate his family by doing so.

Firstly, the white dragon reached for his mate, and gave her the best embrace he could while flying. Do I remember what I asked of you, after our hearts became one? Saphira nodded. I will have to ask for your faith sooner than I intended.

I'm not going anywhere, stone-head. She butted her head fondly against him. And neither is my faith.

Neither are we! Caradoc interjected, with his twin adding, You're our King, remember? We'd stand by you through the end of the world!

Eragon turned to Elva next. Except for the fierce violet eyes and silver mark upon her brow, she was impossible to recognize as the sallow, sickly little girl she had been. Eragon's magic had set her free and restored to her the body she'd had mere moments before her death. He might have been unable to restore Elvana, or her murdered mate and children, but he had returned her wings and fire to her. For that, Elva would be forever grateful.

No matter what happens, Elva Safirisdaughter, remember what I did for you that night. Remember what you were before. No matter what happens, remember the impulsive little boy who so foolishly cursed you, who killed Elvana, is dead and gone. He was burned away in dragon-fire.

Elva choked back a sob. Even though she had been lovingly raised by Eridor and Safiri as one of their own, that had not stopped her surrogate clan from forever reminding her of her outsider heritage, that she did not have the six horns of a royal dragon because she was not truly one of them.

Why? she asked.

Because, even though we've all moved on from him, the rest of the world isn't quite so ready to let Eragon Shadeslayer go yet.

Officially, Galbatorix had recalled every last one of his regiments back to the Imperial heartlands. The King no longer believed the outer reaches of his Empire to be salvageable, was not prepared to sacrifice precious troops in ill-fated battles against the rebels, and so wanted them were their numbers would be most needed: guarding Urubaen and the surrounding territories.

Officially, Wilhelm Henricksson and his men had been supposed to join them, to leave their homes and families behind for the rebel barbarians to savage.

Wilhelm had politely declined the order, then ran his sword through the pompous son of a bitch that had tried arresting him for treason. He and the rest of his 'deserters' had been allowed to stay while their cowardly comrades had ran with their tails between their legs.

Pah! Wilhelm spat. As if all is lost here because of a stalemate and one minor loss on the Burning Plains, or one city besieged.

Wilhelm and his men may have been outnumbered, but they knew the region, how to hide and forage off the land until the time was ripe to strike back. No matter how the Varden trumpeted that it had 'liberated' them all from the Empire, most people were still loyal Imperial citizens and were a valuable resource for learning what was happening within Aroughs.

Wilhelm had no idea where in the hell the dragons had went, but all four of them had been gone for days, and were unlikely to return anytime soon. Eragon Shadeslayer had vanished off the face of the earth. Rumors couldn't agree on whether he was off in a top secret assignment or dead, but with that other Rider and dragon far to the north, the biggest threat left in Aroughs were the elves.

We know the city and we have the element of surprise on our side. We'll slit their throats before they're even out of bed, and my girls can safe soundly again.

He couldn't help but wince at the thought of his own wife and daughters, relatively safe and sound on a humble estate far from the fighting. There were women and children in Aroughs kept as hostages. Try as Wilhelm might to prevent it, undoubtedly some would be killed or injured, innocent blood spilled alongside the rebel filth that needed to be purged from the city.

The self-made general winced as his headache returned in full force. Whether it was the ungodly hour or thought of the looming bloodbath that pained him, he had no idea, but there was time yet before they moved. Plenty of time to rest, reflect, and pray to the gods for-

Wilhelm had no sooner entered his tent (a luxury afforded only by his high station) when a blade's cold tip pressed against his throat. A foreign mind smothered his own, muffling whatever mental cries for help he tried making to the loyal magicians.

Gods damn the Black Hand for retreating with the rest. The magicians left were too inept to sniff out even this shitty assassin!

The assassin before him hadn't even bothered disguising his conspicuous appearance. Certainly any soldier should have noticed the pointy-eared, white-haired, fierce-faced elf that had been in their midst.

"Well?" Wilhelm hissed. "Get on with it!"

The elf's eyes narrowed. His burning blue eyes cut through the darkness and their pupils were unnervingly slitted like a snake's.

"I did not come to kill you." He spoke in the ancient language Wilhelm had been forced to learn, and his words were undoubtedly the truth.

The self-made general narrowed his eyes suspiciously, for the sword pressed to his throat was his own, the spare he had left in his tent. Examining the fierce-eyed elf more closely, Wilhelm noticed that the clothes he was wearing, from the cloak down the ill-fitting tunic and breeches, were also his.

"...Did you walk through camp and into my tent naked? What exactly do you want from me?"

Even in the darkness, Wilhelm could tell the elf winced in embarrassment, muttering about how it had been too much to ask his magic for pants on top of everything else.

Wilhelm felt a smirk crawling across his face, but then the blade dug just deep enough into his throat to draw blood. The elf's eyes were inhuman, and they stared at him as if gazing into his very soul. Wilhelm had faced such eyes only on his King, and so froze instinctively, for Galbatorix had not hesitated to strike down those with treacherous thoughts.

"I came to ask for your surrender, for I shall only give this warning once."

Wilhelm laughed. "Slit my throat, and my men shall upon you like hounds to the kill. Even if you have us surrounded, elf, we shall go down fighting and drag as many of you with us as we can." Surreptitiously he edged for the hilt of his own sword. Perhaps he could stick it into the elf's gut before he bled to death.

He froze in dread as the elf exposed the silvery gedwey ignasia upon his palm. "Your men may be valiant, but they shall not stand a chance against five dragons. They circle above you even now and are prepared to burn everything on my command. It would be a massacre."

Wilhelm frowned in contemplation. There had been no signs of the Rider with the golden dragon moving so far south, and no rumors of a third Rider declaring for the rebels. He had also personally seen Eragon Shadeslayer during the first Battle of the Burning Plains, had thought him foolish for fighting so long on foot when he had entered the fray with the advantage of a dragon to ride upon. That brown-haired boy warrior barely resembled the fierce-eyed elf yet before him, and yet...

"You wouldn't happen to be Eragon Shadeslayer, would you?"

"I no longer think of myself as that," the white-haired man said honestly, "but many still do."

"Should I surrender, what will happen to my men, to our families? Mad as Galbatorix has become, he is a known evil. He has taught us, his loyal subjects, to despise all who are not."

"The Varden and I intend to overthrow Galbatorix permanently, and to free the world of his tyranny. So long as you accept defeat gracefully, the Varden will no longer trouble you. Return home to your family, General Wilhelm Henricksson, and protect them from whatever evils you fear. But you and your men do no one good by throwing away your lives here tonight."

He would have loved to accept that offer, but Wilhelm knew his men had suffered much, and many would not back down so willingly. He told Eragon Shadeslayer as such.

"Your underestimate the faith they put in your word. Should they hear this truth from you, they will listen. One does not need to fully know the ancient language to understand the truth behind it."

With Shadeslayer's help, Wilhelm had his thoughts broadcasted throughout the entire camp. Although many of his men initially felt panic, rage, and a burning desire for vengeance, several moments of careful reflection allowed common sense and a longing to return home to overpower foolish pride. Wilhelm suspected the Rider or his dragons may have been behind the peace that fell over camp, for he felt oddly calm for a man still facing a potential fiery death from above.

After an eternity, Eragon Shadeslayer nodded in satisfaction and exited the tent with Wilhelm at his side. The white-haired man moved awkwardly, as if his skin didn't quite fit him right, but no amount of clumsiness could bow the regal tilt of his head or dampen the respect his presence commanded.

Wilhelm's men parted like water to let them through. Like Shadeslayer, they still had swords and other weapons tucked into their belts, but none looked ready to invite further hostility. Even when the magnificent sapphire dragon swooped out of the darkness to land at the edge of camp, many people tensed, but did not draw their weapons.

With some difficulty, Eragon clambered onto the dragon's back. Once its Rider was mounted, the dragon unfurled its wings and vanished into the night.

Wilhelm waited a few minutes to see if fire would still rain down from above, but the Shadeslayer kept his promise, and the night remained silent.

The self-made general gave his men their leave, thanked them for their service, and then without even bothering to collect his remaining belongings, readied his horse himself and rode for home. Slowly, but steadily, others followed his lead until not a soul remained. They dispersed in all different directions, either returning to their families or heading north to join their comrades at Urubaen.

Seeing not a single soul suicidal enough to approach Aroughs, Eragon gave the signal, and his clan finally abandoned camp too.

Despite the ungodly hour, many rebels abandoned their beds to welcome their dragons back with full applause, for all felt safer with winged, fire-breathing alongside them. While Saphira and her 'sons' were eagerly received, confused murmurings started over the white-haired stranger upon her back, the unknown violet dragon with them, and Majesty's suspicious absence.

Their welcome became far more cordial when the stranger revealed that he was indeed Eragon Shadeslayer, having at long last returned from a 'pilgrimage.' His white hair and blazing eyes were but signs of his 'spiritual cleansing and rebirth' and not cause for alarm. While Majesty had business to attend to elsewhere, he had sent one of his 'loyal subjects' as a sign of good faith and to ensure the Varden still had two adult dragons to aid them in the march north.

Away from prying eyes, Eragon was more honest with those who knew his secret. He was King of the wild dragons in truth now, but the world still had need of Eragon Shadeslayer the Dragon Rider, and the full power of the King's Wrath was a surprise best saved for a more desperate hour.

Arya, whose own sister had suffered a terrible fate at trying to change her fate, wondered how Eragon and Elva could have so easily changed their shapes, when it had been beyond the ability of the best elven casters.

Eragon had answered her honestly. "Dragon magic isn't like the magic tamed by the human language. Even I can't control it fully, only tell it what I would wish for it to do." He waved a hand at his own imperfect guise. "It would have been easier to assume an appearance completely like my old self, but this was the best I could manage. Beneath her skin, Elva was always a dragon. My magic didn't change her nature, but freed it."

"And you were born human, Master Eragon." So entranced by the complexity of his disguise, Blodgharm had been unable to tear his eyes away from him the entire night. "Wouldn't this be the face of your true nature?"

"My transformation at Helgrind changed me from the inside out. I haven't been human since very early on." From a human face, dragon eyes steadily met those of his audience. "This skin is no truer than Elva's was. When the time comes, I will shed it for good, and I will no longer be Majesty and Eragon Shadeslayer, but simply who I am."

Lady Nasuada dipped her head in silent acknowledgement of his wishes. Since his coronation as a King, Eragon was no longer her vassal, but an equal she had no right to order around. "If you wish for your secret to remain so, I suggest ordering Elva to temporary take a pseudonym. With the dissappearance of her human self, it would not take long for connections to be made between Elva the girl and the dragon who also shares her name."

"I have already told everyone wild dragons don't put much stock in names." As dragons had only gained traditional names after the first Blood-Oath Ceremony, that hadn't technically been a complete lie. "Should she wish, Elva can choose a new name to go by, or even none at all."

"Violet!" Angela cried with a delighted smile. "Until the truth can come out, I shall call her Violet." Solembum rolled his eyes in exasperation, but Eragon had seen to be much to be phased by a witch's antics.

"I assume she'll take your original place in the battle for Feinster then?" Arya asked.

Eragon nodded, a draconic smirk spreading across his face. "Master Oromis's forces plan to seize the most important settlements on Lake Isenstar's northern shores before marching to Gi'lead. With a Rider and two dragons, I'd like to think we could take our next major city first."

Within a week's time, the last preparations had been made, and the forces that hadn't left behind to garrison Aroughs were sailing up the coast to Feinster. With Feinster built on the water, and the massive swamp north of Aroughs to slow down any force that tried marching through, utilizing Surdan and captured Imperial ships to transport the troops had seemed the fastest option.

Despite the fleet at Aroughs having been thoroughly destroyed, there were sizable fleets at Kuasta and Narda, and an even one larger one stationed at Teirm, For all the Varden knew, those ships could now have been docked at Feinster and teeming with soldiers, or just waiting for them to leave Aroughs ripe for recapture.

Acting on a hunch that could have been another half-remembered vision, Eragon and Saphira had flown out to the mouth of Aroughs's harbor, where a familiar face was waiting for them.

What are YOU doing here, water worm?

Thalassa's head barely broke the water's surface, but her emerald eyes glittered menacingly. Coming to speak to you on Mother's behalf, obviously. Our ancestors are more forthcoming to us than your silent stars, and Mother was instructed to send a representative here to negotiate with you damned fire-breathers.

Aye, but why YOU, of all possible serpents?

Because Prasavitri has a sick sense of humor, Eridor interjected privately, having finally awoken from yet another long sleeping spell. It's been centuries since the Riders allowed the sea serpents to hunt in coastal waters, where some of the best hunting grounds are, and not since humans were added to the pact where they allowed to prey upon ships. The water worms would be a great ally to defend our waters, but tread carefully.

"All human settlements are off-limits," Eragon stated, tone leaving no room for debate. "Rebel and Imperial settlements. You will not enter their rivers and lakes or harbors. Should a small fishing or merchant vessel be within sight of shore, you can't touch them." His burning blue eyes bore into Thalassa's. "I also know even a serpent your age is intelligent enough to know the difference between a civilian craft and an enemy warship."

Thalassa hissed eagerly. And those ships who can't see the shore.

Eragon swallowed hard. Try as the Riders had to police the waters, not even they had been able to stop the older, more brazen sea serpents from preying on ships that had foolishly strayed too far from land. The sea was vast, and not even a Rider could find a sea serpent that didn't want to be found.

"My domain is upon the land. I cannot speak for those who would leave it." He ominously bared teeth too sharp to be human. "But, for the duration of this war, you shall touch no ship with a painted bottom, for they are my people."

The sea serpent remained silent, weighing the strength behind his words. While the dragons had been practically persecuted to extinction, Prasavitri's children had thrived over the past century. Counting all extant dragons (including treacherous murderers), they numbered but ten, not even a fraction of those nesting beneath Vroengard.

"My kind lives long, and we have an even longer memory. We do not forgive, we do not forget. Should your Mother and your siblings break my terms, I shall turn my Wrath upon Vroengard until your magic can never take root there again."

Even Prasavitri respected vows made in the ancient language. No doubt on her Mother's cue, Thalassa accepted his terms with bared fangs, and vanished beneath the waves.

"I have a feeling this will eventually come back to haunt me," he said grimly, running a hand over Saphira's scales.

If dragons are fire, sea serpents are water and ice, Eridor intoned grimly. Should our kind's numbers flourish again, so shall the conflict. But Prasavitri remembers a time before the peace forced upon her kind, and she longs for her children to hone themselves again in battle. For now, she'll behave, and no Imperial fleet can dare leave their harbor without fearing for hungry sea serpents.

With the bottom of every rebel ship brightly painted, Nasuada and her generals were able to lead their men right next to Feinster entirely unmolested. Any Imperial warship that tried sailing out of the harbor to meet them was dragged beneath the waves by the coils of a massive sea serpent. As the rebel fleet had dragons wheeling watchfully above them like overgrown seagulls, surely any soul looking out from Feinster would be quaking in their boots.

While her forces were unloading and readying themselves, Nasuada and Orrin both had sent numerous emissaries to Feinster with generous terms for surrender, making it no secret Eragon Shadeslayer had returned to them.

The Imperial forces gathered at Feinster were larger and more organized than those stationed at Aroughs. Whoever was in charge was also far more stubborn than any commander at Aroughs, for every emissary sent had been spitefully rebuffed.

Young as they were, Trinnean and Caradoc were ordered to remain with the ships. A proud wild dragon to the end, Elva had defiantly refused any armor or wards, only grudgingly taking some protective enchantments after Eridor gruffly said he would see no more of his children dead.

Having grown use to the speed and agility fighting without armor provided her, Saphira also only accepted wards. Although Eragon was astride her, they had both refused the saddle. Eragon's skin was deceptively tough, more so than human flesh should have been, and so the saddle would serve only to slow Saphira down. Out of the kinship Eragon felt to Orik, who had adopted him into his clan, he wore the armor that had been gifted to him at the Battle of Farthen Dur. The sword he wielded was no Zar'roc, but human weapons would soon be obsolete to him forever anyway.

Unlike during the first Battle of the Burning Plains, Eragon and Saphira remained airborne at the head of the army. Blodgharm and his elves would surely flush out whatever enemy magicians remained in Feinster, leaving a Rider and dragon far more useful from above.

Having anticipated dragons this time, Feinster had clobbered together several massive crossbows that could theoretically shoot one out of the sky. But the weapons were large, inaccurate, required a massive team of men to load and shoot off bolts any dragon could easily dodge. Saphira and Elva worried far more about the archers aiming at their eyes and wings and the pike-men that tried impaling them whenever they swooped down to exhale fire.

Saphira, her magic strengthened by her bond to Eragon, had no need to dive so dangerously low. Her soul truly in tune with her mate's, her flames had greatly enhanced power and range. While the ground forces engaged the Imperials on the frontlines, she and Elva devastated them from the rear, taking out rows of archers and reinforcements.

Not long into the battle, Arya and Blodgharm had managed to breach the city walls in their hunt for rival magicians. Realizing the day all but lost, the more desperate Imperial spell-casters had banded together, sacrificing their lives to summon a new Shade into the world.

Feinster's last hope did not survive even a minute against two of Islanzadi's most powerful warriors.

Once the last traces of resistance were mopped up, and the formal terms of surrender exchanged between sides, Eragon and the she-dragons had eagerly retreated to the abandoned farm on the edge of the city that Trinnean and Caradoc had claimed for the night.

Neither one can quite agree on who actually disposed of the Shade, so now they're both stuck with the title 'Shadeslayer'. Elva chuckled. I wonder how long their pride can stand it.

Caradoc cocked his head in confusion. Isn't 'Shadeslayer' what the humans call you though, Uncle Eragon? What right do Lady Arya and the cat-elf have to it?

With Elva now too large for the position, Eragon had taken her prior spot between the younglings, one hand each dedicated to scratching their budding third pairs of horns for them. Aside from breaches for modesty's sake, he was unclothed. After his time as a dragon (and still being one beneath his human guise), clothes felt too constricting, an evil to be dealt with only when necessary.

"I only managed to kill Durza because Saphira and Arya provided me the distraction to do so," he admitted easily. "It is a title I never thought I deserved, so I'm happy others are beginning to be associated with it."

What do they call you, Father? Trinnean piped up.

The Order referred to me as Eridor Bluefire, for the heat of my flames, but that's hardly a unique title. All Kings and Queens wield the Wrath, and I certainly wasn't the fire to breathe blue fire. After a moment's hesitation, he added, I was very young when I defeated my father, less than fifteen. When I died, I was only in my thirties. Do you remember how big Master Glaedr was, my sons? Most clan-leaders were around his size, if not bigger. Vanilor was an old and mighty King, and then suddenly they all had to answer to me, his runt of a son. If they were polite, I was called Young King, or Little King. If they weren't, I was Runt King.

Caradoc turned innocently to Eragon. What will they call you, uncle?

He frowned grimly, remembering how scornfully many of the dragon souls had looked down upon him. Did they already call him Abomination or Aiedail's Folly?

Saphira looked to her mate thoughtfully. Your first spell was 'brisingr' was it not, dear one? At his nod, she exchanged a meaningful glance with Elva. And your first act as a dragon was to burn the Lethrblaka and their spawn to cinders.

Fireborn, Elva murmured. They shall call your uncle Fireborn.

Feinster had fallen. It was the third major city lost to him after Aroughs and Ceunon, along with many other minor towns and villages too unimportant to deserve a place in his official maps. With elven forces steadily marching along Lake Isenstar's shores, it would not be long until Gil'ead joined the list. What city would be next in the south? Melian? Dras-Leona?

Despite the gradual loss of loyal settlements, it was the reports of the previously unknown violet she-dragon at Feinster that had sent his generals into conniptions. Just how many wild dragons answered to Majesty? Just how big was the army he was surely amassing, and where would they strike first?

Galbatorix's frowned deepened as his black eyes shifted westward. Prasavitri was a vengeful old bitch who had passively sat and watched as the Forsworn had razed Doru Araeba to to the ground. Once the Riders were dead and gone, she and her children had viciously turned on Galbatorix's forces, claiming Vroengard entirely for themselves. With the seat of his power to be located on the continent itself, Galbatorix had not seen the need to waste precious resources reclaiming a burned husk of an island from water worms.

And now Prasavitri's children had his fleets at their nonexistent mercy. Any warship that tried leaving a harbor found itself dragged beneath the waves by a ravenous sea serpent. Narda and Kuasta had been boiling with unrest since news had first spread of the elves emerging from their forest sanctuary. With Imperial forces largely recalled to the Empire's heart, and its navy trapped or decimated, full-blown rebellion had exploded throughout the Spine. Even Teirm, locked down as it was, was becoming dangerously unpredictable.

"I would have been fine with it all burning," Galbatorix grumbled to Shruikan's puppet of a body. The beast's dead white eyes blinked listlessly back at him. "In the long run, it would have made everything easier. But that runt's allied with water worms, Shruikan, and he's resurrecting abominations just like himself." His black eyes burned, and Shruikan's body rumbled with his hatred. (and I can't abide by that)

Resurrecting the she-dragon from the whore might have been a failure overall, but her body had been flawless. If only he could give the dragon soul a better reason to stay put...

"Leverage, Shruikan! I need leverage." His face nearly cracked with the grin that crawled across it.

A dozen levels above his head, he had some sulking right in the dragon-hold.

"I believe I have put off a family reunion far too long. It wouldn't be kind of me to keep them apart any longer."

Summoning a page, he ordered that the magician Darnell be brought to his chambers for his long-deserved reward (because he would be the means to an end.)

Chapter Text

After safely returning Jarshan and the boy into Imperial hands, Darnell had first enjoyed his respite from official duties. He had spent many months planted amongst the Varden and had gleefully relished in no longer having to hide his intelligence or magical prowess. Galbatorix's servants had been ordered to treat him like a hero, and gods, they had done so.

Darnell didn't know what had become of the boy, but Galbatorix had freed Jarshan from his imprisonment, and that was all that mattered. From afar, he had secretly watched the gray dragon's recovery, his heart soaring with awe and pride when Jarshan had managed his first true flight from the dragon-hold.

Despite watching from afar, Darnell had never sought the dragon out. In the early days, Jarshan had still been weak and not in total control of his body, and Darnell hadn't wanted to add to the humiliation by visiting him in such a state. Afterward, Jarshan had never strayed far from the sky or the dragon-hold, his distate of the Fortress and the people within it all too obvious. Darnell hadn't wanted to add to his distress.

Weeks later, Darnell remained at Urubaen, his only standing orders to remain well rested and to never, ever leave the Fortress's boundaries. Galbatorix might have insisted he was a hero for returning a loyal dragon to Imperial service, but Darnell felt a glorified prisoner, for his oaths prevented him from leaving. Although his son was stationed only several leagues away from Urubaen, even his polite requests for a visit had been denied for some reason or another.

For gods' sake, I'm a member of the Black Hand. I should be on the front lines, not wasting away in misery!

Even in the Fortress itself, rumors spread that the 'Mad King' had been even madder than usual. After all, what sort of ruler recalled all of his armies and left his cities mostly to fend for themselves against the rebel horde? His dragons, his greatest assets, remained trapped in Urubaen like Darnell.

Darnell had thought things couldn't possibly get any worse when the gods had proved him wrong. He had been brooding in his chambers, minding his own business, when his heart had simultaneously burned in agony and an overwhelming euphoria. He had still been puzzling the sensation when Shruikan had snapped, tearing free of his shackles and going on a rampage that could have brought the Fortress crashing down upon their heads.

No one was quit sure what the incident had meant, only that it was a bad omen. If the King couldn't even control his own dragon, how could he hope to preserve the Empire?

Pacing his chambers like a caged beast, Darnell had been interruppted by a page. The King promptly demanded his presence down in the throne room for a matter of the utmost urgency.

Darnell swallowed in dread. Galbatorix usually received his Black Hands in smaller, more private quarters far away from the unstable dragon he shared half a soul with. Still, at least the Fortress wasn't shaking, so at least he wouldn't be expected to help quell another rampage.

Entering the throne room, Darnell dipped into the customary bow, even though his eyes were trained entirely upon Shruikan than respectfully at the ground. The dread dragon was passively curled up behind his Rider's throne, white eyes dull, a far cry from the raving, black-eyed beast that had taken the Fortress's entire fleet of magicians to subdue.

Galbatorix himself was not perched upon his throne, but pacing before it. The moment Darnell bowed before him, the King stopped pacing and snapped his gaze upon him. His eyes were black, predatory, and far too like Shruikan's eyes had been the night of his rampage.

After a moment of unnerving silence, Darnell dared to speak first. "You summoned me, my lord?"

Galbatorix blinked at his voice, his stance losing its fierce edge and becoming more composed, more human. "Aye, Darnell, I did. You see, I've been putting off a family reunion for far too long."

Darnell searched the room for his son, but there was no one else present but himself, his master, and the black beast behind him. "...I don't understand, my lord. Is my son here?"

The King's eyes absently flicked upward. "Some levels above us. And it's not your son, really, but Serdar's."

Darnell's breath hitched. The name wasn't familiar, not really, but that didn't stop cold dread from snaking around his heart. Back in that confusing dreamscape, Jarshan had first mistaken him for one called Serdar.

"...Beg pardon, my lord?"

"King Vanilor had many children," Galbatorix began conversationally. "Jarshan was not only one of his youngest, but among the least likely to ever inherit his crown. In Vanilor's eyes, that made Jarshan useless, for he had far worthier offspring to devote his time to." Inhuman black eyes bore into his soul. "How fortunate for Jarshan that he had a childless uncle to raise him where his parents would not, an uncle that made him a force to be reckoned with. An uncle who was far more of a father to him than Vanilor ever was."

Darnell shouldn't have had memories of Jarshan as a timid little hatchling or a youngling looking for guidance or a young adult burning with passion and promise, but he did, and they flew through his mind in a dizzying array of sights and sounds through alien eyes and impossibly sharp senses.

Steadily, Galbatorix stalked forward. "Most dragons don't survive the loss of their mates, but Serdar was a royal dragon, and far too proud to die so easily. Without his mate, without any children, Serdar put his love and faith into one of his brother's lonely little hatclings, one that reminded him far too much of himself. He not only loved Jarshan as a son, but thought him to be their kind's savior, the one who would free them of the Riders once and for all."

The King's face twisted with a sick grin. "Jarshan always talked pretty, but he had no fire behind those words. If Serdar hadn't given his life for him in that first battle, he would have never made it so far." His grin morphed into a fierce snarl. "And now some little runt's stolen his crown from him. Without the King's Wrath, Jarshan is useless to me. Better as an Eldunari than a living, breathing, rebellious little dragon."

"NO!"

Hazel eyes flashed the dark gray of thunderclouds as Serdar's voice escaped Darnell's lips.

Back when he and Jarshan had first spoken in the misty dreamscape, Darnell had felt Serdar stirring languidly in his dormancy. He had been perfectly content to sleep then, and so had not awoken even with his surrogate son so close by. Now, however, Serdar had snapped to full alertness, and his panicked mind screamed alongside Darnell's.

"Next to a King, a mere royal dragon is worthless, but I can work with two." Galbatorix grabbed his chin and wrenched upward, forcing him to look directly into his soulless eyes. "So long as you're mine, Serdar. Mind, body, and soul. I am your King."

The King's touch burned. Beneath his skin, Darnell felt an inner fire of his own kindling, one too hot for his body.

Leave, Serdar urged. Leave for me. Leave for my son my son my sonmysonmysonmy-

As a father, Darnell understood the all-consuming need to protect one's young. His own son was an adult, well on his way to becoming a general some years down the road, and certainly not personally threatened by the King.

For Serdar, for Serdar's son, he could let go... and he did.

Darnell was free now, gone to a place Galbatorix could never reach.

Serdar was not, not ever.

Serdar Jumorasson was massive, the only dragon Thorn thought possible of matching Shruikan's broken body in battle. His scales were like a sky before a thunderstorm, his six curved horns like a crown, and his dark eyes windows to a broken soul.

Although Serdar only bore injuries from where Galbatorix's magic had unceremoniously tossed him into the dragon-hold, he lay even more despondently than Jarshan had after his torture. Thorn had thought it impossible for a dragon to weep, but Jarshan did, cursing the King, the stars, and the runt.

I'll kill him- first that little abomination, THEN Galbatorix and then I'll-

Serdar reached out a comforting paw, Jarshan quieting beneath his touch. Lifting his head wearily, the elder dragon turned his gaze upon Thorn.

You're lucky, little one, very lucky.

Thorn couldn't help but reply, I've been called many things, but never lucky.

Serdar smiled grimly. Compared to me, you are. Did you not know a dragon could survive the removal of their heart of hearts?

The younger dragon reflexively hissed in terror, curling up as best he could to shield his suddenly all-too-vulnerable chest. Looking over Serdar, he could now tell his elder was lacking something vital, a spark to his eyes Thorn, Jarshan, and the rebel dragons had.

He suddenly thought of the four Eldunarya within him, Shruikan's mindless body, and the little gem upon Galbatorix's ring that held his soul. Where is it?

Serdar's lip curled in disgust. With the rest of his treasure trove by now. Should you die right now, little one, not even our master's strongest oaths could keep you from soaring to the stars. His eyes swept over the two younger dragons. A dragon's power is weakened if too far seperated from their Eldunarya. You are both too valuable to yet risk weakening... I am not. When this body fails me, I'll be trapped in my Eldunari for as long as Galbatorix reigns.

Jarshan closed his eyes, looking as if he were about to wretch. Darnell was a loyal servant, a valuable member of the Black Hand. You were dormant, and content to spend the rest of a lifetime that way... and then I ruined everything, just like I always do!

The darker dragon nudged him sternly. I am a wild dragon, my son, and I chose this fate of my own free will. It is a fate you can still correct. I felt a new King being chosen that night in my heart of hearts, a King both you and I know is undeserving of Aiedail's mantle. Wouldn't it be symbolic for the true King, one of the last true royal dragons, to strike down two false Kings, claim his rightful power, and finally restore balance to the world?

Thorn's nerves buzzed in anticipation. Is this it, then? Is Galbatorix finally sending us south?

North, Serdar proclaimed somberly. We go north.

A century of isolation may have deadened humanity's reverence of the elves, but it had not deadened the ruthless efficiency of Islanzadi's mighty forces. With Oromis and Glaedr at the helm, the elven armies had steadily marched south. Perhaps the journey would have been more difficult if Galbatorix had left proper forces to engage them with, but it was all too easy to wipe up the remnants left behind.

After such easy engagements at Ceunon and the southern towns, Oromis's elves were already becoming complacent, alarmingly confident of their superior numbers and magical prowess. With the Forsworn long dead and the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka burnt to cinders, the foolish young warriors that had never seen combat during combat during The Rider War thought Galbatorix long past his prime, a toothless old tyrant begging to be put out of his misery.

Similar arrogance had led both the Order and the wild dragons to their doom. After all, how much damage could a few rogue Riders and dragons possibly wreck with their little rag-tag band of followers?

Oromis knew the war was from won. The closer they marched into the Empire's heart, the more soldiers there would be, the seasoned warriors instead of the novices and weary old men left behind on the fringes. There would be Black Hands and assassins, perhaps even several new Shades, lurking in the ranks. Murtagh and his dragon, Thorn, had yet to show themselves since that disastrous skirmish down in the Burning Plains. Rumor had it Galbatorix had a third adult dragon sworn to his cause, and if reports about the six horns were accurate, a royal dragon.

Oromis also doubted Galbatorix had spent the last century twiddling his thumbs. Gods knew what foul sorts of magic he had studied or discovered over the past century, or what his experiments and enchantments had morphed Shruikan into.

Some leagues north of Gil'ead, a proper army was waiting for them, one with seasoned commanders and skilled magicians strategically planted amongst them. Rather than foolishly expose himself and Glaedr to unnecessary risks on the front-lines, Oromis had safely remained above the rear flanks of his army, his aerial view allowing him the perfect place from which to direct his forces.

At least today won't be a total waste of time, Glaedr muttered. The greenhorns can actually get a taste of what is yet to come.

Oromis silently agreed. He had wise, experienced commanders heading his forces, ones wise enough to let their soldiers whet their appetite for war without taking unnecessary risks. There would undoubtedly be losses today, but minor ones that would only help teach his army the proper respect for their enemy.

Beneath him, Glaedr suddenly tensed. Look who finally decided to show themselves.

Cresting the western hills was a force twice the size his elves with. At their head flew a red dragon, Murtagh Morzansson astride him. Zar'roc, a blade that had cut down so many fine Riders and dragons alike, flashed red in his hand as the sun's rays caught it.

Crippled as Oromis and Glaedr were, they had centuries of experience and vast reserves of untapped energy on their side. Just from a quick glance, any mere soldier below could tell Thorn was positively dwarfed by Glaedr, and that there would be no contest if they ever met in a fair fight.

As his foe approached, Oromis knew the fight wouldn't be fair. Murtagh's eyes were inhumanly black and the smirk upon his face could belong to only one man.

"Galbatorix," he intoned calmly, even as Thorn and Glaedr warily began to circle each other. "I do hope this is not some desperate attempt to get me to defect."

"Please," Galbatorix scoffed from Murtagh's body. "You and your broken little beast are not even worth the trouble of facing personally, Oromis Thrandurin. I came only to collect my due."

Naegling and Zar'roc clashed as their Riders momentarily became close enough to meet, Thorn deftly ducking to avoid Glaedr as he snapped at him.

"The lives of the last Rider and dragon who survived the Fall? Those who so brazenly defied you by freeing themselves from Formora and Kialandi?"

Galbatorix sighed, not even blinking when Oromis tried throwing a powerful spell against his wards. "Those fools were never the brightest, but they were loyal, fiercely so, and that's all that matters. They died for me twice, after all."

Oromis had no time to ponder that before his dragon's mounting irritation drowned everything else out. Glaedr's mighty jaws were far more than capable of crushing Thorn's neck or biting one of his wings cleanly off. But what the younger dragon lacked in strength and size he made up for agility and cunning. Always favoring Glaedr's crippled side, Thorn feinted and swooped, snapping and scratching at the larger dragon. They were small wounds, but they added up, and Thorn was too swift for Glaedr's slashing claws and snapping jaws to catch.

Sending a quick warning to his bonded, Oromis barked a swift, simple spell that brightly lit up the air around them. Thorn reeled from momentarily blindness. It was all the distraction Glaedr needed to strike, savagely digging his claws into his shoulder as he pulled him in for a lethal bite.

Galbatorix roared something that sent the two dragons flying apart. Were it not for the wards cushioning them, the blow's impact could have proved fatal.

Stunned, it took several precious seconds for Glaedr to right himself and pull out of his terminal dive. As he swooped up, Thorn was already upon him, tearing at the vulnerable area around his crippled leg. Slashing out with Naegling, Oromis managed to hit the dragon's muzzle, startling him enough for Glaedr to kicking him back to begin their dance anew.

Unbeknown to Oromis or Glaedr in his blind rage, Thorn was leading them away from the elven army until they were solidly above Imperial forces. Still, although the pair was now all too vulnerable, no additional spells fired from below.

Too late did Oromis look down and realize the trap they'd been drawn into. Calling upon his reserves, he rattled off every spell he could, thinking there could be some obscure combination his enemy was not defended against. Impassive as a mountain, Galbatorix stoically took them all. As Oromis used up his reserves, so was Glaedr's stamina worn down. Drawing on energy from his Eldunarya, Thorn never faltered, even as a dragon far older than he was driven into exhaustion.

Concentrated on Galbatorix, Oromis did not notice his doom until the long-dead Jarshan Stonescales dove out of the clouds, supernaturally strong flames pouring from his maw. While the power was nothing compared to the might of a fully-realized King, it was still enough to burn through many of the wards Oromis had meticulously wrapped over himself and his dragon.

Screaming as the flames seared the air around him, Glaedr whipped blindly away from Thorn, aiming a fire-blast at Jarshan as he swooped back for cloud cover.

The stump of the leg Thorn had ravaged was bleeding badly, and Glaedr's agony and panicked rage blotted out all else in his Rider's mind. Oromis was still attempting to string his thoughts into a coherent spell when Galbatorix shouted. Something large and dark slammed into Glaedr from below, ripping its claws into his chest and belly.

Whether by design or unfortunate coincidence, the creature had torn the saddle free and Oromis along with it. Clenching his stomach in shared agony, the Mourning Sage fell at a dizzying speed, his dragon's dying scream echoing in his ears and soul before everything went black.

His kind had never been exceptionally spiritual, caring little for gods and spirits unless they bothered showing themselves to their world. Until a dead dragon had come back from beyond the grave to explain everything to him, he had certainly not believed in any sort of afterlife for anyone, let alone for himself.

Because he hadn't believed in any sort of eternal paradise in life, would death reward him with only oblivion?

Compared to the unbearable agony paralyzing his body, the loss that had shredded his soul to pieces, oblivion would have been preferable to hell.

Forcing his eyes open, Oromis found himself on his back and unable to move, the bones in his arms shattered and his legs still tied to the saddle. He couldn't even Naegling around him, having let go of his blade upon blacking out.

A battle raged around him, but he was not in the midst of it, powerful wards keeping both armies at bay. His elves fought fiercely to get to their commander, but the King's men had been emboldened by their initial victory and were determined to make it a total one. Within the confines of the wards, Jarshan circled overhead like a vulture.

Oromis couldn't stop himself for searching for the body of his fallen friend, the loyal companion who had been at his side for the better part of a millennium. He wailed in grief when he saw his proud, courageous dragon reduced to nothing but a broken, mutilated body.

The massive six-horned dragon that had slammed into Glaedr from below had ripped right into his chest, taking his heart of hearts as his prize. The dark dragon still stood by his kill, holding the golden Eldunari in his bloodied jaws.

Oromis groped for his dragon's presence a final time, to say his goodbyes and share his love before death ripped them apart forever. Reeling over his loss of a physical body, Glaedr was catatonic, and did not respond to his Rider's frantic pleas.

So instead Oromis turned his gaze back to his dragon's murderer. Murtagh Morzansson casually leaned against the dragon's bloody body, his eyes still black with Galbatorix's soul and Thorn crouched a short distance away.

He may have been coughing out blood between his words, but Oromis wasn't ready to let go just yet. "That fall... should have... killed me."

Galbatorix stalked toward him with a predator's cold grace. "Necessity forced me to decapitate Vrael before I could gloat. You're the only true Rider left to finish off, and then your age will be over for good." His boot ground into Oromis's left hand, but he could no longer feel his limbs anyway. "At least let me savor this age's dying gasps."

Face to face with his long-time enemy, with nothing left to lose, the questions that had haunted Oromis for decades came to him. At least let him savor some answers before he died, if he could not have Glaedr.

"The Forsworn... how did..." He coughed on a particularly bad mouthful of blood, but Galbatorix only arched an eyebrow in idle amusement.

"Perhaps one or two of them genuinely believed in the noble cause of overthrowing the tyrannical Order of Dragon Riders and beginning things anew, even if they had to follow me to do so. Most were power-hungry bastards that thought they could greatly profit from a little change in the regime." He growled in feral disgust. "I certainly didn't stop them from killing themselves from their own ineptitude, or from letting others do the work for me." The Mad King smirked conspiratorially, the black of his eyes somehow growing even darker as his voice noticeably dropped. "Did you know I would have only needed five of my Forsworn to get this far?"

Galbatorix pensively frowned over at the dark dragon, now merely speaking his thoughts aloud. "Now that I have the Call mastered, perhaps I should reward them again for their loyal service? They were all born for me twice, and died for me twice. Perhaps they're willing to make it thrice..."

Oromis didn't care about his mad ramblings, cutting him off the moment his breath returned. "T-the E-E-"

"I do not even need them near me to harness their power anymore." His eyes flickered over to the golden Eldunari that now housed Glaedr's soul. "It's been quite a while since I had a new one to add to my collection."

Oromis's heart sank. Back before they had learned the truth behind Majesty's origins, he and Glaedr had planned not only to reveal the secret to Galbatorix's power, but to hand over Glaedr's own Eldunari. Even if they fell in battle before Galbatorix, at least then the Order's future would be secured, able to be properly rebuilt anew from Glaedr's memories and experience.

After learning the truth of what had happened to Eragon, Oromis had been too distracted to remember his earlier plans until the dragons had long since flown away. By then, Glaedr had had a changed of heart, and no longer wanted to linger on in the world after his Rider died. Eridor had not only confirmed an afterlife for dragons, but the possibility of rebirth.

Glaedr hoped to start a new life alongside me... and now he shall never have it.

His voice having failed him, and his secrets soon to die along with him, Oromis opened his mind to Galbatorix's. He was beyond fear now and did not shudder at the cold, inhuman mind he touched.

You had the blessing of having your bonded die in your arms. As one Rider to the next, would you grant me the same mercy, so that I may have time for a proper goodbye?

The King's face contorted into a snarl. "Your Order not only denied me another dragon to fill the void Jarnunvosk left behind, but did not even have the mercy to put me out of my misery even after I practically begged for death. I could only hope to show you the Order's kindness lives on within me, Master Oromis."

Snatching Glaedr's catatonic Eldunari from the dark dragon, Galbatorix gracefully mounted Thorn.

As the two dragons rose to join Jarshan above, Glaedr's presence fading with them, Oromis closed his eyes and finally surrendered to oblivion.

When Galbatorix had hijacked Murtagh's body, Jarshan could not contain the shiver of foreboding that traveled down his spine. Murtagh and Thorn may have been under stricter oaths than him, oaths that no doubt allowed their master to control them like puppets, but Jarshan had never though the King capable of posessing complete control like that until he had seen it for himself.

Once Serdar and Thorn were safely airborne, the wards holding back the battle had dropped. While the Imperial soldiers were emboldened by the victory, the elves had been whipped into a murderous frenzy by the deaths of their commanders and attacked so fiercely even the reinforcements Galbatorix had brought couldn't fend them off.

Murtagh's eyes were still black and soulless as he sneered down upon the battle. "Pathetic vermin. I obliterate their biggest threat and they still cannot turn the tide of battle."

They have no more dragons while you have three, my King, Jarshan answered cautiously. If you would allow us to-

"NO!" All three dragons instinctively flinched. "Even with Glaedr vanquished and Serdar returned to me, the rebels still outnumber us by a dragon. You and Thorn are still pitifully young and small, Jarshan, and your uncle is a broken creature now. I will not run the risk of losing any of you in such a minor battle."

Jarshan looked skeptically to the battle below. If the elven forces could be broken today the entire course of the northern campaign would be changed. Past experience kept his thoughts private.

"If they cannot rise to victory with their King at their head, then they are weak." Galbatorix's eyes narrowed. "I despise weakness."

"BRISINGR!"

Ancient and massive as he was, even Shruikan's flames were not pure black, but dark violet. Galbatorix's fires, however, burned midnight black, the same color as his eyes. Rebel and Imperial alike, they devoured everything in their path, burning through wards and armor until the entire battlefield was consumed.

Even in the Rider War, Galbatorix had not been above sacrificing his own soldiers if it meant devastating the enemy. The carnage below was still horrifying to Jarshan and Serdar, but not unsurprising. Young and relatively innocent as he was, Thorn couldn't help but keen in terror, but the moan quickly died under the warning gazes of his elders.

Though the dragons safely circled leagues above the inferno, sparks, ashes, and sweltering heat still floated up to them. Jarshan imagined himself flying above hell, a promise of the eternal torment that awaited him if he died before finally avenging kind by slaying the Mad King.

For a while Jarshan had feared the flames had grown behind even the King's control and would only spread until they had consumed Gil'ead and beyond. Yet, after what seemed like an eternity, the black fires finally died down. The supernatural inferno had not even left charred remnants behind; only ash that would be carried by the winds until it covered half of Alagaesia.

"Thorn," Galbatorix growled after the last of the flames had petered out. "I expect you and Murtagh to return to Urubaen with the Eldunari immediately. Jarshan, Serdar... the rebels were foolish enough to leave a good portion of their soldiers on the Burning Plains. Since dragonfire still burns beneath it, I trust you two shouldn't have any trouble coaxing it back out."

Of course, my King, Serdar answered soothingly. I trust you wish to leave the main force to yourself?

Galbatorix quirked Murtagh's face into a small smirk. "Very astute, Serdar. But I have dragonfire my own to kindle first..."

The dragons winced as the air around them crackled with power. Somewhere far off, a hoard of Eldunarya screamed as their Black King bent them to his will. Then they were alone with only an unconscious Murtagh slumped over in his dragon's saddle.

Thorn nudged him once, making sure he was both still alive and safely secured before turning to his elders. What did he mean by that 'dragonfire' comment?

Making more like me, Serdar said grimly. An army of forcibly reborn dragons that are utterly obedient to him, a force from which to one day recreate his own Order of Dragon Riders from. He looked darkly at Thorn. Did you hear it too, youngling? The little secret about his Forsworn?

Aye... something about how he only really needed five of them? That they had lived and died for him twice and he'd reward them with a third time?

Jarshan frowned. All of the Forsworn were twisted in their own way long before they ever found their way to Galbatorix, and driven completely mad when the names of their dragons were stripped from them. Yet, there were a few that pledged their loyalty long before Galbatorix proved himself a threat in the Order's eyes... There could have been five Forsworn originally.

I'm sure you recall your history, nephew, Serdar murmured, and why five loyal followers may be so significant right now.

The younger dragon snorted disbelievingly. They lived and died centuries before even Aiedail hatched and burn eternally alongside their sire!

So it was said before a King did today what it took an entire army of dragons to do to the Burning Plains. With black fire, complete disregard for even his own people, and ambition I have never before seen or heard of in any creature, save for Aiedail... and his sire.

Chapter Text

Circling over the Burning Plains, Jarshan's self-loathing and hatred towards the Mad King only grew. His strengthened oaths allowed only absolute obedience for Galbatorix's orders, with no room left to twist the words in his favor. When Galbatorix had commanded the rebel camp in the Burning Plains utterly destroyed, Jarshan and Serdar had no choice but to comply... and their orders extended to even the women and children.

Aside from the sentries, the camp below was silent, dreaming the night away and blissfully oblivious to their impending doom. The Forsworn had once ambushed dragon clans in a similar fashion; waiting until they they could catch them off-guard and then massacring everyone down to the last hatchling. Tonight, Jarshan would be no better.

My human life's friends are still here, Jarshan reflected. Well... perhaps Nolfavrell couldn't have been called a friend, but Jarsha and Irvard got along well. They're only pages.

Should we strike hard and fast, they shouldn't even know what hit them, Serdar said carefully. The Forsworn never gave our clans such mercy.

Indeed, they had not. Formora and Kialandi had been particularly sadistic, leaving dragons alive and helplessly pinned down by magic while they had harvested Eldunarya from them one by one, the dying screams of their kin the last sound they truly heard. Most of the sleeping rebels below would be instantly incinerated by the flames, their dreams undisturbed by pain and terror.

One of the last great battles of the Rider War had been fought over the Burning Plains. The dragons there had fearlessly faced death with a burning hatred that had survived their deaths; although the dragonfire on the surface had petered it, their magic still simmered beneath the earth and made the ground above inhospitibable, a grudge too great to ever die. All of that pent up rage needed only a spark to erupt again as it had during that fateful battle.

Swooping down from the dark sky, Serdar and Jarshan provided more than a mere spark, pouring their own frustrations into two potent tongues of flame.

As father and surrogate son soared skyward, the earth beneath them rumbled ominously. The rebels barely had time to panic before the earthquake gave way to searing heat and hungry flames.

Once, his human shape had been all that he had ever known, the only shape he thought could ever fit him.

Now, it stifled him. No matter how he stretched, his limbs felt cramped and clumsy. No matter how he concentrated, his senses felt muted, a pale shadow of what they had been. His skin was far too tight and he moved carefully, afraid one wrong movement would tear it in two all too easily.

Still, humanity had its advantages. As sharp and powerful as his dragon claws had been, only human fingers were small and dexterous enough to scratch those certain sensitive places between Saphira's horns. She thrummed in utter bliss, her satisfaction rippling across their bond so strongly Eragon closed his eyes to revel in it.

Naked but for his breaches, he leaned against the she-dragon's side, for nothing felt more right than her scales against his skin. The army marched far slower than dragons could fly, and were still a league or two behind them. With the younglings off with Elva and Eridor having the good sense to temporarily close himself off from the world, Eragon and Saphira were alone as they were going to get for a while, and shared as intimate a moment as their current circumstances would allow them.

A pity your true form isn't so nimble, Saphira teased.

Eragon smirked languidly back at her. Despite the temporary return of his voice, it felt far more natural to simply share his thoughts with her directly. You certainly weren't complaining about my abilities our night together.

The she-dragon sighed longingly. A night that I cherish, aye, but you can't expect it to keep me satisfied forever.

The dragon in human skin gritted his teeth in frustration. It would be so easy to shed this disguise and take his mate right then and there, to remind her of the bliss they had shared during their first coupling and to show off what else he could do. But dragon magic, even a King's magic, was a fickle thing. He had drastically changed shape for a good reason... and needed just as good a reason to return to his true form.

I know, Saphira. Fates willing, we shall have decades, if not centuries, more to spend our nights-

Eragon did not know he had blacked out until he had woken up in Saphira's protective embrace with a pounding head and an aching heart. Caradoc and Trinnean anxiously watched him from a safe distance, held back a grim-faced Elva.

Glaedr, he murmured faintly, unable to stop the tears. Glaedr and Oromis are dead... but I fear it's worse than that.

Reports flowed in from all over Alagaesia.

The news from the northern front came not from within elven forces, but Varden agents that had witnessed everything from Gil'ead. Glaedr had met Thorn above the battle, only to be ambushed by two larger dragons that had forced him to the ground. In the end only Murtagh and the three Imperial dragons had risen up again. Beneath them they left a black inferno that had completely incinerated both rebels and loyalists.

The nocturnal ambush on the Burning Plains had not been such a complete massacre, but the casualties were still devastating. Men, women, and children had been peacefully sleeping in their tents when two dragons had swooped out of the sky to set the camp alight before vanishing into the night. Many soldiers now had broken families awaiting their return... if they had any family left at all.

Roran had been out on patrol. Upon sighting the flames, he had raced back to find the dragons long gone and Katrina and their unborn child amongst the fallen.

Eragon fell to his knees and screamed in grief for the family his brother in all but birth had lost. He was too lost in memories of Katrina, beaming and radiant on her wedding day, of the small bump she and Roran had so tenderly cradled, to respond to the comforting hand Arya placed upon his shoulder.

However, he was not deaf to eye-witness descriptions of the dragons. The large, dark gray royal dragon meant nothing to him. Both he and Eridor, however, latched onto reports of the smaller stone-scaled dragon that also had six horns.

"Jarshan," both Kings snarled as one. Arya withdrew her hand as their air around them shimmered with heat. Within Eragon's human face, two blue eyes burned hot as stars. "Jarshan!"

Eragon wanted nothing more than to rip free of his false skin and hunt Katrina's murderer, Safiri's murderer, down. Eridor, usually his source of reason, only encouraged him. Oh, how he wanted to rip his brother's throat out, to dig his claws into his entrails, to make him burn-

No,whispered a calm little voice, a part of his soul deeper than even Eridor's. Not yet.

Clenching his fists so hard his too-sharp nails dug into his palms, Eragon swallowed his rage and refused to allow his inner fire to consume him. For now, his human face was more important than his King's Wrath.

He's Safiri's murderer, the murderer of your cousin's family! Eridor roared. If you refuse to act, then I shall!

As he once had, Eridor once again mustered his strength and attempted to seize control. Once, Eragon would have been too weak to reist temporary possession, but the balance of power between the two had shifted. The new King swatted down his predecessor's mind with minimal effort, firmly keeping him pinned down.

Not. Yet.

Were it possible, Eridor would have bared his fangs in challenge, but he no longer had a physical body to fight back with. Merely the guest in a mind and body not his own, he reluctantly let his power recede and submitted to silence.

Outwardly, Eragon sighed and raised his arms to show he was no longer a threat. Most of the people present had fled to the other side of the pavilion in fear of his feral outburst. Even Nasuada, Arya, and Blodgharm had taken several cautious steps back.

"I am all right now," he soothed. "Our plans need more attention than I."

"Indeed." Blodgharm curled his lips back in a snarl. "Queen Islanzadi and our elders will not take such a defeat lying down. Many clans lost loved ones at Gil'ead and yearn to show the Empire exactly how an elf prefers their vengeance. New forces are rallying as we speak, with twice the size and experience of our first wave."

Arya nodded. "The garrisons we left in Ceunon and the other conquered towns still stand. The new army can easily resume our progress south... unless you wish for us to unite with you sooner."

With Orik still solidifying his power in Farthen Dur (for many dwarves still drew the line at fighting alongside the King of their ancestral enemy), his loyal supporter Narheim had been left to command the dwarven forces in his stead. "Our clans have many more warriors to fight for them. The dwarves can easily pick up any slack the elves seem fit to leave."

Orrin bowed his head. "While I hesitate at withdrawing more troops from Surda's borders along the Empire, the surviving Imperial warships are trapped in their harbors as if through divine intervention. My forces along the coast can be shifted northward."

One of the Council of Elders turned imperiously to Eragon. "What support can be promised from the dragons? If his Majesty could send Violet to aid us in his stead, surely he has other subjects he can spare, especially since we lost both a Rider and a dragon older than even Shruikan."

"I can speak with his Majesty, but he is the King of the wild dragons and has the final say. I can promise nothing without first consulting him." And I have but four dragons in my clan!

Trianna's narrowed gaze settled upon him. Of those not in on the secret, she was perhaps the only one at least suspicious of the truth, for her eyes never left his white hair or inhuman blue eyes. "We still have four dragons in our retinue. Surely his Majesty would not begrudge us if he shifted one of his subjects north, where they would be of better use."

Eridor growled. You're not letting Elva out of my sight, especially not after what happened to Glaedr.

Nor Saphira, Eragon vowed. Not unless she wished it of me. With Trinnean and Caradoc still too young to breathe fire, and they and her mate firmly attached to the southern forces, only the direst circumstances would force her into leaving them.

"Saphira and I aren't going anywhere," he said firmly. "The younglings are still months away from breathing fire. Gods willing, they'll never see combat. The King also ordered his replacement to remain here, and she certainly won't be disobeying his orders any time soon." Like Eridor would ever let her.

Several council members tried to protest. Lady Nasuada silenced them with a wave of her hand. "The King of the wild dragons is an independent power who serves our cause of his own free will. I can no more command his subjects than I can King Orrin's." Her eyes flicked to the proud Kull whose horns scraped the roof of her pavilion. "Or Nar Garzhvog's."

Orrin frowned. "Speaking of commanding dragons, how on earth did Galbatorix suddenly acquire two more dragons? Did he capture them from Majesty's subjects, or did they pledge allegiance to the Mad King of their own free will?"

Jarshan was fortunate to have a master skilled enough in dark magic to pervert the laws of life and death, Eridor growled. None of Jarshan's traitors survived the Fall, so Galbatorix must have brought one of them back too. From the description, I'd guess it's my Uncle Serdar. He saw Jarshan as the son he never had and helped to feed his dreams of glory.

"Neither of those dragons ever served Majesty," Eragon said brusquely. "They betrayed their own race during the Fall and died decades ago. Galbatorix used some forbidden magic to call them back to his side."

"How can you be so sure?" Trianna questioned.

The dragon in human skin returned her gaze evenly. "During my absence I became familiar with every last one of Majesty's subjects and learned more of the circumstances surrounding the Rider War. I'd bet my life on the smaller dragon being the usurper Jarshan Stonescales and the larger dragon one of his loyal followers returned from the grave."

Even those unversed in magic knew no legitimate spell could resurrect the dead. Such confirmation of Galbatorix's power understandably set the pavilion into a panic. If the Black King could raise dragons, then why not Durza, or his Forsworn, or countless under armies and monsters the rebellion had struggled to destroy?

Not yet wanting to reveal how a dragon soul could choose to fall and be reborn, for Jarshan and Serdar had obviously perverted the process to somehow aid in their own resurrection, Eragon addressed their fears as carefully as he could. He swore in the ancient language that dragons were different than the other creatures in question and the only race Galbatorix could raise. Even then, he'd had very few that would ever choose to serve him willingly, and the Forsworn's fearsome beasts had been too broken to leave anything behind to resurrect.

That matter settled, Eragon contributed as much to the altered battle plans as he could, relying upon both his and Eridor's knowledge. When he had nothing else useful to give, he excused himself from the pavilion. After his earlier outburst, none dared stop him.

Eragon managed to hold his emotions at bay until he'd made it out of camp and back to his family. Once away from prying eyes, he collapsed into Saphira's waiting embrace, weeping in grief and rage until he had no more tears to spill.

One advantage of his human shape was how easily he could hide under Saphira's wing. Nestled against her reassuring warmth he could close her eyes and pretend the world beyond her presence didn't exist. In this little refuge he was not a King with a race's future thrust upon his shoulders, but a being who shared his existance with only the dragon who made up his world.

Eragon wished he could remain pressed against Saphira's side forever. After an eternity he finally emerged from beneath her wing, reassured Trinnean and Caradoc until he had once again driven the fear from their hearts, and hunted down a scrying bowl so he could console his cousin.

Although scrying relatively simple magic, Eragon still strained to hold the spell. Despite his human shape, he now had a dragon's soul and a dragon's magic. Using his old magic was like trying to bend a limb that had healed the wrong way in a direction that no longer suited it.

Roran had no magic himself, and so Eragon was forced to call upon a magician to fuel the spell on his cousin's end. At least the magician in the question had the good sense to temporarily make himself deaf so their conversation would remain confidential.

The Roran in Eragon's scrying pool was a pale shadow of the newly-wed that had seen him off to Aroughs, brimming with nervous excitement over his lifetime with his wife and unborn child. Roran's hair and beard were unkempt, his face gaunt, and dark hollows had settled beneath his haunted eyes. He looked as human as Eragon now did, and that wasn't a good thing.

Roran eyed his cousin's drastically changed form dully. "I hope your soul hasn't been shattered as mine, brother."

"This body is temporary, but it at least allows me to talk to you."

Eragon tried to bring himself to wish condolences for Katrina's death, but all the words sounded hollow in his head. He had lost three father figures and been betrayed by his biological brother, aye, but had never personally endured the agony of losing a child or the other half of his soul.

Roran's eyes closed wearily. "Katrina was still asleep when they attacked. The flames were so hot she likely never even knew what happened to her." His eyes opened to reveal a murderous glint. "I trust her murderer won't receive such mercy."

"He won't," Eragon vowed. "He'll burn, brother, and he shall be awake for every last moment the flesh is cooked off his bones."

"Good." Roran's lip curled bitterly. "I'm too weak, too human to avenge her myself. It's a good thing you are not. Give my wife and child the justice I cannot."

"Of course, brother... but what of you?"

His brother in all but birth lifted a blood-stained hammer into view. "Weak and inept as I may be, I still have my hammer and strength in my bones. I will not, can not rest until my family has their justice."

Eragon secretly sighed in relief. He had lost so much to his damned war that he could not bear Roran killing himself out his own grief. Perhaps, by the time he killed Jarshan, Eragon could stop him from committing suicide... or find the ability to accept the man's decision.

Although Roran would doubtless be fearless in battle, Eragon didn't fear for his cousin's safety. Roran had needed only a hammer to strike down the Twins, leaving a pile of bodies in his wake during both battles on the Burning Plains. Weak as Roran claimed to be, he fought with inhuman strength and ferocity.

"Make sure he knows my name, brother," Roran said darkly. "Make him know of Katrina and our innocent child... and make him regret what he stole from them."

Eragon swore. Although he had planned to kill Jarshan since learning of his rebirth, he now did so for his family's sake as well as for Safiri and her children.

From a young age, Uglamore had loathed the gods. They'd made him an awkward and gangly adolescent, outmatched by far stronger and handsomer men out there, and most always seemed smarter than him. No matter how hard he worked, there was always someone better to steal what was rightfully his from him, some slippery little bastard that found a way to twist Uglamore's good luck in his favor instead. They laughed at his awkward appearance and sneered down at him for his youth.

Uglamore loathed his parents too for giving him such a hideous name. No matter how strong or handsome he could one day grow to be, his name always made girls giggle and boys smirk. It mattered not what he tried to rename himself or how many fights he got into over it; Uglamore followed him like an ugly shadow, one he could never be rid of.

Perhaps, if his parents had given him a better name, or the gods given him better parents, Uglamore's luck would've been better. He would have one day been captain of his own battalion, a hero of war, the envy of men and desire of women.

Instead, he was trapped in Gil'ead as a simple messenger, forced to watch from a distance as smarter men with strong names and stronger bodies stole glory that was rightfully his.

From the guard tower, Uglamore had an unparalleled view of the unfolding carnage, but his eyes were entirely for the golden dragon that soared above the elves. How awesome it must have been to be a creature of such unmatched size and strength, one not even gravity could claim.

I bet dragons don't have to deal with lesser bastards stealing their glory and good luck. Uglamore glowered at the scrawny elf upon the great beast's back. Pity such a gift is wasted on a pack mule. If I was a dragon I'd be burning my commanders instead of carrying them.

"Rather stupid Rider," sneered Karl, a guard only several years his senior. Uglamore knew the bastard sniggered at him behind his back for his lowly status. "The battle could be his if he just used that dragon."

"Rather stupid dragon," Uglamore muttered, "to be used like that."

Karl laughed in his face. "As if the beasts are intelligent." He squinted at the horizon, pointing solely to attract attention. "And speaking of the beasts, here comes our own, even if he is late to the party!"

In comparison to the golden dragon, Thorn was a puny little runt. Although Uglamore envied the grace and power of both dragons, he knew there was no competition between the two... and then yet more dragons dove from the clouds to join Thorn. The golden dragon was helpless before all three. Uglamore's breath hitched at the bloody magnificence of the massacre. The guards simply cheered as the enemy Rider went down.

"Looks like Morzan's bastard finally proved his worth," said an older guard.

Uglamore's fists clenched. "Morzan wouldn't have needed two other dragons to help him."

He wished he was tall and strong and handsome as Morzan. He would be feared and respect, then, and could kill Karl and every last guard without fear of punishment. But he was only awkard, skinny young Uglamore.

Why be Morzan when I could be the dragon? Then I could just burn them all myself without relying on magic or a dragon to do it for me.

Four dragons had went down in the battlefield, but only three rose up. Uglamore was unsurprised to see the golden dragon dead, its glimmering Eldunarya no doubt ripped from its chest.

"Well," Karl remarked with a smirk, "I just believe our luck in this war tu-"

The man astride Thorn shouted something in a voice that carried all the way to Gi'lead. In that moment Uglamore knew that man was neither Murtagh nor even truly human. No human could have set the battlefield alight with one simple spell, consuming Imperial and rebel alike in flames of the darkest black.

The guards yelled in surprise, cried in dismay, or cursed Murtagh's insanity. Transfixed by the dazzling inferno, the hellish heat and ash the wind blew into his face, Uglamore paid them no mind.

Instead, he found himself laughing, excited as a child for the season's first snow. Giddily, he chanted, "He rises, he rises, he rises, ri-"

Karl backhanded him, sending him sprawling onto the ground. "Look at you, mad as the King."

The black flames awoke something within Uglamore, a wonderful inferno that longed only to burn and rage. Suddenly fearless, the adolescent pounced upon Karl. Not even bothering with punches, he tore into the guard like an animal with his too-short teeth and too-blunt toenails.

Had Uglamore been a dragon, or even Morzan, Karl wouldn't have stood a chance. But Uglamore was only Uglamore. The guards wrestled him from Karl screeching and struggling, but the bastard was still woefully alive.

"He rises!" the youth screamed in their faces as they dragged him down to Gi'lead's dungeon. "He rises and I rise with him! We rise with him! And then I'll make you all burn, you'll see!"

Uglamore didn't stop ranting, even after the guards slammed the cell door behind him and left him to rot in the darkness. The black flames had kindled a fire within him and one of his watery blue eyes now also burned black as proof. One day the inferno would be strong enough to consume him from the inside out. Uglamore wouldn't stop it, not when the fire would burn away everything weak and human within him.

One day, Uglamore would be something strong enough to live up to his promises.

Chapter Text

As a naive little hatchling, Trinnean had been skeptical about accepting 'Cousin Roran' and 'Cousin Katrina' into his clan. Human-shaped as Elva may have been back then, she had still been his little-big-sister with a dragon's heart and soul. Roran and Katrina had neither.

But Roran was Eragon's blood and Katrina had not only been Roran's mate but had lovingly carried his child within her much like Trinnean's own mother had once done to him and his brothers. Roran and Katrina shared a bond like what Eragon and Saphira had, like what Mother and Father had once had before everything went so very wrong. Anyone who loved as intensely as that could belong to Trinnean's clan.

He may have been in his egg for decades, but that had not stopped Trinnean from faintly remembering the gaping loneliness when his parents had been murdered and Mavalis ripped from him and Caradoc. After Elva had entrusted them to the water worms, Caradoc and Trinnean were all each other had, sharing their inner fires as best they could to keep the creeping cold at bay. While the love Caradoc and Trinnean shared was one for brothers and not mates, that did not lessen the strength of their bond.

Trinnean could not imagine living without his twin, no matter how obnoxious Caradoc could get at times. Roran had not lost only his mate, but their only child. Ever since he had joined camp, most creatures (whether man or dwarf or Urgal) had given him a wary distance. One needed only to glance into Roran's to realize he was a broken soul.

What time Roran didn't spend training was spent actively avoiding Eragon and every other living creature, sulking in silence as he vacantly stared at nothing, mind only on the family he had lost and vengeance against their killer.

After being rebuffed so many times, Eragon had finally heeded Father's advice and reluctantly left Roran to his grief. While Caradoc was all too eager to obey, spending his time sparring against Elva and honing his abilities, Trinnean found he could not leave his human cousin.

Trinnean came no further than what Roran tolerated, giving him plenty of personal space to wallow in his grief and self-hatred. Trinnean was there out of solidarity, to show his human cousin he still had a clan to turn to when he could finally open his heart again.

Roran had not yet spoken to him alone, had never even acknowledged his presence except to glare a warning whenever he strayed too close. Yet the amount of space he demanded seemed to lessen by the day. The distance between him and Roran was finally closing. Trinnean only hoped he could connect with him before it was too late to save another clanmate.

From Du Weldenvarden poured a force twice as large, twice as experienced, and thrice as vengeful as the prior elves. The ancient elves that had remained hiding in their forest while their younger kinsmen had marched into a massacre had been stirred into a frenzy. No Imperial soldier could stand against such a force and live to tell the tale. Their progress unhindered, no matter how fierce the Imperial resistance they faced, the elves mercilessly reached Gil'ead and avenged their fallen comrades. Only the direct orders of Islanzadi kept them from continuing south to Urubaen without waiting for the southern forces.

Dwarves, Surdans, Urgals, Kull, and defects from the Empire gradually replenished those lost in the Burning Plains massacre and strengthened those camped some leagues north of Feinster. No matter how restless the men grew their superiors would not allow them to leave until their numbers had been adequately increased.

When Roran had arrived Eragon had done his best to reach out to him, to offer the comforting embrace only a human body could allow. Wanting only to concentrate upon his training and mourn his family in peace, Roran had coldly pushed him away.

As a wild dragon Eridor knew all about self-destructive pride. As a King, he had brought many siblings and other clanmates back from the brink after they had lost loved ones. He urged Eragon to give his cousin his space for the time being, but to still let Roran know he was there for him once the damns burst and unleashed his grief in full force.

Shockingly, Trinnean was doing a better job at that than Eragon. As Roran had not yet rebuffed the young dragon as he had his own cousin, Eragon let them be and hoped for the best.

Slowly, the days crawled by and the dragons all grew restless. Lady Nasuada and enough of her fellow commanders refused to budge the army until they were deemed properly prepared for the battle for Belatona and the grueling march north to Urubaen. Having long since memorized the surrounding countryside, Saphira and Elva took to sparring each other, often setting the sky alight with their colorful flames.

Without Trinnean to occupy his attention, Caradoc had grown into a moody adolescent, harassing the soldiers to alleviate his boredom. No longer was a sharp glare from Eragon and a warning growl from his father enough to cow him into submission. Still trapped in his false form and no longer having much control over his magic, Eragon relied on Elva and his mate to teach Caradoc what happened to rebellious youths who tried challenging their elders for dominance.

In the beginning his false flesh had been merely stifling. Now Eragon suffocated in it. His heart craved a proper body to house it, his soul wings to fly and fire to burn. While his nimble human fingers could scratch itchy horns and stroke necks like no dragon could, his human body was pitifully dwarfed by Saphira's. No longer were they in perfect harmony but horribly out of balance.

Worse, the innocent touching and bond between their souls was quickly becoming not enough. His dreams were haunted by the mating flight, the night he had truly become one in body and soul with Saphira, and by fantasies of what he wanted to try next.

How easy it would have been to slip out of his human skin and show the world the might of King Eragon Fireborn. Yet whenever the longing for his wings or mate became almost overwhelming, something deeper murmured not yet. Grudgingly, Eragon obeyed and consigned himself to yet another day of agony.

The day the Battle of Belatona dawned, however, was a different day indeed.

Eragon had been in the process of donning his armor when he froze, Orik's gifted helm in his hands. Saphira's eyes narrowed as she saw the nails upon his fingertips even sharper than normal, having become true claws that lightly scratched against the metal.

What's wrong, dear one?

Her voice was enough to snap her him out of his daze. Frowning, he inspected the helmet thoughtfully. I don't think I should bring this with me. I... wouldn't want to ruin such a gift.

Saphira's breath hitched. Do you think today's it?

Eragon shrugged. If only the memories of my visions were strong enough to tell me. It's only a gut feeling, but seeing as my last impulse was sent by Aiedail to guide me to my Trial... Setting the ornate helm aside, he instead reached for one with no sentimental value.

Just in case, then, she teased. I don't want to get my hopes up too high.

Eragon smiled as best he could, unable to shake the feeling that something far more dire than his transformation was at hand. Aye. Just in case.

Under a white flag and a temporary ceasefire, Eragon and Saphira flew ahead to treat with Stevron Waldgrave. No matter how slight the chance, Eragon would not deny Belatona the opportunity for peace, anything to lessen the numbers of innocents already felled in this accursed war. Stevron Waldgrave was a member of a powerful and illustrious family, a man very close to Lord Bradburn. If Waldgrave could be convinced, then so could the leader of Belatona himself.

Waldgrave waited outside Belatona's gates with twenty guards all under similar oaths as Eragon and Saphira's. The Imperials had tried to argue twenty guards too few to take on a dragon should the meeting somehow go wrong, but the number was far better than the meager five Orrin had initially suggested.

Despite their discipline, even the toughest soldiers couldn't help but flinch as Saphira alighted across from them. Eragon wondered how the average Imperial saw him; the not-man with white hair and inhumanly blue eyes astride a sapphire beast.

After an exchange of titles and pointless platitudes, Eragon started off as respectfully as he could. "Master Waldgrave, I assume your opinion of the rebels is just as low as the average rebel feels for a loyalist such as yourself." The guards flinched as his burning gaze swept over them. "We each have our reasons for feeling as we do and I will not begrudge you your opinions. Yet, whatever wrongs the rebels have done to you, it was not rebels who massacred the men at Gi'lead."

Unlike his guards, Stevron Waldgrave met his eyes evenly. "It is said your golden Rider spent his dying gasp on a spell that would punish those that had struck him down, no matter the damage to his own side."

"Not even Galbatorix has accused us of such." In the ancient language, he added, "All reputable firsthand accounts from Gi'lead testify to Murtagh Morzansson unleashing the black fire. Your King did not even bother justifying the deaths of so many of his loyal soldiers after the fact."

"The elves never gave my northern brothers a chance to surrender before swarming upon them." Waldgrave's eyes narrowed. "Considering how skilled they are in magic, I cannot be sure if they taught you some way of subverting the ancient language to speak lies. Your very generous terms for surrender allow you into our city unopposed and would give you free reign to slaughter my people. Lord Bradburn and I would rather our people fight to the death than go meekly to the slaughter."

"Is there nothing than can change your mind?"

Waldgrave arched a brow. "Is there nothing that can change yours? You were born a loyal citizen of the Empire, Shadeslayer, and must surely have loved ones caught up in this bloodbath that are not so treasonous."

Eragon ran a hand over Saphira's scales. "Then you do not know my loved ones."

"And you do not know us, Shur'tugal." Waldgrave's eyes coldly flicked over Saphira. "However easily Aroughs and Feinster might have fallen for your underhanded sorcery, you should not underestimate Belatona. We have weathered Riders and dragons before when we first rose up against the Order's tyranny. We shall do so again."

But not a King dragon, Eridor murmured to him privately. Whatever tricks they have, they have never weathered a King's Wrath.

Aye, but I dread what they can do to make me wrathful.

Stevron Waldgrave's words about Belatona were all too true. The city's enchanted walls repelled all damage thrown at it while archers rained arrows and poured burning oil from its battlements. It seemed to take the lives of three rebels to cut down one loyalist. Rather than put themselves in the midst of battle and easy reach of the elves, Belatona's magicians hunkered behind their city's defenses, hurling devastatingly creative spells that bypassed or destroyed the wards Trianna and the Du Vrangr Gata struggled to maintain.

Elva and Saphira circled Belatona for weak points but found none. As Stevron had promised, Belatona was all too used to engaging dragons. Its buildings resisted dragonfire and even the strongest dragon magics hurled at it. Neither dragon dared fly over the city for the barrage of spells and arrows waiting for them every time they tried. The three giant crossbows tucked behind the Imperial front lines launched deadly bolts that were surely enchanted for accuracy, for Elva and Saphira struggled to dodge each one. Even when the bolts missed (which all so far had) their size proved lethal to the unfortunate soldiers hit instead.

Eragon reached for his human magic, but it simply would not come. The gradual fraying of his disguise had also worn away his precise control over his own magic. While the King's Wrath might prove differently, he did not know how long the transformation might take and so could not risk it upon the battlefield.

Elva! he called. Find the closest elf you can and see if you can make any impact on these walls with a rider!

The violet she-dragon obeyed, dropping back from the front lines to search for one of Blodgharm's elves, if not Arya or the cat-elf himself.

You should withdraw as well, Eridor remarked. There must be some quiet place for you to transform in peace.

Eragon silently snarled, pouring more strength into his and Saphira's wards when yet another enemy spell tried breaching their defenses. At least he still had control enough for that. And leave the front lines open to more danger than they're already in? Never! We can still search for weaknesses, still distract enough enemies to make a difference for the men below.

The last transformation into the dragon knocked you two out for hours, Saphira added pragmatically. We cannot afford such a delay now. Try lending me more of your strength, dear one. Perhaps you can pass on enough of your Wrath to make a difference upon these walls.

Drawing upon the ample stores of enemy in the belt of Beloth the Wise, Eragon complied, giving her all of the inner strength and fire he could spare. The flames already building her throat, the sapphire she-dragon gracefully swooped downward, opening her mouth to-

There was a man on the battlements that strongly resembled a younger Stevron Waldgrave. The spear he threw with expert accuracy was unusually green and beautiful for a weapon. Yet, no matter its beauty, it should have been harmlessly repelled by Saphira's wards.

Instead it burrowed into her chest in a place right above her heart.

Eragon screamed with his mate, her searing agony throbbing through their bond while his own chest burned. No longer were they flying, but falling, falling, falling-

-she'd flown for as long as she could, for the elves still chased her and her sole surviving egg, but she was tired and could fly no more-

-she'd still been alive when Galbatorix's black beast ripped her Eldunari out and mortally wounded she crashed into the dark sea-

-he was pinned down like prey, only able to scream as his Safiri, his beautiful and strong Safiri, died in his brother's jaws-

NO!

Eragon did not fight the inferno that broiled up inside him. Ripping free from the saddle, he strained for the sky, wishing his flames would consume those who had harmed his Saphira so.

And then he knew no more.

Roran knew not how many men he had cut down, but he was surrounded by a pile of bodies when a terrible cry snapped him out of his blood-lust.

A viciously beautiful spear and scarlet blood blossomed from Saphira's sapphire scales. Even as she screamed, she plumetted like a stone.

Roran's blood chilled as he saw Eragon agonized and helpless on her back. His cousin, his brother in all but birth, had tried reaching out to him so many times to comfort him in his grief. Roran had icily refused his advances until Eragon had finally given up. And now he was dying, dying alongside his-

The sky was suddenly awash in blue flames so radiant Roran shut his eyes for fear of going blind. They snapped open only at the bone-jarring bellow that sounded after.

Gone was the awkward, too-small human-thing Eragon had temporarily become for reasons not even he could fully explain. From the ashes of Eragon Shadeslayer arose a King dragon in all his terrible glory. His silvery-white scales shimmered in the sunlight, his six curved horns formed a wicked crown, and his burning blue eyes blazed with a god's furious power.

The yells and whispers quickly started, for everyone on the battlefield had seen the Dragon Rider become their King.

Again, King Eragon Fireborn roared his promise of vengeance. Even as the loyalists cowered back, Roran smirked in feral satisfaction, for the King's call had rekindled his earlier blood-lust into an awesome inferno begging to be unleashed.

As Belatona's walls and enchantments crumbled easily before the King's Wrath, Roran and his comrades surged eagerly forward to join the carnage, their shouts drowning out the terrified screams and curses uttered by the Imperial army.

Again, Eragon woke to ashes.

Even before opening his eyes, he knew his true form had been restored to him by the power in his limbs and the fire happily burning in his chest. Yet he smelled only the acrid stench of charred flesh, heard only the crackling of flames and heard only the shrieks of the frightened and dying.

The white dragon blinked open his eyes to utter devastation. He had utterly crushed the house beneath home when he'd fainted. The buildings around him were no better, either charred ruins or still smoldering with dying blue flames. In the distance other parts of Belatona still burned more ferociously. Even in the midst of the inferno, he suddenly realized he could hear the clanking of armor and the screaming of steel as swords clashed again and again.

There were also bodies, far too many to count. Some were far too small to be soldiers by any stretch of the imagination.

I did this. Were there any food left in his stomach, Eragon would have wretched. I don't even remember doing it, but I did this.

Your Wrath spoke for itself, Eridor intoned grimly. It cared not whom it hurt, so long as it could be appeased through burning the enemy as it had been.

SAPHIRA!

Reaching out with his mind, he thankfully did not meet gaping emptiness, but his mate's familiar warmth. Although she was unconscious, her life-force was stable and in no danger of spluttering out anytime soon.

Spreading his wings, Eragon took to the skies for the first time in weeks. No matter where he looked, the signs of his inferno stretched out as far his eyes could see. In the streets below, even those who wore rebel uniforms flinched beneath his shadow and scurried for cover like mice before a hawk.

Eragon Shadeslayer was their savior and Majesty a welcome ally. They are not sure of what to make of a creature who is both man and dragon, or why you kept the deception for so long. Those worth your loyalty shall come around in time.

If they never do, I won't blame them. Not after... this.

Your mate had been struck down. Lost in your pain and grief, you thought only to prevent those who hurt her from doing so ever again. You are not Murtagh, who voluntarily massacred his own army without remorse, nor like Jarshan. You are not them.

Glimpsing something vibrantly sapphire out of the corner of his eye, Eragon forgot about Eridor and hastened to his mate's side.

Although unconscious, Saphira looked merely to be asleep, her wounds all carefully healed and the grime cleaned from her scales. The wound that had nearly proved fatal was now nothing more than a faint scar on her chest.

For what seemed like hours, Eragon guarded over her vulnerable body. Hearing people approach, he bared his fangs in a terrible snarl until he realized they were friends.

I suppose everyone knows the truth now?

Arya dipped her head. "Once you revealed yourself, our oaths of secrecy were broken. Lady Nasuada already told everyone a censored version of the truth. The rebellion learning you actually have a dead King dragon's spirit sheltering inside of you will only make things worse." Her green eyes sympathetically glanced at Saphira. "Naturally, everyone would prefer hearing from you personally that you still very much Eragon Shadeslayer on the inside, human or not... but they understand why would you need a few days to recover."

Solembum curled his nose at the blackened remnants of a spear Angela cradled in her arms. I don't know why she insisted on prying that thing of a dead man's hands, but we have the weapon that did this.

"It's a Dauthdaert." The witch paused thoughtfully. "Well, was a Dauthdaert. There were twelve of them forged during the Dragon War explicitly for killing dragons."

Arya sighed. "My kind no longer remembers the incantations that created them, but they were created to resist even dragon magic. Not even your wards would have against one. All twelve were supposedly destroyed after the Blood-Oath Ceremony, but somehow the Waldgrave family got their hands on one. If they had one during the Rider War, that would explain how Belatona fell so easily, and why Stevron Waldgrave believed this day to be his."

Angela wrinkled her nose. "That coward should have wielded Niernen himself instead of having his only son die for him." She smiled grimly at the ruined spear when Eragon cocked his head in confusion. "Aye, this thing was named Orchid in the ancient language. The elves have a wonderful talent for making things both beautiful and deadly. I even think this may be the same Dauthdaert that killed me back during the Dragon War."

...What?

Solembum sniffed. As if I would have spent so much time with her if she was merely a fortune-telling witch.

"Correction: part of me was killed during the Dragon War. The part that prefers to be called Anea." Angela's hazel eyes flashed brilliant green. "Disembodied dragon spirits can only do so much to make the futures they want come to pass. Sometimes stars don't fall to merely live a second life, but to change the world with it."

Eridor growled indignantly. I chose to be reborn to change the world and I was never aware of myself until-

"Something woke you up," the witch finished. "I hit my head as a child in a fall that should have killed me. You're a King dragon who still had his Wrath and awoke to your mate's second life being brutally tortured. I'm what a reawakened dragon is supposed to be life in a second life. You and Eragon are something gloriously new and different."

Memories of all of his previous cryptic encounters with Angela came rushing back. Did you push us onto this path to bring more dragons back into the world?

"I serve a purpose that has yet to be fulfilled." The witch glanced down at Saphira, who was just starting to stir. "I'll leave you two lovebirds to your reunion. And I'm sure no one would mind if Solembum and I destroyed what was left of Niernen."

"That explains so much about her," Arya muttered once they were out of earshot. Green eyes softening, she then lifted a gentle hand to Eragon's snout. "I'm sorry today went how it did, but I'm glad to see you as your true self again."

With that said, the elf-woman gracefully slipped away in the opposite direction of the witch and werecat, leaving the dragons their privacy in the ruined city.

Upon hearing the news of the Battle of Belatona, of how a white-haired Eragon Shadeslayer had transformed into Majesty and laid the city to wastex, Murtagh had retreated to his chambers to brood.

Galbatorix's possession of his body had taken its toll upon him. At night Murtagh not only woke screaming from nightmares of the battle outside Gil'ead, but even briefly sharing a mind with his master's madness. Proud as he was, Murtagh had refused to even talk about it with Thorn, shoving his own dragon away and avoiding the dragon-hold whenever possible.

But no matter how tightly his Rider sealed his mind off, Thorn was able to glimpse through the cracks in his walls as he slept. Murtagh dreamed only of fire now; black flames that consumed all in their path, a searing blue blaze that devoured him from the inside out, and an inferno that tortured him without granting the sweet reprieve of death.

Fortunately, Murtagh did not dream tonight, but slept obliviously in a drunken stupor.

Thorn couldn't blame his Rider for that. He had only met Eragon once on the Burning Plains as a boy severely out of his element. It was impossible for Thorn to reconcile his memories of that brat with the godlike white dragon whose scars he still bore. And poor Murtagh called such a creature brother.

With his human asleep and not about to get into anymore trouble, Thorn finally rallied the courage to confront Jarshan. The self-proclaimed King had been gravely unsurprised by the news and had spent the whole day conversing privately with his uncle.

You knew this whole time, didn't you?

Laying alongside Serdar, Jarshan only blinked neutrally at the younger dragon. Aye. I knew even before the whelp himself did of the power he carried inside him. He snarled. The great King Eridor reborn as Eragon Shadeslayer, the last free Dragon Rider. I was dormant up until I sensed my brother had returned to this world to see that the dragons were bound to the Order forever. Only then did I find the strength to awake and fight for my freedom.

Serdar nodded. Jarshan and I are truly reborn and cleansed of our human lives. Eragon and Eridor share one body as two conscious souls, perhaps even duelling for control. They are an unholy abomination, neither human nor dragon.

Thorn growled, spreading his wings to make himself look bigger. Considering how drastically the elder dragons dwarfed him, the intimidation attempt was lost. Then you should have told us sooner! If we knew before, we could have-

The whelp is mine to defeat. Jarshan rose to his paws. Unlike Thorn, he looked menacing with his own wings unfurled. And the revelation has changed nothing. No matter how easily Galbatorix could crush all opposition, just as he did at Gil'ead, he sits in the dungeons with his secret little experiments and lets the opportunity pass him by!

Serdar eyed his surrogate son icily. Need I remind you of the success of the King's last experiment?

Jarshan's jaw dropped. How many other dragons could Galbatorix possibly have under his thrall? I went crawling back to him because I knew no other who could free me, he used me to force you out of dormancy, and he captured Thorn and Shruikan before the Fall. Certainly none of my other followers would give up their freedom to spare my life!

Thorn privately recalled his brief conversation with Shruikan. No matter how broken his body or simple his mind, the soul within his Eldunari was still very much alive, and Galbatorix went everywhere with that ring upon his hand.

With the older dragons preoccupied with their own speculated, Thorn discretely reached out to Shruikan's mind, ready to retreat behind his own defenses the moment he felt the scorching intensity of Galbatorix's presence.

Shruikan, is it safe for us to talk?

After a worrying moment of silence, the black dragon sent back, Safe for now, little one. Master-Rider too busy now to care.

Thorn shivered with even the mere thought of what his master did in the darkness of his dungeons. Busy with what?

First tell me about boy-King. Why do the stone-scaled and the old-one hate him?

Thorn quickly told him all he could of how Eragon Shadeslayer had turned out to be the reincarnation of the last King of the wild dragons, of how Eridor had somehow awakened, exerted his influence upon his new life so the two were now an unholy amalgamation of man and dragon.

Always there with Master-Rider, Shruikan began carefully. He and The Other forget me. Master-Rider doesn't like The Other, doesn't like much of him. Master-Rider thinks he's master of The Other... but Master-Rider not the master.

It made all too much sense. Galbatorix usually had an impeccable mask, but when he acted on his inner darkness he became something inhuman, a wild demon that destroyed all in its path.

Was there when Master-Rider freed the stone-scaled, Shruikan continued grimly. Was there when Master-Rider woke the old-one. Dragon-halves burned away human-halves until only dragons left. Master-Rider thinks himself master... but Master-Rider will burn.

Mad as Galbatorix was, he was preferable to the beast that had burned two armies alive outside Gil'ead, to the force that had temporarily taken control of Shruikan's body and nearly brought the Fortress down in his rampage. Thinking of such unchecked madness, Thorn couldn't help but keen in fear. Jarshan and Serdar snapped their gazes to him, now aware he was privately conversing with someone.

Can we stop this, Shruikan? How much time do we have?

Master-Rider wants to wait until boy-King at gate. Wait for enemies to gather so he can burn them all. The Other wants only freedom, clan, vengeance. Will not wait. Shruikan sent a vision of a snarling Galbatorix tearing his own priceless library apart as he cursed 'the runt.' Thorn knew from Jarshan and Serdar's shocked growls that Shruikan had now opened his mind to them. The Other comes. By next sunset Master-Rider will burn.

Jarshan looked at his uncle meaningfully. Our oaths bind us to Urubaen and prevent us from harming our master only as long as he lives. If this 'Other' destroys Galbatorix, then we're not bound to him anymore. He bared his fangs. Together we can strike down The Other before he ever finishes his transformation!

Shruikan grimly sent an image of a little mouse being brutally ripped apart by an enormous eagle. Old-one mouse to The Other's eagle. By time Master-Rider is burned, The Other will be larger than the golden one.

Ancient as Shruikan was, Glaedr had been centuries older and had dwarfed even Serdar on the battlefield. Thorn shuddered at the thought of ever meeting a dragon even larger, let alone one as mad as what Galbatorix kept caged within him.

My Rider is strong, Thorn replied, and a quick death-spell is some of the simplest magic in the ancient language.

Magic won't work, the Eldunari of Shruikan said simply.

Jarshan growled. My own brother, the mighty King Eridor, was brought low by a simple paralysis spell.

The Other is no King. The Other is-

Shruikan's mind exploded into a burst of agony as his body shrieked and thrashed storeys below, again shaking the Fortress's very foundation. Serdar collapsed to the floor of the dragon-hold, screaming and grasping for an Eldunari that was no longer there. Jarshan and Thorn gasped as the coldest chill either had ever felt surged down their spines.

Whatever it was they had been trying to stop... they were out of time.

Chapter Text

The Battle of Belatona didn't matter. None of the battles (none of the humans) mattered. What did it matter to him if his soldiers were cut down and his cities razed? The rebels were doing him a favor by helping him make way for a new age (an old age, resurrected as he would be).

Urubaen was all the battleground he needed, the sight where all resistance to his (MY) rule would be destroyed forever. The elves, the dwarves, the Varden, and the Urgals; all burned so the phoenix of a new era could arise from their ashes. All he needed to do was bide his time. Within a few short weeks (far too long!), Eragon Shadeslayer (the runt's little pet project!) would arrive with his pathetic little clan of five.

Shadeslayer meant nothing (everything) to him. He was but another Eldunari to harvest for the hoard. His mate and Eridor's offspring would be easy to bend to his will upon their King's (I am their only King!) death. The she-dragons would be great use for helping to create his (their blood will not taint my clan, let them burnburnBUR-)

Galbatorix knew his rage needed an appropriate outlet. The last thing he needed was to implode himself with pent-up magic or to allow his madness another opportunity to hijack Shruikan's mindless body.

Instead of with magic or mind, he unleashed his frustrations upon his own private chambers. (His subjects were unusually wary of him as of late, and the last distraction he needed was some futile assassination attempt with yet another display of madness.)

Galbatorix didn't blink as he ripped priceless manuscripts to shreds or pulverized book shelves with his bare hands. These treasures from Ilirea and Doru Araeba (were useless human things for a useless little human) had served their purpose long ago. He had learned all of their secrets worth remembering (and yet you're still an ignorant hatchling). The books and scrolls were now but an obsolete reminder of ancient era. They had no place in his new age (and neither do you!)

"SHUT UP!"

His hands were bloodied from his rampage in the library, but he did not register their pain. Even when his nails gouged into his skull to try digging the voice out, he felt only the pounding in his head as something older than the Order thundered for release... and the burning in his chest.

The Other had flared into the existence the very moment Jarnunvosk's death had torn his soul apart. Galbatorix had at first welcomed its rage and whispers, for from its presence he had learned the secret of how to bend Eldunarya to his will and harness their power for his own vengeance.

Yet, even as the Other had incinerated all who opposed him, so did it burn all he desired to keep. The wild dragons had protected their broods with an unmatched ferocity. The Other had raged at their defiance. Galbatorix had raged with him, slashing his blade and screaming spells until all the precious eggs were smashed and impressionable hatchlings slaughtered alongside their elders.

So it had gone until Galbatorix had but three eggs and Shruikan's broken body under his power. What good was his hoard of Eldunarya if he had no living dragons and Riders to use them upon? What good was it to be King when his subjects followed him only out of fear? Charismatic as he was, The Other always managed to get loose, and no one ever looked at him the same once he recovered from one of his 'bouts of madness.'

(You can order me no more than you can the stars, little human, and I am older than most.)

Galbatorix wondered how he had ever deluded himself into thinking himself master over The Other, not when it could rip his mind apart whenever it damn well pleased. Gritting his teeth, the King of Alagaesia sank to his knees and tried to reason with the unreasonable.

"We got this far together, didn't we? We rule an Empire, our hoard can soon rival the stars in the sky, and I showed you how to awake dormant dragons!"

The Other growled, the sound nearly splitting Galbatorix's head open. (A crumbling Empire and a hoard you scavenged from your Forsworn! The WORLD shall be my domain! I shall reap EVERY last star, even that upstart little bastard. Everything else can BURN!)

Galbatorix panted, face red from the pain and the heat. Were his chest burning any hotter, his body would be cooking from the inside out. For the first time since he and his companions were ambushed on Urgals that ancient fateful night, he felt genuine, bone-chilling fear.

"We always knew it would come to this." He took a shuddering breath as he finally stopped lying to himself that his dreams of rebuilding the Order would ever have come to pass. "I always knew it would come to this, you in this final battle with the one you despise above all else. But that day's not here yet. If you rise up now you'll rob yourself of the chance to finish everyone off in one blow."

(I endured untold millenniums of burning in hellfire with only the souls of the damned to subsist me. I slept within your pitiful form for but a few measly years before I awoke.) Galbatorix's knees buckled as his muscles stopped obeying him altogether. (The century I have suffered awake inside this vessel torments me more than an eon of the bastard's flames. No more shall I wait. My day dawns now! You BURN NOW!)

The Other greedily reached out for every last Eldunarya, from those beneath the Fortress to those sealed inside Thorn to the miniscule one upon Galbatorix's ring. Galbatorix's head rang with the unified scream of the massacred multitude as their energy was siphoned away in a spell far more devastating than the Black King had ever cast.

Galbatorix's body heeded a greater master now. As paralyzed and helpless as King Eridor had been on the night of his murder, the doomed man could only watch as black flames kindled up around him.

And then he was consumed in mind, body, and soul.

Even as he felt himself burning from the inside out, Shruikan felt he was freest he had been in over a century, ever since his Mas - no, just Galbatorix - had first bound him to his will. Technically, Galbatorix for the moment, but his mind was far too preoccupied to keep itself from being devoured to bother with its hold over Shruikan's body.

For the first time since he was a hatchling, the black dragon moved entirely of his own free will. Shruikan decided he liked his liberty so much he wouldn't sacrifice it needlessly right now.

As he had tried explaining to the others earlier, enough of Galbatorix would remain alive just to keep their oaths intact until it was far too late to try acting against The Other. But there were no vows stopping Shruikan from easily ripping free of his shackles and plowing through the closest wall.

Shouts immediately rang out throughout the Fortress as the Black Hand scrambled to stop another rampage. Not about to waste precious time in engaging them in a fruitless battle, Shruikan summoned the hottest flame he could muster and left the magicians to work their way through the burning throne-room. It certainly wouldn't be the last part of Urubaen destroyed today.

The King's personal chambers were already alight, swiftly eating their way through the walls and protective enchantments to the rest of the castle. Even for a dragon, the heat was sweltering and the only the wards still surrounding Shruikan allowed him to bear the blaze.

Galbatorix was at the center of what should have been his funeral pyre, but he was far more than a burning corpse. Beneath his charred skin obsidian scales were forcing their way to the surface even as his form grew and contorted. The transformation was still in its earliest stages, but soon the growth of the creature's bulk would be exponential. Stars willing, Shruikan would be gone long before The Other ever realized a servant had escaped his clutches.

The transition from man to behemoth had already mutated his hands enough so that the little silver band encircling one of the fingers had snapped right off. The black gem of Shruikan's soul glittered tantalizingly upon it.

Before the flames could rise any higher, the black dragon lowered his head and whipped out his tongue. Tiny as his Eldunari was, his large claws were far too ungainly, but at least his soul would be as safe as it could be inside his stomach (even if retrieving it, should he live that long, would be quite uncomfortable indeed.)

Eyes as black as oblivion snapped open just as Shruikan reclaimed his heart of hearts. A burning hand reached out for him with fingers that were slowly sprouting razor-sharp claws.

May your hell be even more unpleasant than mine, master.

Blasting the body back with a spiteful breath of flame, the black dragon bolted for freedom, smashing through stone and mortar until he spread his wings and tasted his first breath of fresh air in weeks.

Behind him, black flames spilled out of the hole he had punched through Galbatorix's wards, and set the entire Fortress ablaze.

Even with Galbatorix's oaths still binding them to Urubaen, Jarshan and Serdar were able to flee the dragon-hold and dart to the city's boundaries the moment the ground beneath them began to ominously shake. From the third shape that had exploded forth from the Fortress, Thorn assumed Shruikan had somehow regained his freedom in the chaos, and fled as any sensible soul would.

Sensible as Thorn liked to think he was, his damned emotional attachment to his Rider kept him from acting on basic survival instincts. Even with his eyes watering from the smoke and the Fortress heaving beneath his paws, he remained expectantly perched at the edge of the dragon-hold.

Murtagh kicked down the door to the dragon-hold the moment Thorn began to contemplate flying away without him and hoping for the best. Scorched as his clothes were, his mind was miraculously sober. With only Zar'roc strapped to his belt he ascended to his dragon's bare back with inhuman speed.

Once his passenger was secure Thorn rose to the safety of open sky, wanting only to unite with Serdar and Jarshan at the-

"And where do you think you're going!?" Murtagh snapped. "There are people in there! With the way this fire is raging, the entire city could go up!"

Thorn glanced back to the Fortress. Impossibly black fingers of flame reached out from every orifice and belched dark smoke that obscured the sun. Then why in the seven hells didn't you try dousing the flames before coming to me?

"The flames are somehow enchanted. Not even water or sand can put them out." Murtagh growled in frustration. "I tried finding another way down, but the floors beneath the dragon-hold were all alight. Aside from jumping, you're my only way down. There has to be magicians down there that-"

Leave them.

Murtagh froze at the unfamiliar voice coming from an all-too-familiar presence, whipping his head to see the dark shape swooping up behind them. This was the first time he had ever heard Shruikan speak, after all, and Thorn couldn't blame his Rider for his shock. Even to him, who had conversed with Shruikan most, the black dragon seemed unusually clear-minded, as if a fog had been lifted from his mind.

Physically, Shruikan looked as tortured and emaciated as he always had, but his eyes were no longer white and vacuous. They were now a brilliant shade a dark violet, far too striking and intelligent to belong on so broken a body.

The human's eyes narrowed defiantly. "I'm certainly not abandoning Urubaen to be destroyed by you!"

This is the work of The Other! Shruikan snapped. Humans are but ants to him. He'll step on those who get in his way, but thinks nothing of those who have the good sense to steer clear! He truly cares only for dragons and, unfortunately for you, you have the misfortune of being bound to one he considers his.

Murtagh opened his mouth to say something but all three shuddered as their oaths chose that moment to shatter and render them liberated slaves.

"Impossible! He can't be dead, not from even a fire like..."

The words died in his throat as something black pushed its way through the Fortress's burning ruins like a worm through soil. Up and up it rose, surpassing not only the Fortress's original height, but triple its height. Thorn and Shruikan fluttered back as the form expanded in all other directions, leveling entire sections of the city as its growth progressed.

With a roar that rattled the earth and made thunder seem soft in comparison, the behemoth unfurled its ragged wings and eclipsed all of Urubaen with its shadow.

This time, Murtagh didn't protest as Thorn followed Shruikan in a wild dash for the cover of the clouds.

Jarshan may have grown grudgingly fond of the little red brat during their long weeks together, but nothing changed the fact that he and Serdar were true wild dragons while Thorn was not. Thorn's primary allegiance was to his Rider and Shruikan was a broken creature whose days were numbered. Neither truly belonged with wild dragons or could ever hope to. With this in mind, Jarshan was all too willing to follow his uncle in the opposite direction and leave the others to their different destinies.

As soon as their oaths had broken, surrogate father and son had flown like bats out of hell to the east. No one in their right mind would track them through the Hadarac, and the Beor Mountains had both an abundance of prey and hiding places.

When an impossibly loud roar split the sky, however, Jarshan couldn't help but stop to turn around and gape. Even as far they'd flown, he and Serdar were still caught under the shadow of the monster that had clawed its way out of the Fortress's ruins.

At the time of the Fall, Belgabad had been the most ancient dragon alive, having lived through the reigns of quite a few Kings and Queens.

Standing before Jarshan now was a brute that could have swallowed even a dragon Belgabad's size whole. His scales were as black and shining as obsidian, marred with more battle scars than Jarshan could ever count. His spikes were so cracked and yellowed with age they were a dark, dirty gold, but were still long and undoubtedly razor sharp, just like his curved talons and the wicked scythe that tipped his tail.

Taking in the dragon's monstrous body, Jarshan paused only on his chest, where a fresh burn mark still festered right on the spot above his Eldunari, before trailing up that serpentine neck to a head larger than Serdar's entire body.

Three wicked cheek spikes framed each side of the face. Two massive horns (as dark golden as the talons and spikes) curled down to nearly touch them. The skin around the beast's eyes was pink and puckered as if he had taken a fire-blast directly to the face. With such a grievous injury, Jarshan would have thought him blind if not for two eyes as dark as the void staring right at him.

Impossible... Serdar whispered in dread. Aiedail condemned him to burn beneath the earth for eternity.

Jarshan's eyes widened as he connected his uncle's murmurings to the mountain-sized beast before him. Such a dragon certainly looked the part of the mountain-lord!

The surviving magicians who had united to try extinguishing the Fortress scattered before the mountain-lord's growing shadow. Those who still had their wits tried firing off spells at the behemoth, unaware the beast had once been their king.

Even the most devastating enchantments were no more than gnat's against the demon's hide. Although the foolishly brave magicians posed no true harm, the mountain-lord made them burn simply because they intended so.

Ancient as the Morning Star was, his infamous sire had hatched centuries, if not millennium, before that. The mountain-lord had hatched into a time of wild magic, before the Grey Folk had forever bound it to the words of the ancient language. Perhaps existing for centuries before magic's taming excluded the mountain-lord from its effects. Perhaps an eon burning in hellfire had made his scales impenetrable to everything else.

Jarshan knew the mountain-lord could have easily caught him, could have swallowed him and Serdar alive if he so wished. If Jarshan had such power to annihalte his enemies, he would not hesitate to do so, would cut them down before they could ever become a threat to himself or those under his protection.

Instead the dragon older than the ancient language hummed, shaking the earth with the force of his power. Despite the mountain-lord's already deep timber, Jarshan knew it to be purposefully deep-throated, the same call parents used to help coax hesitant broods from their eggs.

Jarshan did not doubt the mountain-lord's clan heard his call. He also did not doubt they would answer their sire, even if they had to drag themselves of the pits of hell to do so.

Serdar mustered up the inner will to rip his gaze away from the terrifyingly hypnotic sight of the one dragon who had posed a true threat to Aiedail himself. Fly, you fool! he snarled, butting Jarshan violently in the side. The younger dragon finally snapped out of his trance and joined his elder in a frantic flight to the east.

Run and hide, little runts! the mountain-lord bellowed after them. My five shall devour you and your bastard clan regardless... but your King is mine to BURN!

Locked away in his fetid little cell, the boy everyone now called mad little Uglamore may have been cut off from the sky and stars, but nothing could dampen his sire's call. He was the mountain-lord's Herald, after all, the child who had always announced his presence and the child who had personally seen him destroy the armies outside Gil'ead. It rumbled his bones, echoed in his soul, and sent the fires in his heart raging up into a wild inferno. Uglamore was all too eager to give the flames a release, and so loosed them upon his fragile human body to burn away its impurities.

No one in the prison noticed when some insignificant little boy's remaining icy-blue eye suddenly burned as black as its twin. Nor did anyone see blunt nails curling into claws or tender skin sprouting wine-red scales until it was far too late. By the time the guards caught on to the growing dragon in their midst, his terrible roar had already sapped the courage from their hearts, and they burned as he'd promised.

Tearing free of his stone prison, the mountain-lord's firstborn fed Gil'ead and all those who had sneered down upon him to his ravenous flames. His fire was not as potent as his sire's, but the firstborn had an overwhelming presence that made the humans beneath him curl up and beg for death. Only Karl screamed and cursed for his life, and that was only because The Herald honored him by slowly tearing him apart and eating him piece by piece.

The Herald left Gil'ead to burn itself out. After all, it would be unacceptable if another of The Herald's siblings returned to their sire's side before he could. He was the firstborn, after all, the fiercest and most faithful of the mountain-lord's clan.

As he ascended to the heavens for the first time in eons with his own wings (he had flown after, but upon a beast whose name no one was allowed to remember, a she-dragon with ruby-red scales), The Herald sensed his four greatest siblings rising with him.

In the darkness of a salt mine a slave allowed herself to be consumed by fire, for at least then her slave-masters could burn with her. The earth above the mines shuddered and heaved as The Destroyer clawed her way free. The frantic slave-masters who tried cutting her down all failed, for no spell could withstand her flames. Nor could any slave-master.

The lonely trapper in the Spine had not always been so. He'd lived as an ordinary farmer, in an ordinary village, up until his fascination with flame had consumed his home and his family along with it. Only in the wilderness had he found relief from those seeking to bring him to justice. This time the trapper had held back his obsession for as long as he could, but inside he was The Insatiable, and his inferno had to consume all in its path. As he rose, the mountain beneath him now had only burnt rock where it had once held virgin forest.

The old man on his deathbed resented the gods for making him mortal and his ungrateful children for stealing away his possessions before he was even cold. He especially despised his youngest daughter who crouched over him like a vulture, ready to make off with the last of his goods the moment his final breath came and went. Then the old man realized he was The Undying. His hovel and his vulture daughter were not so immortal.

In Teirm, a silver-tongued noble's dark eyes paled to inhuman white, but he allowed the change to progress no further. He was The Deceiver, after all, and he would not reveal himself as foolishly as the abomination had in Belatona. Where his siblings were warriors, The Deceiver had only this special magic, useless for combat and for protecting him magicians who would love to capture a dragon before he could even truly rise. Instead The Deceiver bided his time, deftly avoided physical contact, and took wing only when there were no witnesses to cut him down.

Connected by blood, their endless centuries burning alongside each other in the fires of hell, the many leagues that separated from The Herald from his clan were inconsequential. As one they answered their sire's call with bellowing roars and let him know they were on their way.

Despite the warmth of Saphira's touch, of the fire that blazed within, Eragon shivered. He felt colder than he had even down amongst the dank caverns of Doru Araeba, as if he had been plunged into icy waters and down into the dark depths even elder sea serpents dared not venture into.

After his Trial, he thought the incessant tugging against his Eldunari and the whispers of (north)had ceased forever.

Now, however, his heart of hearts shuddered in dread and something within him frantically chanted (deceiverheraldinsatiabledestroyerundyingdeceiverher-)

Saphira butted her head firmly against his shoulder. She sighed wearily as her gaze met his own. What happened this time?

Eragon restlessly glanced around his surroundings as he tried to put his experience into words. His eyes settled on the bloody sun slowly dying in the west, the shadow of night that forced it beneath the horizon.

I died on an evening like this, Eridor murmured.

Sunset, Saphira... I felt as if night were falling... and that we may not live to see the dawn.

Chapter Text

The mountain-lord had not summoned his clan to their ancestral territory, but to the womb-of-the-world (what the elves had foolishly dubbed Du Fells Nangoroth), the home of their most ancient ancestors. The first creatures that had called themselves 'dragon' had hatched there. Even after the once fertile plains had dried up and made the womb-of-the-world uninhabitable, dragons from all clans had made pilgrimages there to honor their ancient ancestors.

The Herald marveled at his sire's ingenuity. It made far more sense to convene at the birthplace of their race, far away from meddlesome lesser creatures, than their original mountain, the site of their clan's ultimate destruction. Once the mountain-lord had been slain and his noble clan cut down, the usurper's bastards had slaughtered every last youngling and nesting mother that had remained home, finishing off the last of a noble lineage the mountain-lord had presided over since the dawn of the clans.

His sire was even larger and more magnificent than The Herald had last seen him, no doubt looking the same as he had the day the usurper had treacherously murdered him. He did not perch on the mountains, but stood beside them as if the womb-of-the-world had spontaneously sprouted an extra peak.

Just as he'd hope, The Herald had beaten his siblings here. Landing in his sire's overwhelming shadow, he eagerly sank into the familiar bow he had waited centuries to deliver properly. I have returned, lord-father, and by your side I stay until you order otherwise.

Ah, here at last is my oldest and most loyal, he who came to me first and left me last. The scorching desert sun momentarily vanished behind the black smoke the mountain-lord puffed from his nostrils. A pity your stupidity dampens your effectiveness. Still, I suppose your ineptitude worked out for the best. If you hadn't lost that damned egg, then none of this would have come to pass.

Inside, The Herald burned with indignation. It hadn't been his fault he had been forced to be reborn into a pathetic human skin to serve his master properly, had been forced to contend with both a human consciousness and being bonded to a mad creature stripped of her soul and sanity. Looking into his father's black eyes, the fire spluttered out an died without a single word of protest.

Father and son waited in silence as the other members of their clan arrived one by one; The Destroyer, The Undying, The Insatiable, and the very late Deceiver.

As soon as he landed, The Deceiver threw himself at the mountain-lord's paws. My humblest apologies for my delay, lord-father. I came as soon I was able.

My darling Deceiver; he who came to me last and left me first. Struck down by a mother because you had tried deceiving her with the shape of a son already dead, then impaled by a cripple you took too long to finish off, and then unceremoniously picked off by a lesser Forsworn barely a year into my puppet-king's reign.

The Deceiver balked, somehow managing to look even more pathetic than he usually did. He was not only the smallest and scrawniest of their number, but the weakest. If it hadn't been for his gift of disguising himself as stronger siblings, their father would have devoured him as a hatchling (and Father had devoured a nestmate of The Deceiver's he had mistakenly thought to be an imposter.) The Deceiver's hide was a sickly white, his eyes pale and colorless, his horns small and his face generic. His unassuming appearance made it easier for him to apply his illusions, but he could not stop even the most elaborate ruse from crumbling at the simple touch of another living thing.

The Insatiable snickered at The Deceiver's discomfort. His golden scales were already tinged gray with soot, the ragged ends of his wing membranes singed, and his eyes half-mad.

His laughter withered into a timid hiss as the mountain-lord rounded upon him. At least my Deceiver was killed by a killer of Riders. Did you already forget you met your end at Brom's hand too, Insatiable, just as my Herald had?

The Insatiable licked his fangs uneasily. He caught me- the elf by surprise, lord-father, and there was naught I could do to help by that point. His eyes narrowed dangerously at the brother beside him. My strength and my passion is for my flames. I'm not the one that's supposed to be invincible!

Of the five siblings condemned to burn eternally alongside their sire, the only five the mountain-lord had deemed worthy of serving him twice more, The Undying alone had inherited his night-black scales and onyx eyes. Unlike the rest of his clan, who all bore impressive battle scars, his hide was as smooth and unmarred as polished obsidian.

Rather than blame his misfortune upon another, The Undying dipped his head. I should have chosen a dragon body and the indignity of being chained to a Rider, lord-father. Then my heart of hearts would have been strong enough for me to serve you eternally. In choosing the elf, I arrogantly chose to be the master over the beast of burden, but in turn failed you.

The mountain-lord snorted, the sound like a clap of thunder, and turned his gaze to The Destroyer. With her copper scales and graceful build, she was their mother in miniature, but with a strong spirit she had certainly inherited from their sire.

My devoted daughter, my only disappointment in you is that you are capable of so much greater than what you aspire to.

Better a life as a prisoner toiling away in the dark than one as a wife, forced to marry an oafish husband and bare him human spawn. You know I live to serve only you and the clan, lord-father.

The mountain-lord was pleased by her humble response. The Destroyer's gaze was only for him, even as her four brothers bore holes into her hide with their heated glares. The Herald was far more loyal than her, had done so much more for their father in both his first life and in the skin of Morzan Murtaghsson, but it was The Destroyer who most resembled Mother.

Our lord-father should loathe her just for looking like Mother, The Insatiable hissed venomously to his brothers. Mother left us all to burn.

The Herald kept his thoughts to himself, lest their lord-father discover their private conversation and punish The Insatiable for subordination. Mother may have chosen the stars while her mate and greatest children were condemned to burn beneath the earth for eternity, but she was still the mountain-lord's mate and responsible for the birth of their clan. Father tolerated nothing ill said of his mate and The Herald was wise enough to keep his own hatred of her secret.

Although The Insatiable's words were private, Father's black eyes settled upon him anyway. He would not have lived long enough to become the mountain-lord unless he had developed a keen nose for sniffing out treachery.

One twitch of the mountain-lord's tail sent The Insatiable tumbling down from the womb-of-the-world. His siblings stonily watched as their half-mad brother clawed his way back up the mountain to whimper for forgiveness.

An insult of your mother is also an insult toward me. The mountain-lord sneered at The Insatiable's battered form. You obviously came back flawed. I would kill you and have you start again, but I have not the time to wait.

It had taken untold millennium of struggling for even The Undying to worm his way out of the pits of hell and attach himself to a mortal host. Although The Undying had done the hard part, it had taken centuries after that for the rest of his clan to follow through the hole he had punctured between one world and the next.

Being reborn for a second time had taken far less time, for they all knew exactly how to fight their way out of hell, but struggling against the flames had still taken years in the mortal world. When Morzan had been slain and his dragon-soul hurled back down into the fiery pits, it had taken The Herald well over a year to find his way into the body newborn Uglamore. The mountain-lord's final vengeance against Aiedail's line would take far less than a year and The Insatiable would have missed his own chance for glory.

You are most merciful, lord-father, The Insatiable whimpered. I eagerly await the day I may finally call you king-father.

None of you used to call me anything at all in the language of men, the mountain-lord said pointedly.

His faithful five glanced at each other in horror. Long before they had bound their souls to a lesser elf or human form, before Heitgera had forever tainted their race with that damned pact, they had communicated only through growl, gesture, and elaborate thought. Though they were all true dragons now and without the excuse of being chained to a lesser mind, they still used the human tongue.

Forgive me, lord-father! The Deceiver cried before realizing he had once again shamed himself. He and his siblings all prostrated themselves before Father and wordlessly presented themselves for punishment.

We did not emerge from our crucible unscathed, my children. Loathe as I am to admit it, that damned boy left his mark upon my soul and I still inclined to speak like him. I shall burn this world away not to return our old way of life, but to a world entirely of my creation; one where our clan shall never fear a rival clan or usurper ever again, where I shall rule as a true King of dragons should.

His black eyes swept over them all. Brave and loyal as your were in your prior lives, you all failed me. The hellfire should have burned your old weaknesses and left you purified, as I have been. I am no longer merely the mountain-lord, but Vergentorix, the Mountain King, and I shall conquer where the mere mountain-lord failed.

Hail Vergentorix! The Herald exclaimed and his siblings were quick to pick up the cry. Hail the Mountain King!

Vergentorix basked in the praise as a true king should before cutting his children off with a growl. You have all been reborn as I have. You are no longer merely my Herald, Destroyer, Deceiver, Insatiable, and Undying, but improvements upon them. You have emerged from suffering older, stronger, and wiser and you shall succeed were your predecessors did not. Together, we shall make the world BURN!

As his father's loyal firstborn, The Herald was the first rechristened for their new age. No longer was he merely his father's Herald, but Morzarok the Herald. His siblings became Saemora the Destroyer, Glaerith the Insatiable, Andariel the Undying, and Kialos the Deceiver.

Vergentorix didn't bother to explain the meanings behind his chosen names, but it was obvious to Morzarok anyway. The first syllable of his name clearly hearkened back to his past lives as Morzan and Uglamore. Zar'roc had become the most infamous of all blades in Morzan's ruthless hands. Morzarok only hoped to show his father-king just how ruthless he would be with their enemies.

With new names for their new lives, so did Morzarok and his siblings receive new orders of exactly how they would help their sire bring about the dawn of a new age.

Once Vergentorix gave them their leave, his children scattered, each one as eager as the others to prove themselves the most useful sibling and secure a role of power above the others in the new world order.

Jeod Longshanks had first met Eragon when he had been but a mere boy seeking his uncle's killers, long before he had he had even earned the name of Shadeslayer. Although Jeod had envied the boy for his dragon (and Eragon had once promised him a ride, a promise Jeod had not yet had time to follow up on), he would not wish the crushing burden upon Eragon's shoulders on his worst enemy.

Though Jeod had been one of Brom's oldest and closest allies, he had not been one of the very few souls first made knowledgeable of 'Majesty's' true identity. Jeod hadn't connected the Rider's mysterious absence to the King dragon's presence until Eragon Shadeslayer had returned white-haired and blue-eyed from his 'pilgrimage' with Majesty nowhere in sight.

Although he had figured out Eragon's secret, not even Jeod could have ever predicted the destructive culmination of the Battle of Belatona. Who could have ever foreseen the great Saphira Brightscales nearly being killed or her Rider unleashing fiery vengeance against those who had dared harm her?

Word had quickly spread through Alagaesia of the white-haired Rider who had nearly been killed alongside his mount, only to arise from a great inferno as a wrathful dragon god who had inspired his army to a primal ferocity that had easily broken Belatona's defenses.

Eragon Shadeslayer and Majesty have both been idolized by the rebels as saviors. The revelation that the two were indeed one and the same had been met with more fear and suspicion than outright awe. After all, could one be trusted if he had proven himself neither man nor beast, but an unholy combination of the two?

Rather than shy away from the scrutiny, Eragon had embraced it. He had explained his situation as truthfully as he could (though Jeod suspected he held a few facts about his transformation back) and that Nasuada and the rebellion's top commanders had known of his dual identity from the very beginning. He didn't hide behind messengers or body guards and plainly addressed the men as if he were still Eragon Shadeslayer.

No one called him Shadeslayer anymore, but Brightfire and Fireborn and even now as Majesty. As King of the wild dragons, Eragon was the leader of a sovereign people and beholden to no one. He was now on equal footing with Nasuada, Nar Garzvhog, Orik, Orrin and Islanzadi. Should any try to order him or his clan in a way he didn't agree with, Eragon was well within his rights to withdraw his dragons from the war completely (although Jeod knew he'd never due such a thing unless the Council of Elders really were foolish enough to try forcing him.)

Despite initial trepidation toward the 'true' Eragon, public reception of him had instantly improved when rumors of the Destruction of Urubaen had reached their camp outside of Belatona. Murtagh and four Imperial dragons (Shruikan included) had scattered in opposite directions and hadn't been sighted since the fifth dragon had ripped its way out of the Fortress and singlehandedly destroyed Urubaen. Information pointed toward this monstrous dragon as either having killed Galbatorix during his emergence or actually being Galbatorix himself.

With a rogue Rider and five dragons (one apparently as big as a mountain) in hiding somewhere, every rebel was now downright relieved the devastating power of Eragon's Wrath was on their side. How could even Galbatorix hoped to compete against it?

Jeod frowned thoughtfully. In the distance Eragon sparred with 'Violet,' she who had revealed her true name to be Elva, setting the sky alight with blue and purple flames. "There was a King dragon during the Fall too and he was apparently one of the first dragons killed. Galbatorix nearly massacred the entire race of dragons, and we have but three adults on our side."

His wife sniffed. "Then let us hope the Mad King killed himself summoning his newest monster into existence instead of becoming it."

Jeod hadn't wanted Helen to join him on the march north Urubaen, but since when did he ever make the final decisions in their marriage? After what happened on the Burning Plains, Jeod had loved his wife's stubborn streak all the more, and thanked the gods it had saved her from the same end that had befallen the unfortunate Katrina.

Jeod's breath hitched as Elva performed a graceful dive to avoid Eragon's tongue of flame. "The gods would surely be cruel to allow a monster like Galbatorix to ever become such a wonderful creature."

"You sound envious, husband," Helen chided gently. She sighed up at the dragons as she ran a hand through her graying hair. "Not that I can blame you. Who wouldn't wish a little to be such a creature, unchained by gravity or even old age? We'd have the whole word ahead of us and centuries to explore it all."

Jeod kissed her cheek. "But a dragon doesn't have lips for kissing, dear wife, nor fingers for proper reading and writing. I'd be but a shadow of a man without my books."

"But as a dragon you wouldn't a man at all, husband."

He chuckled, turning away from the sparring dragons to gaze at her. "Then as a shadow of a dragon, then."

Even as their conversation dissolved into gentle banter, Helen and Jeod were oblivious to the sheer number of similar thoughts being discussed throughout Alagaesia. Although the tragedy of Urubaen eclipsed all other thoughts, the image of a magnificent dragon, a spirit of fire given flesh and wings, emerging from a fragile human shell was one that persisted wherever the story of Eragon Fireborn was told.

In the wake of Urubaen's destruction and the disappearance of both Galbatorix, Murtagh, and their dragons, the Empire had collapsed. Those cities that hadn't yet fallen to rebel forces squabbled amongst themselves as local leaders proclaimed themselves Galbatorix's rightful successor or asserted independence. Some towns and villages had eagerly 'surrendered' to the rebellion once the fear of Galbatorix no longer hung over their heads.

Bringing the Empire's tattered remnants under control should have been a simple matter in comparison to facing forces actually commanded by Galbatorix and his dragons, but those who knew their history were anything but relieved. Galbatorix had needed only his thirteen Forsworn to bring both the Order and the wild dragons to their knees.

Not the first time since news of Urubaen's destruction, the rebellion's elder dragons gathered to debate their plans.

When Eragon had restored Elva's true form he had given her the body she'd possessed mere moments before her first death. Although Eridor had assured his successor that the power of a fully-realized King would help accelerate his growth somewhat, both Eragon and Saphira were still noticeably outsized by Elva, who had been closer to a decade old at the time of her death. With Glaedr's murder, she was physically the largest dragon left on the rebellion's side and not even a match for Thorn if Murtagh was with him.

Considering the circumstances they already faced, Elva was skeptical of the fifth dragon described at Urubaen. No doubt the dragon could very well have been Galbatorix, but reports of his size could have been exaggerated. The eyewitnesses were frightened out of their minds. How hard would it have been for them to mistake a dragon of Belgabad's size for one much larger? Especially when the only mountain-sized dragon I can recall is supposed to be burning beneath the earth for eternity?

By condemning the damned beneath the earth, we may have forever separated them from the sky, but that also made it for even the stars to see them. If the mountain-lord was left out of sight and out of mind for too long... Eridor sighed. The powers he and the strongest of his clan wielded are matched only by a King or Queen dragon. Perhaps with enough time and determination someone was able to claw their way out of hell and left a path for others to follow?

Saphira glanced anxiously over to where Trinnean and Caradoc playfully sparred in midair. If Galbatorix was able to awake Jarshan and Serdar and he is indeed the mountain-lord, how many more souls could he rally?

Any one strong enough to worm their way out hell after him, Eridor mused grimly, perhaps simply any reborn soul that remembers the days before Aiedail and wishes to return to older, simpler times. Not even I can say for sure.

Aiedail had not only battled the mountain-lord that day, but his sire's entire clan. Aiedail had triumphed by calling upon his own kith and kin, which by then had virtually extended to the rest of the dragon race. Eragon had only two other dragons on his side if he didn't count disembodied Eridor or his young sons and no way of summoning more.

I'm a fully-realized King, am I not? Eragon ventured. The heir of Aiedail's power?

Aye, but no King or Queen since Aiedail wielded his kind of raw power, Eridor cautioned. You could still have a fight ahead of you just in facing Galbatorix, especially if he is both the mountain-lord and only stronger from his time in hell.

The King's burning blue eyes swept across the army camped all around him. Even now its leaders bitterly debated on what their next course of action should be with Murtagh and five dragons still at large.

So long as I'm still strong enough to burn Galbatorix like Aiedail did to the mountain-lord, does it matter how many dragons fight by my side? We fight alongside an army of men, dwarves, elves, and Urgals who have all suffered from Galbatorix's lust for power. Galbatorix partly won his war by rallying discontent humans, Urgals, and Lethrblaka to his side. Belatona withstood assault from Dragon Riders before and nearly held out even now. Can we not show him the exact same tactics work against his own dragons?

Even the cat-elf would be able to handle himself against a dragon, Saphira allowed, and Trianna and the elves have made the Du Vrangr Gata far more formidable than they once were.

Elva growled uneasily. The army cannot travel like we can. If we are to rely upon them we would have to wait for Galbatorix and his slaves to come to us.

Let them think they have the advantage, Eragon rumbled, just like they thought they had the advantage over Aiedail. Their pride will only prove to be their downfall a second time.

Chapter Text

Thorn had no idea where Jarshan and Serdar had went but knew in his heart of hearts he would likely never see them again. If the... Other hadn't killed them both then they had fled to the refuge of the Beor Mountains and would never show their faces beyond the Hadarac Desert again. Whatever their fate, uncle and surrogate son were together and not about to risk the other to search for the dragons they had dismissed as 'Rider's pets.'

Where the wild dragons had hopefully escaped the east, Thorn and Murtagh had fled west with Shruikan as their persistant shadow. Whatever chaos spread through the Empire, the depths of the Spine remained an isolated wilderness the outside world never penetrated.

All three had spent their first few days in hiding enjoying their new-found freedom. Previously confined to Urubaen and its surrounding forests except when following his master's orders, Thorn had flown far and wide to explore his surroundings. Some days he convinced Murtagh to join him. The tensions that had existed between Rider and dragon since Thorn had been large enough to make them useful to Galbatorix had largely ebbed away upon their master's demise.

The abundant food supply and freedom from his chains had done Shruikan wonders. Fat and muscle had quickly begun to smooth over his skeletal frame into something that resembled a healthy dragon's body. Murtagh's magic might not have completely restored him, but it had removed some of largest, most gruesome scars from his hide.

Shruikan had flat-out refused any offer that involved either Thorn or Murtagh touching his Eldunari, even Murtagh's offer of trying to restore it to his body. After the decades of torture the black dragon had experienced at Galbatorix's hands, Thorn didn't blame him for his paranoia. He had quickly gotten used to Shruikan's habit of continually cleaning and swallowing his Eldunari to keep it as secure as possible.

Despite the progress Shruikan had made, he continued to walk and fly awkwardly as if weighed down by invisible chains.

After the Fall I was largely kept shackled so Galbatorix didn't need to waste so much energy on trying to control me, Shruikan had explained. I was a much smaller dragon when I last had freedom for so long. My grace will come back in time.

Thorn really hoped it did: the massive black dragon didn't intimidating at all when he carried himself like an ungainly hatchling.

Murtagh had removed the four alien Eldunarya from Thorn's body within their first day of freedom, as soon as he'd had the energy. The catatonic hatchling had quickly been put out of her misery and the closely bonded souls had simultaneously begged for release and had been given it.

Thorn had expected the elder soul to demand the same, but the old dragon had only asked to be kept around for a time he could finally be of use. Murtagh had honored his request by tucking the Eldunari into his saddle bags until he was 'needed.' Both the Rider and dragons had awkwardly attempted conversation, but the elder had grouchily demanded he be left alone until they had a real purpose of him.

Still recovering from decades of starvation, Shruikan hunted far more frequently than Thorn, and the younger dragon simply didn't want to join him for every meal when he wasn't even hungry himself. With Shruikan away gorging himself, Thorn and Murtagh once again argued over what to do next.

I still don't understand why you're so hesitant to try allying with the rebellion. Thorn shook his head at his Rider's senseless stubborness. Eragon knows full well you were dragged back to the King kicking and screaming and that only your forced oaths kept you loyal. Now's as good a time as any to make peace with him.

"Do you know what the Varden did to me when they first found I was Morzan's son? Even though I had helped deliver their last hope to their doorstep they still chose to lock me up." Murtagh's fist clenched at the mere memory. "I was just beginning to prove myself trustworthy when my world once again apart. How do you think they'll react to us now after everything we've done, voluntarily or not? I killed the dwarf king, Thorn. Swearing allegiance to the Varden means spending the rest of our lives as prisoners before we 'mysteriously' turn up dead in our cells. I would at least like some time to enjoy my freedom before throwing it away again."

You're also the last surviving Dragon Rider. Thorn growled. You saw what that... thing did to Urubaen. Don't tell me you're content to hide away while it burns Alagaesia to the ground.

"We also saw what happened Galbatorix and he was the real intelligence behind the Other. The Other may be ungodly huge, but not even it can stand against a united force of elves, dwarves, Urgals, at least four dragons and whatever the hell Eragon became."

Harsh, rumbling laughter interrupted their argument. Fools! thundered the elder from his saddle-bag. You're fools, just as blind as those after the runt King's murder, just as blind as Heitgera when he chained our race to the fate of another! How is it I, who have no eyes, can see what you can not!?

Thorn was about to ask the elder what he meant when a chill surged down his spine, the same dread he had felt before Eragon Fireborn had forever burnt his belly black with a warning blast. Reflexively he lunged, snatching Murtagh in one paw while the claws on his other ripped the Elundari from its saddle bag.

He barely made it into the air before the ground beneath them exploded from a fireball.

Thorn desperately pumped his wings to escape the searing heat and the blinding smoke. For a moment he thought himself back above the Battle of Gil'ead, watching friend and foe alike burn beneath them, before he realized this hell blazed molten gold instead of black.

"Gods!" Murtagh swore, his breeches heavily singed from just barely escaping the blast. He wormed in Thorn's grip, slipping out of the dragon's grasp and climbing up his leg for a more secure seat on his back. "There's more of them!?"

Murtagh had just barely situated himself when he was nearly thrown from Thorn's back when the dragon sharply lurched to the right to dodge another tongue of flame that came from up out of the billowing smoke. Only the fire of Eragon or The Other burned as hot.

Do not drop me, hatchling, the elder's Eldunari chided when Thorn nearly lost his grip. I did not come all this way to join my ancestors quite yet.

You want to be useful? Then explain what the hell this thing is! the younger dragon roared back.

The mountain-lord had a massive clan to do his bidding, hatchling. This time it is but a descendent you face.

No matter how distant a descendent, the golden dragon that came lunging out of the inferno was Shruikan's size, his frame powerful and well-fed instead of recovering from starvation. Even he may have seemed miniscule in comparison to The Other (the mountain-lord?) but even he was large enough to cleanly snap Thorn's spine in two. Fire hot enough to scorch entire mountains never stopped pouring from his maw.

"Naerr!"

The spell was unglamorous and ingeniously simple. Murtagh intended to simply pinch a blood vessel in the golden dragon's brain and kill it in seconds.

Like the mountain-lord, the dragon was unfazed by a spell that should have been its death.

You're smaller than him! Murtagh thought privately, one hand reaching for Zar'roc, the sword that never left his person. Get me to where I can reach his eye!

Thorn may have been hopelessly outsized by his rival, but it was an advantage he had previously used against Shruikan in training bouts and Glaedr in true battle. The golden dragon may have been relentless in its fury, but he was large and ungainly where Thorn was small and agile. Weaving his way around the stream of fire, he managed to get just close to the dragon's head for Murtagh to launch himself from his back and land safely.

Legs wrapped firmly around the golden dragon's horn, Murtagh grabbed Zar'roc with both hands and plunged it into one half-mad eye.

Half-blind and blood weeping from one eye, the dragon shrieked and shook his head furiously, flames still streaming from his maw.

Burn! Burn burn bur-

Thorn wheeled beneath his rival and seared his belly with his own jet of flame. The golden dragon's agonized roar was sweet music to his ears.

How does it feel, bastard!

Murtagh moved to stab Zar'roc again and cursed when he found the blade dug too deep to budge. The golden dragon wised up to the pain and lowered his head instead, reaching for his tormentor with a paw big enough to crush him like a man would an insect.

Thorn sharply dove as his Rider leaped from the brute's head. Murtagh landed on his back with a skilled precision drilled into him by their paranoid master.

The golden dragon momentarily stopped gushing fire long enough to pluck Zar'roc from his eye and toss it into the inferno below. His remaining eye blinked and fixated vengefully on Thorn.

BURN!

The golden dragon was just inhaling again when Shruikan returned from his hunt.

The black dragon may have been far skinnier, but he and his rival were roughly of the same size, and he had the element of surprise. Claws sinking firmly into the golden dragon's flesh, Shruikan savagely tore into his throat with a shower of sparks and blood.

Their opponent gave a terrible, gurgled cry and fell limp in Shruikan's grip. When the black dragon released him he lifelessly tumbled into the inferno he had first ignited.

Murtagh allowed the blaze to rage for several moments more before quelling it with his magic. The two dragons then landed to sniff suspiciously at the corpse of the golden dragon, already charred to a crisp, to confirm his death.

You are lucky I was able to smell the smoke in time, Shruikan murmured to Thorn as he snarled down at the brute's scorched remnants. I have killed many dragons before, but only The Other's fires burned like his did.

Murtagh glared at the Eldunari still firmly grasped in Thorn's paw. "According to the elder they are of the same clan."

Oh, aye, the elder agreed grimly. The one you call 'Other' is known amongst the true dragons as the mountain-lord.

The Morning Star's sire? Shruikan growled. It explains The Other's hunger for Eldunarya, why he was obsessed with collecting a hoard large enough to rival the stars in the sky... the same stars that answer to Aiedail.

Thorn's own heart of hearts quivered in dread. So the mountain-lord is waking up his own clan now and sending them after us for our Eldunarya?

He sees us as his property, the elder snarled. With his clan returned to him you two Rider's pets are good only as two more Eldunarya for his collection. His thoughts honed in darkly upon Murtagh. Be glad no star chose you as its vessel, human. The only fate that awaits you is wherever human souls go.

"I'm no one's property." Murtagh held out an expectant hand and smiled grimly when Zar'roc returned to him with a quick spell. Hot as the golden dragon's flames had burned, they hadn't been quite hot enough to melt through magic like Eragon's fire and had allowed his spell's enchantments to endure the blaze. "If we are to be hunted until our dying day then we have no choice but to see this mountain-lord and his ilk dead in turn."

You know what that means, Thorn warned. Can your pride take bowing down to the Varden and begging forgiveness?

Murtagh sighed. "Unless you're loose with your definition, I am currently the last Dragon Rider and may be the very last if this damned mountain-lord is determined to raze the world to ashes." He looked up to Shruikan. "You suffered more than anyone under Galbatorix and the mountain-lord. We'll understand if you choose not to fight alongside us."

The black dragon's violet eyes stared down at him. Why do you think I've been so desperate to regain my strength? I have waited decades to fight alongside those who tormented my master. He snorted at the elder's Eldunari. And what should we call you, old one? Your knowledge is too useful for us to let you rest quite yet.

I don't plan on going anywhere yet, overgrown hatchling. This world's become too interesting to not be in the thick of the fray. After a moment's hesitation, he bitterly added, You can call me Svinnr, I suppose. I don't expect it means anything to any of you. No one ever remembers I was once the world's second oldest living dragon.

Jarshan had first hoped returning to the Beor Mountains would give him comfort. He had grown up there, after all, surrounded by the most powerful dragon clan on earth. It was in the Beor Mountains he had truly flourished when childless and mateless Serdar, who had seen potential where Vanilor had seen only another failure, had taken him under his wing.

Yet, the deeper they flew into the massive mountains, the more uneasy Jarshan grew. It was in the Beor Mountains he had been rejected by Safiri in favor of his nestmate, where Jadine had tore his heart out, and where he had betrayed his own brother for the greater good. Eridor and Safiri had once thought themselves safe and sound nestled deep in the Beor Mountains, after all.

Curled up in a cave much like where he had killed Eridor, Jarshan found himself recalling that single green egg protectively cradled in Safiri's arms. Had his nephew been burned alive or crushed in his egg when the Fortress had collapsed beneath the mountain-lord's bulk? Or had he been fortunate to have been tossed into the subterranean cavern Galbatorix had stored his Eldunarya?

Jarshan would never have known of the hoard if not for Serdar. His uncle had been forced to regurgitate his Elundari just after his awakening. Galbatorix had stored it with the others to keep them both in line, but Serdar was still connected to his heart of hearts, just enough to sense it lay peacefully undisturbed beneath the smoldering ruins of Urubaen.

Serdar may have been sleeping peacefully, exhausted after a long flight, but Jarshan was unable to share his uncle's peace of mind. Galbatorix's obsession for Elundarya had been the mountain-lord's. Just because Serdar and Jarshan didn't have the time nor the ability to excavate Urubaen's rubble didn't mean the mountain-lord couldn't use his massive size to do so for himself. Aiedail knew what he could do with a hoard of Eldunarya again at his disposal.

It's not myself I'm worried about, Serdar had scolded his surrogate son. You still have your Eldunari and you're still the rightful King. All that matters is buying you the time you need to acquire the true power of the King's Wrath so you can do the mountain-lord as Aiedail once did.

Eragon may have technically passed his Trial, but he was no true King, and so Jarshan and Serdar patiently bided their time. Sooner or later the mountain-lord would decide to devour his obvious competition and once again allow Jarshan the opportunity to undergo his King's Trial once Aiedail's power was freed up.

Jarshan's nostrils suddenly twitched at the pungent odor of fire, blood, and brimstone. By the time he heard the flapping of massive leather wings, his warning growl had already roused Serdar and both were pounding out of the cave to face their attacker head on.

The new dragon was the color of obsidian, his scales unmarred despite his size, for he was large enough to rival Serdar (but thankfully far smaller than the mountain-lord.) Like the mountain-lord's, his eyes were also black, but lacked the overwhelming hopelessness his sire's gaze inspired.

Rather than engage each other, Serdar and the black dragon began to circle each other warily, keeping a vast distance between each other. Jarshan never strayed far from his uncle's side, ready to unleash fire and blood the moment their opponent turned hostile.

I take it you're one of the mountain-lord's five favorites, then? Serdar inquired casually.

I am Andariel, intoned the black dragon. My Mountain King bids me to destroy your physical form and return with the Eldunari of Jarsha Stonescales.

Such a waste of time, Serdar tutted. Surely your sire has the power to order me to kill my nephew and return to him with what he wants.

His orders are no one's to question! Andariel snapped.

Jarshan and Serdar privately concluded the mountain-lord had not yet returned to his hoard beneath Urubaen. They still had time to stop him together.

Andarial and Serdar charged each other head on, but the dark gray dragon dove at the last second. Jarshan quickly rose to take his place, bombarding the mountain-lord's son with flames that could almost rival the King's Wrath.

Andariel tried reeling back with a furious bellow, his face charred and smoking, but Serdar rammed him from below. His fangs expertly dug in for the killing bite.

Blood blossomed and the black dragon fell limp after a brief struggle. Serdar released his lifeless body to watch him crash to the mountainside below. For a moment, everything was right in the world.

In the next moment, Andariel's vacant eyes flared with an impossible new spark of life. The gaping wound on his throat flawlessly wove itself shut and his wings propelled him back into the air.

Rather than aiming at Serdar, he went for Jarshan, taking the smaller dragon from below. Gouging into the gray dragon's belly, Andariel's claws reached out for Jarshan's chest, to take his Eldunari between them as Jadine once had so long ago and-

NO!

Serdar charged, violently dislodging Andariel from his nephew. While Jarshan struggled to right himself, his uncle grasped the other dragon's horns with both forepaws and twisted with all his might.

A moment's resistance was followed by a sickening crack, a brief pause in the battle, and then another crack as Andariel's neck snapped back into place. He raked his claws across Serdar's body when the dark gray dragon moved to twist his neck again.

Jarshan was already moving at his uncle's bellow of pain, but was stopped dead by No, Jarshan!

Every wound and burn mark Serdar made upon Andariel's hide was unblemished skin a moment later. Every little gouge on Serdar's remained and every drop of blood added up.

Still, Serdar paused long enough to look his surrogate son stonily in the eye and snarl, Run, you fool!

Serdar had never tried challenging his brother for their mother's crown but in that moment his voice was purely Vanilor's; a King's sharp command, a father's demand of his son, one that brooked no argument.

Instinctively, Jarshan obeyed.

He was leagues away when two dragons fell and only one rose, but he still felt the loss in his heart of hearts, and screamed his grief to the skies.

Neither hatred nor death nor distance had dulled Eridor's innate bond with his nestmate. Feeling his brother's loss, Eridor briefly seized control of Eragon's body and keened with him.

Morzarok was his the sire's loyal firstborn, his diligent Herald, and so proclaimed his impending return to Urubaen's smoldering ruins.

The surviving humans, tenacious pests they were, had smothered the flames and were even trying to rebuild. Some had the gall to raise their spears and shoot arrows in his direction. Perhaps one brave soul tried and failed to use magic. Most scattered like mice at his first roar, even more with his second, and virtually all with his third. The quivering survivors without the common sense to flee promptly burned beneath his and Saemora's flames.

Urubaen was properly decontaminated by the time Vercingetorix landed where the Fortress had once stood. He cleared away the remnants with several effortless swipes and punched his way through the dungeons to the cavern below.

First he diligently checked every last Elundari, re-familiarizing himself to their size, color, and the terrified soul imprisoned within. One was unusually smooth and opaque, but he quickly forgot about the outlier when he saw Serdar now fully belonged to him.

Now I can truly count you as part of my collection.

Like virtually all new possessions, Serdar was catatonic from the shock of losing his body and being constrained to his Elundari rather than granted the freedom of the stars. Vercingetorix tore through his memories and dispassionately noted Jarshan had yet again escaped.

No matter. Andariel shall retrieve him soon enough. He is a good son, a diligent son... unlike SOME of his siblings.

Morzarok and Saemora heeded him by doubling their efforts to purge Urubaen of all traces of humanity. Miles beneath his paws, he hoped The Insatiable got the hint.

Vercingetorix was quite unsurprised to feel Glaerith dying not even a week into his new life. Perhaps he needed a few more decades (or centuries) burning in hellfire to remember what happened when he let base instinct overcome him.

His five had been his favorites, aye, but soon he would have a whole clan to call upon again.

Before they had reunited with him at the womb-of-the-world Saemora and Morzarok had swept Alagaesia for the souls of dormant clanmates. The millenium they had spent in eternal torment with only each other for company had made them all especially keen at sniffing out family, but Saemona and Morzarok had been the sharpest.

Soon, he would be ready to call them all back to his side.

Vercingetorix was displeased to note he had lost seven souls in his full return. The four Eldunarya within Thorn had doubtless been liberated by now and so he would only get three of his original seven back.

But soon enough he would finally have a fully-fledged King to add to his hoard and the tedious cycle would be over at long last. Then it would only a matter of waiting for every last star to fall (for not even the bastard would be able to remain aloft for eternity) and he would be a King in truth.

To prepare for that day, he needed a new mountain, one to serve as a nest for his new race. He had toyed with the idea of establishing his clan at the womb-of-the-world, but even the birthplace of his race was just too small and isolated for the grand vision he had in mind.

So instead Vercingetorix bent his hoard to his will, smirked when he once again had his natural magic enhanced to divine levels to bring his vision to life.

Du Weldenvarden's extensive layers of wards meant little to a dragon older than magic itself, especially a dragon who flew in the stolen shape of the largest bird he could find.

The animals he encountered knew his form was false and avoided him like the plague. As much as the elves prided themselves on their wisdom and magical prowess, they were blind to the pale-eyed raptor that circled overhead and assessed every powerful elf in Ellesmera.

The Deceiver had once inserted himself into enemy clans to destroy them from the inside out. Kialandi had briefly done the same to the Dragon Riders. Even his second human life as the sniveling courtier had allowed him to sniff out the weaknesses and desires of his competition.

The elves were truly no different from dragons, Riders, or mere humans. They too formed factions and squabbled over the most inane things, like whether to outright seize control of the areas their soldiers already controlled or to retreat back into Du Weldenvarden with Galbatorix dead and the war technically won.

The human nobles were free to do tear themselves apart as long as they remembered to keep Galbatorix appeased. In the end Vrael and Umaroth had been unable to hold the Order together. Eridor's death had shattered any semblance of unity amongst the dragon clans.

In the wake of King Evandar's death Islanzadi had kept the numerous elvan houses united through her grace and silent strength. She was the Eridor of her people, and with her daughter amongst the human rebels instead of back among her own kind, it would be all too easy for the elves to tear themselves apart over old feuds and differing viewpoints before Arya could unite them again.

Kialos may have been older than the tamed magic of the Grey Folk but he was pragmatic enough to admit the elves did not need magic to destroy him. One arrow to the brain or spear through his chest would suffice where magic could not.

Rather than burn Du Weldenvarden to the ground as Glaerith would have, Kialos remained a patient predator and learned his enemy's movements from the safety of his false guise. Islanzadi spent her sleepless nights alone in her chambers pouring over maps of Alagaesia and scrolls of ancient Rider and dragon lore. Galbatorix's demise had robbed her of her main goal and now she searched to give her people new purpose in the wake of Vercingetorix's triumphant return. Her guards only entered her chambers to give her urgent news of her elves or from the front.

After several nights, Kialos singled out the guard who went to Islanzadi most often. It was all too easy to lure the elf into the dark woods, devour him, and assume his form before the other guards realized something was amiss.

Plastering an anxious look on his false face, Kialos rushed to Islanzadi's chambers as if bringing sensitive information. The other guards let him go without stopping him, never noticed how pale their comrade's eyes had suddenly become.

Kialos instinctively froze at the fluttering of wings. All animals in Du Weldenvarden had wisely fled from his presence... up until a white raven landed in the branches outside his window to gaze at him with jewel-bright eyes.

"Wyrda!" it croaked. Then, as another guard neared, it shrieked, "Deceiver! Pale-eyed deceiver! Assassin!"

The guard frowned in confusion, glimpsed Kialos's telltale eyes, and all hell broke loose.

Chapter Text

Ellesmera burned. Though her people worked quick to extinguish the flames they could not so easily erase the aftermath. The trunks of great trees, lovingly shaped and sung to for centuries, were scorched or shattered by the struggle. Acrid smoke and bitter grief still hung heavy in the air. Six fine guards had given their lives for their queen and their city.

Islanzadi stonily stared up at the corpse of the beast responsible for such carnage. His near colorless scales and scrawny build belied the fearsome fight he had put up in his attempts to escape Ellesmera alive. Despite his sickly look the dragon was still decades old. His emergence from an elf-sized body had destroyed the hall upon Blagden's reveal of his true nature.

"What manner of abomination was this?" she demanded.

Such drastic transformations were impossible. Islanzadi's own daughter stood as testament no elf could become a dragon. Only Eragon had proved himself exception to the rule through a King dragon's unknowable magic. Only another unnatural twisting of nature could have resulted in this creature.

Even her wisest scholars could not answer her, just as they could not answer how the monster had breached Du Weldenvarden's barriers. The beast had died before his mind could be interrogated.

Blagden squawked. His talons pressed into her tender flesh when he landed on her shoulder. "Pale-eyed deceiver! Assassin! Wormed his way out of hell and sent straight back! Wyrda!"

Islanzadi peered thoughtfully at the raven that had once saved the life of her beloved. Evandar's blessings had resulted in far more than enhanced intelligence and a long life. Turning his feathers white had been far from the only unintended consequence. More often than not she regarded Blagden as an idle curiosity, a silly little thing whose nonsensical ramblings helped keep the night's crushing silence and the ghosts of memory at bay.

"What exactly are you?" she asked, for no mere raven had ever knowingly acted to save an elf's life.

Blagden nipped fondly at her ear. "Wyrda! Hatched once, hatched twice. Scale or feather, wings are wings."

Feiradis was no stranger to the price of war. She had lost her son and sister in the Fall, and her nephew in the black holocaust that had claimed Glaedr and many fine young elves serving beneath him.

Dras-Leona promised to claim countless more as toll. Feiradis had hoped news of Urubaen's utter destruction would persuade a peaceful surrender. She had unfortunately overestimated the sanity of a populace that worshiped Helgrind's ruthless peaks and offered up human slaves to the Lethrblaka had so recently dwelt there. The crazed priests that had seized control of the city proclaimed these days to be the world's last. They and their zealous followers swore to slaughter every man, woman, and child if Feiradis and her elves tried to take Dras-Leona by force.

Dras-Leona prayed for a miracle, the return of their Black King and the wrath he had first brought down upon the elves a century ago. Feiradis too awaited a miracle. As the siege dragged on she was increasingly convinced Dras-Leona would sooner starve than throw open their gates.

She was so, so tired of shedding innocent blood.

There was little to do but perfect assault plans that limited innocent casualties and watch Dras-Leona for signs of surrender or utter unraveling. Feiradis stared at the map of her forces, trying to will away the tedium, when the messenger entered her tent.

She listened to him once and bit back the urge to scold him for his lies. Then she asked him to repeat himself in the ancient language.

His message did not change.

In that same tongue Feiradis countered with terms of her own and sent the courier scurrying.

After several exchanges Feiradis readied her guards and left her tedium behind. Her heart fluttered like a bird beating against its cage. Despite her anticipation Feiradis projected nothing but stoic serenity to her elves and their audience.

Camp was a blur on the horizon when the red dragon, Thorn, landed a safe distance from their party. Murtagh Morzansson himself dismounted with a deep brown Eldunari cradled in his arms, one that obviously belonged neither to Glaedr nor his own dragon.

Feiradis opened her mind, the magicians at her back ready to retaliate should Morzansson react. Neither Rider nor dragon reached out to her, but the elder most certainly did. Aye, these two are the real deal. Now stop fucking around and get these humans under heel so we can focus on the real threat.

"Your intentions of allying yourself to us are true, then?" she pressed. "You are no longer bound by conflicting oaths?"

"Galbatorix is indeed dead, and our vows with him," Morzansson confirmed in the ancient language. "He was killed by the monstrous dragon he summoned, a mad beast determined to see the world burn with him. Thorn and I have no wish to be slaves to anyone. We and our comrade wish to aid the rebellion in slaying this monster."

Aye, what he said, Thorn confirmed as he connected his mind to hers. We would've flown straight to the main army, but your elves were closer. His head swiveled in Dras-Leona's direction. And apparently need us more.

"Perhaps you can get them to see reason," Feiradis allowed. "But you served Galbatorix only briefly, and Dras-Leona cries for its King."

Murtagh Morzansson quirked his lip. "We have the next best thing."

He didn't come because even with your fucking magic words he didn't trust you to not slay him on sight, grumbled the elder.

Feiradis bristled at the insinuation until she learned who else had escaped Galbatorix's thrall. Then she grudgingly understood his caution. Shruikan had not taken to the field in a century, but her people lived long lives and had long memories. So many elves present had lost a loved one to Galbatorix directly. Some were foolhardy enough to slip their oaths and find a way to take vengeance against his dreaded dragon.

When their plan was settled Feiradis gathered her forces as near to Dras-Leona's gates as she dared. The creeping stalemate gave her knowledge of the exact distance when the humans truly began to grow agitated by their presence. Every elf pointedly had the weapon sheathed, their stances braced for the worst but not outright hostile.

Feiradis' sharp eyes saw the eyes of Dras-Leona all turn skyward when Thorn dived out of the cloud cover. His fiery scales were unmistakable. So too was Murtagh Morzansson, in plain view upon his back. Their faces flickered with indecision.

Then Shruikan descended, his wings casting a shadow over the city. Though she expected his presence Feiradis still bit back a gasp at the sight of him. Ragged and ribs still visible beneath his scarred hide, he cut a menacing figure all the same. First her eyes found the puckered scar tissue at his throat, the last desperate claws and bites of so many dying dragons that tried to take their killer down with them. Last she'd glimpsed him on the battlefield Shruikan's eyes had been empty white. Now they were a brilliant violet.

Beneath his shadow Dras-Leona erupted into cheers. To them Shruikan was their King's mount, the last dragon their side had held for years, and as much a symbol of inspiration as he had become a black omen for the other side.

Thorn and Shruikan descended to the tallest building in Dras-Leona, one with a still intact dragon-hold. Feiradis scrutinized the faces of the soldiers on the parapets, searching for the slightest hint everything had gone horribly wrong and a violent intervention was needed.

A short eternity passed before the gates creaked open wide enough to allow a single terrified herald flying a white flag. His terms were easily agreed to.

The gates opened wide for to let through their delegation for Thorn strode at their head with Murtagh Morzansson at his side. Feiradis recognized the rest of their members as Dras-Leona's nobility. Most looked at least half-starved and blinked rapidly against their first direct exposure to sunlight in gods knew how long. Some were missing fingers or entire limbs. Still they were clean and well-dressed, carrying themselves with dignity. Lord Brutus Tabor's imprisonment did not seem to have broken him, but rather given him the stance of a leader Feiradis could respect.

Not a single priest of the Helgrind cult was amongst their number. Feiradis wondered how many Zar'roc had personally beheaded.

Even at their widest the gates could not admit Shruikan's bulk. Instead he flew over the walls to land at their rear.

Unlike the clearly stated succession laws of the human kingdom that had preceded it Galbatorix's Empire had lacked such laws entirely. After all, the Black King had believed himself immortal, and feared usurpation enough to have given anyone the slightest shred of legitimacy to hold his throne after him. Feiradis reckoned if the Empire's remnants still heeded a single man it would have been Murtagh Morzansson, as their side's only surviving Dragon Rider and Galbatorix's dubious apprentice.

Lord Brutus Tabor formally negotiated his city's surrender. He looked not to Morzansson, but to Shruikan, as he did so. Perhaps because the dread dragon was large enough to swallow even a human Rider whole.

Fearlessly the black dragon opened his mind far and wide. Feiradis blinked in awe at how mightily his words reverberated in her head but did not flinch away. For all his crushing bulk Shruikan carried himself lightly.

Humans of Dras-Leona and elves of Du Weldenvarden, you know me as Shruikan; the Dreaded, the King's Beast, the Last Dragon, and by a thousand other epithets. It has been largely overlooked the bond between dragon and Rider was supposed to be an equal partnership. With King Galbatorix dead I claim what is left of his kingdom to organize its surrender and to urge anyone else still loyal to his name to lay down their swords. Galbatorix is dead by the hands of the abomination he unleashed upon Urubaen, the same monster responsible for the destruction of our capital and the deaths of countless thousands. That monster has no regard for man or dragon, no elf or Urgal. It longs only to burn the world as it did Urubaen. Only by coming together and laying down our hatred can we hope to stop it. If not, all we'll have to war over are the ashes.

Dras-Leona surrendered without a single life lost.

...None worth mourning, at least. Feiradis did not spy a single tear shed for Helgrind's priests.

Day and night blurred together. Even the screaming of his wings had long gone numb. Sometimes Jarshan even wondered if was even still flying or if his wings had already given out and he was slowly bleeding out from the crash.

Nothing was real but his all-consuming grief and the implacable shadow at his heels.

Andariel tired and thirsted. Of this Jarshan had no doubt. When the Undying pushed his body to its breaking point he simply allowed himself to drop dead and come back revitalized.

Jarshan had no such reprieve. He pushed himself past exhaustion and into delirium. Only the perpetual dying of the moon and sun kept him flying west instead of turning east into the jaws of Serdar's killer. When he thought he could push himself no further he always discovered himself unwittingly tapping into his magic to soothe his burning throat or gain another frantic burst of energy.

Yet not even a King's power was fathomless and Jarshan was no true King. Whatever well of wild magic keeping him aloft was near depleted.

He wondered if his heart would simply give out first and if he'd simply unite with Andariel in hell. Often he considered simply stopping and letting the Undying claim him for the mountain-lord's hoard. Better an eternity beside his uncle than burning in damnation.

Every time he considered surrender Serdar's final command rose up from his memory to urge him onward. Of course Jarshan obeyed it.

He did not scream when his wings finally failed. He did so when he landed on his side, his own bulk shattering delicate bone and sinew.

Run, you fool! Serdar's ghost demanded.

Gouging deep into the earth with his claws, Jarshan hauled himself up, and staggered forward. His broken wing dragged behind him. Now was the time to take the command literally.

When Eridor and Safiri's vengeful spirits dove out of the clouds he was too damned tired to rail against his fate. He instead stared grimly upward, determined to meet them standing up.

Instead the ghosts swooped past him to bombard Andariel with twin plumes of blue fire. The Undying, dwarfing them both, swatted at them like flies.

Jarshan numbly watched Eridor and Safiri land no more than glancing blows. Andariel's stoic demeanor never faltered even as he snapped and swattered after them. He dimly wondered if he was hallucinating the encounter or else envisioning yet another metaphysical battle for his soul. Perhaps he was slowly dying as Andarial worked to harvest his Eldunari. Would hellfire or the hoard win first?

Of all the phantoms to erupt from the clouds next it was some niece whose name he only half-remembered. She landed on Andariel's back, claws and fangs digging deep into the corded muscle of his neck. When he bucked her off and slammed her into the earth Eridor roared in rage.

Andariel flinched back. So did Jarshan when the power of a true King's Wrath washed over him. New fire surged through his veins and burned the fog from his brain.

Eridor and Safiri were a century dead. Instead Jarshan snarled futilely up at Saphira Brightscales and her abomination of a Rider. Each little more than yearlings, one bite from the Undying was enough to snap their spines. Elva, around a decade old, was little bigger. Rats might as well battle a bear.

Fools! he bellowed up at them. You're just three more for the hoard!

They all ignored him. He was a downed dragon in an airborne battle.

Dying was one thing. Dying alongside Eridor and Safiri's reincarnations to be stowed beside their Eldunarya for all fucking eternity was quite another. Rousing up all his grief and fury, Jarshan craned his head skyward and mustered the largest, hottest fire he could muster. Its pale fingers just singed Andariel's belly.

Andariel glanced down. It was distraction enough for the abomination to douse his head in the all-consuming fire of a fully-realized King.

Jarshan lurched out of the way as the corpse crashed to earth. He snorted at the stench of charred flesh. Nothing remained of Andariel's head but a smoking skull. Formidable as the Undying was, he was still but a sliver of the mountain-lord's age, and not even he had withstood the full-force of Aiedail's Wrath. Andariel and the abomination were both shadows of their forebears, but thus the pattern should still adhere to them both.

The three dragons, not knowing the true extent of the evil they had just felled, rounded on him instead.

You! Eridor growled from the abomination's body.

You'll never take me alive! Jarshan wanted to snarl. Instead he smirked and said, to the same effect, Hello, brother. I almost didn't recognize you in that puny little form. You really should have burned out that human weakness while you still had the chance.

The abomination's jaws smoked ominously while the two she-dragons snarled down at him. Faintly, beneath their rage, he just heard a sound like a multitude of worms squirming beneath the earth. Jarshan ignored his impending demise to gape down at Andariel's corpse.

Pristine whiteness blossomed from blackened bone just as sinew and scales smoothed it over. The head was still mostly skull when black, burning pits ignited into the eye sockets. With a ragged inhale the Undying lurched to his paws. Smoke rose from several parts of his skull as his flesh continued weaving its way shut.

Fools! he roared, though his throat only managed a raspy shriek. I am the Undying!

The three young dragons, gaping down at the Undying in horror, recovered enough to blast his form with fire. Already mostly recovered, Andariel bellowed. Composure shattered, he sprung into the air after them even as their burns faded from his flesh.

Jarshan moaned in horror and backed away. Not even the mountain-lord had survived direct exposure to the King's Wrath. Yet the Undying had risen from a blast that had melted his brain to mush. With his broken wing he could not flee far enough before the Undying claimed three more Eldunarya for his father's hoard and came for him instead.

...Then how had the Undying wound up in hell in the first place?

From a distance Jarshan surveyed the futile struggle. Every blow even the abomination scored was steadfastly shrugged off. Even how he could spot fury giving way to frantic fear and inevitable exhaustion. Even a King could fade and at last the mountain-lord could claim the crown jewel of his hoard.

Jarshan thought back to his one glimpse of the mountain-lord, a sight that he endured over and over again in his nightmares. The direct fire blast to the face had not blinded him. The scar tissue had been old and puckered, an injury healed from and ignored. Yet, even as the mountain-lord had been reborn anew from Galbatorix's ashes, the burn mark on his chest was still fresh.

A direct blow to the head killed even a dragon. Though the brain housed a dragon's mind it did not hold their soul.

Eying the four dragons above him he privately reached out to the one most likely to heed him and most capable of leaving lasting damage.

His wings! Go for his wings!

Elva's raging contempt for him was outmatched by cool rationality. While Andariel snapped after his greatest prize, the little abomination blasting his face with blue fire, she once more slipped onto his back. She ignored his heavily armored neck to instead gnaw at the delicate tendons where wing met shoulder. Andariel's head lurched in an aborted strike, for Saphira and her mate ruthlessly bombarded him with their flames.

When Elva at last forced Andariel to earth she moved onward to clawing and biting at his neck. Jarshan surged forward. His niece was just large enough to make the Undying bare his chest. Once more calling up his rage he hurled his burning grief into a blast aimed at Andariel's heart. Even as the black dragon lurched and keened Jarshan ruthlessly pressed onward. Only a third Andariel's size, he was still strong enough to pin down his struggling form and crack his ribs for the true target.

The Eldunari was almost too big for his mouth. Jarshan wrenched it from smoking flesh and crushed it beneath his bulk.

The Undying shuddered and fell still. For good measure Jarshan ground the shattered pieces of his heart of hearts with a hateful paw. Elva leaped away from the corpse before Saphira and the abomination set it alight. Blue flames rose from the pyre and into the cloudy skies.

Jarshan looked the abomination in the eyes, knowing two souls stared out from them. Why did you come for me?

Eridor snarled unintelligibly, but the other body's inhabitant shoved his frothing rage coolly aside. Your desperate terror haunted our every dream. We came for the... thing that followed you here, the thing you brought so close to those we protect.

Saphira mistrustfully watched the pyre as if its burning corpse would arise from it at any moment. Her paranoia was much welcomed. What was he?

He called himself Andariel the Undying, Jarshan answered numbly. The mountain-lord sent him after us. He got Serdar, but it was the King he craved most of all.

Eragon growled. Oh, he'll have me alright. He'll have my every spark poured down his throat and into his eyes.

Elva did not disagree with that sentiment, though she did curtly ask, How many more like him?

Jarshan laughed humorlessly. I'd say Aiedail fucking knows, but I really doubt even he does. The mountain-lord crawled out of hell and brought them with him. How many more sinners like me got condemned to the fires?

Well, he can't have you, Elva growled. Not when it's your damn duty to atone for your part in this. And you can't do that languishing beside the rest of our clan in his treasure trove.

Jarshan's gaze flicked to Eragon. In his place Eridor would have raged against such defiance from one of his subjects, especially his own daughters, and promptly tear into Jarshan's throat for his vengeance. Eridor bellowed for his host to do just that. Eragon calmly acknowledge his right to rage before setting him aside.

You help us end the mountain-lord or I kill you for getting in our way, Eragon ground out. You helped tear the dragons apart once when they needed solidarity most. I'll damn myself before letting that happen again.

Jarshan should not have stilled beneath the gaze of a dragon so much smaller than him, one who was not even truly one of their kind, but he did so anyway. I'm already in your way. My damned wing is broken and you don't have the time for me to limp after you.

Saphira sniffed. Then it's your good fortune a healer absolutely insisted on coming with us.

Elva flew off and returned moments later with a curly-haired human clinging to her back. She grinned as she dismounted.

"Well," she said brightly. "So glad I'm finally able to meet one of the dragons most responsible for the near annihilation of our race."

Jarshan suffered Angela's ministrations silently. Three dragons watched him sharply, all ready to slay him the moment he looked ready to bite the witch's head off. Jarshan didn't do so because he feared the witch's reprisal worst of all.

When they flew for the rebel camp Jarshan was bestowed the great 'honor' of ferrying Angela back. She took the opportunity to sprawl herself out on his back, leaning comfortably against one of his spikes, and happily wax poetic about how his particular brand of well-intended idiocy always made things fall apart in the most interestingly exasperating of ways.

Chapter Text

Saemora repressed a keen when the death of yet another brother reverberated across the bond. Glaerith had been an unsurprising early casualty. He raged too hot and too hard, burning up before he could be more than a flash in the world. A true fire held back its full force to endure. Kialos was and always had been a spineless coward. Not even the fires of hell had burned away his weakness. Glaerith had at least been slain by a true Dragon Rider. Kialos had been felled by mere elves.

Andariel, however, had been of higher quality. In none of their three lives had he ever been the most cunning individual but he had been smart enough. What he had lacked in guile he had made up for in sheer, undying determination. Only the utter destruction of his heart of hearts could have forced Andariel back into hell.

Not that their depths could hold him long. When their sire had first clawed his way free the Undying had been right behind him.

They had all struggled hard for rebirth. Before they had become the Forsworn there had been numerous attempts to enter the world as true dragons. Those pitiful little flickers had died in the shell or not long after. The Mountain King had suffered most before he had latched onto Galbatorix. By then four his five had entered the world as elves, and the Herald had finally followed not long after.

Their sire had ignored every loss, hard and impassive as the mountains he raised from Urubaen's smoldering ruins.

The earth itself had seemed to scream as Vercingetorix bent it to its will. Like the Eldunarya, they had broken in the end, and flat plains birthed jagged peaks sired by a treasure trove of souls and the Mountain King's indomitable will.

Whatever humans clung to the capital's outskirts had either fled or perished beneath the heaving tons of earth. The tallest peak, one capable of housing Vercingetorix, pierced the clouds. The surrounding land was gouged with gaping valleys from where naked rock had been forced skyward.

Vercingetorix was fickle on many things. Within hours of christening himself Vergentorix he had chosen another name. At times he mourned the loss of his children. Other times he raged at their stupidity and hoped hellfire properly chastised them.

In raising mountains he had been painstakingly thorough. His chambers consumed most of the largest peak, with tunnels leading down into the heart so he could bask in his shining hoard. Smaller tunnels branched out. Saemora was still exploring their depths. So far she had discovered low, sheltered caves for raising hatchlings and cool interior chambers for storing excess food. There were caves for all ages, brooding pairs and restless yearlings and proven warriors.

Unlike the womb-of-the-world, now set in barren desert, the Mountain King had anticipated the needs of a growing clan. Water tumbled from falls and gushed up from the earth to fill new lakes. His bulk leveled out valleys so seedlings could properly take root and breathed his will upon them to encourage growth. In a year's turn a fledgling forest would have risen.

Vercingetorix had ordered the Herald away to help manage the furthest reaches of their new territory. Saemora he kept at his side.

Behold, dear daughter, the seat of our domain. What was the heart of humanity's realm shall become ours, once more and forever.

Of the sentient races only dwarves were truly native to Alagaesia. For centuries her kind had kept them confined to their subterranean holdfasts, before the elves had come. All of them, from humans to Urgals, were a plague to be cleansed from her father's world.

It is grand, king-father, she demurred. All it awaits is our blood.

Our blood alone, only our eggs laid in the world. One clan, one king, one race. As it should have been.

Vercingetorix's chambers had been hewn with another of his size in mind, colossal enough to hold them both for centuries more to come. There was but one star the Mountain King more eagerly awaited falling than Aiedail's.

Death can soon never hope to hold us. We can crawl up from the depths of the world and safely fall to earth to the eggs of our clan. Neither I or my brothers shall ever have to settle for any life less than our own blood. And you will be there to restore us to our old strength.

Everyone would be there but the one dragon that mattered. In her first life the Destroyer had taken no mate and mothered no children. In her second life her darling one had hatched for her. He was all she had ever wanted, but the spiteful curse of her dying kind had stripped him of his name and very sense of self. Despite all she had done to keep him grounded, he had still drifted away bit by bit. By the end his Elundari was too withered to either rise to the stars or join her in hellfire.

Her sire rumbled in satisfaction and shook the mountain with him. Always your mother's daughter. You have her vision.

History remembered that she-dragon as mother-to-monsters. She had laid clutches for centuries. Saemora had hatched late into her mother's life. She could remember her as little more than an extension of the mountain-lord, the silent face at his side that had given rise to their sprawling clan. What vision had the mother-to-monsters held beyond her mate's wishes?

Saemora held back that idle thought and locked it deep into the recesses of her mind. Her sire, blind to her senseless challenge to his version of the truth, beckoned Morzarok home. His Herald and his Destroyer were to accompany him in awakening their clan into the new world he had forged for them and help see if to completion.

Vercingetorix descended into the depths of his holdfast. Saemora dutifully followed.

Despite the darkness the cavern shimmered with countless captive souls, a trove that rivaled the night sky. Her sire forgot her existence in favor of picking over his collection. He hovered over Eldunarya almost like a brooding mother, murmuring their names and prodding at minds that shied away from his touch or were too broken to respond.

When Morzarok finally skulked in the Mountain King did even look up from his basking. For a heartbeat Saemora feared they would have to wait for him to count them all.

Vercingetorix seamlessly shifted his recitation of names into a deep thrum, the same used to coax offspring from the egg. Saemora added her voice to his. The Eldunarya screamed as her sire forced his power upon them, and louder still when the Herald amplified the call far and wide with his roar.

From across the continent their brothers and sisters answered.

You should have struck him down where he stood. Tear out his throat with your teeth. Ripped his Eldunari from his chest and smash it beneath your...

Eragon heaved a weary sigh and raised his mental shields higher. Eridor's impotent raging continued unabated but no longer made his head ring.

Eridor had every right to his hatred but his time as King was over. Judgement against Jarshan was no longer his to pass.

Eragon and Eridor were not one in the same. That had been made clear to him over and over again since that alien voice had first resounded in his mind and soul. Neither was Saphira Safiri. Jarshan had not killed Eragon any more than he had Saphira. Distanced from his prior life's all-consuming hatred, Eragon was resolved to keep himself neutral. Feuds and grudges had once nearly resulted in the complete annihilation of their race at the time they had most needed to band together. He could not risk sinking back into the same self-destruction.

His treacherous mind dredged up memories of Roran's haunted eyes, Katrina's radiant joy and the gentle hand on the slight curve of her belly. Jarshan had made it very clear he and Serdar had both been under oath. Eragon could no more blame him for the crime than Murtagh for Hrothgar's murder.

Ancestors knew the Varden bayed for justice. Yet the sentence was not Nasuada's to pass. As a wild dragon Jarshan fell under purview of his King. He was as much Eragon's responsibility as Elva or Eridor's boisterous twins.

So long as the mountain-lord lived, than Jarshan's sentence was best served in helping to end him. If that meant living on the outskirts of camp and living in the same near isolation Eragon had during the first days of his transformation, then so be it.

Saphira briefly flew close enough to brush her wingtip against his. Her utter trust was a balm against the furious beast imprisoned in his head. You're making the right decision, Eragon. There are too few dragons left to worry about past sins now. And if he thinks to make more in the present, then he won't live long enough to realize them.

Caradoc and Trinnean are not to be left alone in his presence and to not be near him at all whenever possible, he said stonily. Those rambunctious hatchlings had grown into rebellious adolescents. They might not always heed their sire but they would damn well heed their King, even if he had to hold them down and wrest their vows from them both.

Elva growled in agreement. In the sunset her violet scales shimmered. She dogged Jarshan's every wing-beat, ready to swoop down and dig into his throat the moment he thought of changing course. Those little mischief-making bastards have to go through me first, and I'm not so easily pushed around anymore.

Eragon's response died with an agonized shriek. Aiedail's Call had touched the depths of his heart of hearts. This perversion gouged its way even deeper, jarring his bones and sinking its talons into the deepest reaches of his brain.

Somehow he mustered up concentration to direct his rage into Wrath. The foulness dissipated in wake of his searing flames. Eragon snapped open his wings and righted himself before he toppled to earth. Dimly he realized his talons were wet with his own blood. Saphira and Elva also recovered. Their heads bled from where they had clawed at the voice worming its way into their brains.

Blinking against the blood seeping into his vision, Eragon saw Angela sway and fall. Too far to act, he roared in horror. Elva dove after the witch.

Jarshan caught her first. Clutching her to his chest, he angled his body so his back took the brunt of impact.

Eragon and his clan swooped after them. A direct fall could have proven deadly to a human. To a dragon...

Angela winced and slid out of Jarshan's claws. Briefly kneeling down to retch, she quickly snapped up to her full height and rounded the dragon's form to bop him squarely on the snout.

"Idiot!" she scolded. "You nearly went and made all of my hard work useless. What's the point in healing if your stone-headed patient goes and gets himself killed hours later?"

Baring his teeth against the pain, Jarshan snorted in her face. The witch yelped indignantly at the spray of mucus. You save my life, I return the favor. You don't exactly have wings in that puny little body.

"Stars help me if you got yourself paralyzed," she raved. "Do you have any idea how much a pain spinal cords are to heal?"

Jarshan weathered the witch's ranting with a sullen growl as he dutifully shifted himself for her to inspect the damage. The other three dragons watched in bemusement. When the stone-scaled dragon finally climbed back to his paws and ruffled his wings back into alignment Eragon released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

The mountain-lord, he snarled. Of course it had been. What did he do?

"Call his errant children home, I imagine," Angela said absently. She clambered up Jarshan's back like a squirrel. "In the end his clan was absolutely massive. And they did not die easily. Most have plotted vengeance against their bastard brother and his descendants for centuries."

Saphira showed teeth in the way she did when on her last nerve. How many children, exactly?

Angela shrugged. "A whole damn clan's worth? He and his mate bred like rabbits, then their children and grandchildren did, and so on."

Elva snarled at her. You couldn't take it upon yourself to warn us sooner!

It doesn't matter all that much, Jarshan said snidely. Humanity nearly drove dragons into extinction with the aid of a few Forsworn, and the elves nearly managed it all on their own during the Dragon War. Surely together they can manage one more time?

Eragon took a deep breath and reached for calm. He opened his mind to them all and-

Elva rounded on him instead, fangs bared. Did you know about this?

Eragon strained his mind back to his shattered recollections of the King's Trial. He remembered glimpsing stars above and below. But he had thought...

Of course you didn't! Elva snapped at his hesitation. You restored my true form but locked yourself in a human shape! What did you accomplish beside pacify some worthless human soldiers and nearly get your mate killed?

Are you challenging your King?

For a moment Eragon thought he had bit the words out himself. Then he recognized the voice as Eridor's. Elva balked. I...

If you do not agree with your King, then challenge him for his crown, Eridor said sharply. If you don't have the spine, then bare your neck and get back into line... unless you'd rather be an outcast?

Elva gaped, wings and tail slack. She shivered with hesitation. Then she flashed her throat at Eragon and frantically flew west toward camp as if the mountain-lord were on her heels.

Jarshan cocked his head. His eyes searched Eragon's as if his brother lurked in them. Were you not just challenging your King about his sentence of me?

Just because I was ranting at his stupidity doesn't mean I want to undermine his authority, Eridor said sardonically. Besides, it's not like we both know what your ultimate sentence shall be in the end. His brother flinched back. For the time being, you have a debt to repay.

Gray eyes flicked in the direction of Elva's departure. She might be your last, brother. I'm uncertain if... Mavalis survived Urubaen's destruction.

So am I, Eridor admitted. But those who would have been his nestmates live on. In death Safiri managed to defend our sons a final time, for her corpse shielded Trinnean and Caradoc from your greedy gaze.

Jarshan said nothing. All of them silently turned to Angela.

The witch shrugged. "You were all stars too at one point. Just because my memory's a little sharper than most doesn't mean it's flawless. Why don't you tell me for once?"

The night sky flared every color of the rainbow as his children and grandchildren announced their arrivals one by one. They came south from the elvan forests, west from the dwarven strongholds, and south and east from human and Urgal towns and villages. Perhaps a few had sought the primitive comforts of even lesser creatures.

The Mountain King coiled around the tallest peak, high as it could him, and watched his clan land one by one. The strongest jostled for the positions closest to him. His Herald and his Destroyer occupied places of honor at his paws. The weakest contented themselves at the base or else were forced to the ground. When he saw the true fights break out he growled once. Even his lowest tone rumbled the air like thunder. Every one of his greatest warriors stilled like scolded hatchlings.

Come now, he chided. This is our first time together in centuries. Some of you have never met the others. Tonight, on the brink of our dawn, there shall be no bloodshed.

Vercingetorix idly tried to wonder when his clan at last been this big. Its numbers had waxed and waned over the centuries, mothers churning out eggs and children slaughtering each other and rival clans in an endless cycle. Perhaps it had never been this large in life and only rebirth offered them the chance of reunion.

Gazing down at his countless progeny, Vercingetorix expected to feel pride, for his vision was so close to culmination. All he needed was the little King. He searched himself for the slightest emotion and found... nothing. He felt nothing. When he had truly been content, beyond the brief pangs of satisfaction when a part of his plan fell into place?

The Mountain King flicked his gaze skyward. Instinctively he found the bastard first, shining brightest of them all. Almost certainly before the pretender had come along and gradually whittled away at his pride and power.

(that is a lie)

The false King and his little army shall come to us. They expect to find us lurking in the ruins of a human city like rats.The Mountain King unfurled his wings. The moonlight cast his shadow far and wide. Behold the land I have made for you! For you I have raised mountains! From them we shall look down and laugh at those who gaze up at his in dismay and disbelief. We shall rain fire and blood down upon them! I will kill their false King and claim this world as mine. Together we shall raze all rot from this land and restore it to when we ruled supreme!

He craned his gaze upward to bellow his defiance at the heavens. His clan eagerly joined their war cries to his.

Vercingetorix searched the stars. He did not know which one was her (my Jarnunvosk) but knew she watched all the same.

Chapter Text

Blodgharm was well-used to having his elves as faint presences in the back of his mind. The rebel camp was a vast one for any potential threats to creep through. Nasuada, King Orrin, the two young dragons left behind when Eragon had charged with his clan into the west... There were so many tempting targets for assassination. They had to be ready at a moment's notice.

Blodgharm had only felt the inferno through his faint bond to Naurin and had still shied away as if his very spirit were scorched. Yet he had refused to let g o and surrender one of his own to the fire. He and his companions had all reached out to shield Naurin as best they could.

Naurin had not been pulled away from them. He had lashed out with all his strength, as if remembering how much he hated them all, and given himself to the flames. The inferno that seared Blodgharm's very soul drew him in like a moth.

Blodgharm had raced for his side but then the inferno had erupted from all sides. So had the dragons. Their wings had blossomed from the backs of dwarves. Urgals shed their own horns for pairs far larger. Human screams of pain and rapture broke into bellows.

Most, heedless of the fires left in their wake, had taken wing to the north. Some stayed behind to turn their flames upon their own brothers-in-arms. Blodgharm had sighted one heading for Trinnean and Caradoc. He had known it to be Naurin just as he had known the dragon's killing intent.

Now, as the last of the flames were doused and the burn victims tended to, Blodgharm grimly appraised the corpse of one those he'd trusted most in the world.

As an elf Naurin had been unremarkable, dark-haired and dark-eyed. His dragon body was massive, far closer to Glaedr's size than Eragon's. Blood still wept from the ruined eye socket Blodgharm had hurled a spear through when his words and magic had proven unable to deter Naurin's wrath. His remaining eye, half-closed, was still a blazing gold even clouded over in death. His hide was a deep and lustrous blue, not unlike the heart of Eragon's own fire. It was a shade not far from Blodgharm's own fur.

Once, when he had been young and foolish, before he had been the Blood-Wolf, Blodgharm had dreamed of rising on a dragon's wings. In his mind's eye his new form, sleek and powerful, had been much like Naurin's.

Blodgharm's assumed place had gone to Idunn instead. He had retreated deep into Du Weldenvarden to brood and don a new face and name entirely unrelated to dragons or princesses. He had missed the terrible tragedy of the ritual and its gruesome aftermath.

Now he had finally witnessed a race's rebirth. He had not ascended with them on a dragon's wings, but suffered their fires.

He stared critically at the spear lodged in Naurin's eye socket. Was it worth salvaging?

His ears twitched at the sound of ragged breathing. Blodgharm turned. Sindri stumbled gracelessly toward them, silver hair streaked with ash. Beneath the grime and burns her skin was pale. She shivered as if inflicted with a raging fever. Her eyes gazed blindly past Blodgharm to their fallen companion.

Her knees looking ready to collapse, Blodgharm rushed to her side. She did not even blink at his presence.

"Sindri," he tried.

"We called to him," she rasped, eyes never leaving the body. "All of us. Even when I felt you raise your spear, I screamed for him to yield. He knew he was diving into his death, but was too proud to listen."

"That beast wasn't Naurin," Blodgharm snarled. "Not truly. It consumed him from the inside out and spurned his name."

"He was still Naurin," Sindri whispered. "One who remembered all he had once been and to hate what he had become."

She trembled more violently. Blodgharm wondered if she burned with fever or shook like an addict in withdrawal. Blodgharm had been so determined to prevent Naurin from throwing himself into the flames he had not even noticed how his other comrades had reacted.

"You heard it too," he intoned, unmoved by her tremulous nod. "Why didn't you heed it?"

"I ache for it," she moaned. Then she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Sindri shook off Blodgharm's alarm to absently mutter her own healing spell. A faint fire flickering in her eyes, she stood taller as her shaking ceased. "But I do not hate this life. My name is Sindri and I will always be Sindri. The one who summoned me wished to sacrifice myself to the flames. He is no king of mine."

Before they even entered range of the magicians Eragon scented smoke on the wind and knew what had happened. By the time they arrived the last flames had been doused and the victims tended to. Those that hadn't survived were being granted honorable burial. The bodies of those responsible were granted to the pyre.

Stay with him and out of sight! he snapped at Angela, knowing damn well the witch could keep Jarshan contained.

Then he flew straight over camp, ignoring the pleas and cries. Dimly he was aware of Saphira's absent attempts of explanation to those reaching out to them. Eridor's voice drowned all else out.

Father! two souls cried out as one.

Eragon snapped his wings shut and landed heavily on his paws. He did not waste a moment in falling upon the twins. Eridor reached out and enveloped them in a mental embrace, soothing his sons even as he scoured for any trace of harm. Trinnean and Caradoc's fear and burning resentment at their helplessness crumbled into relief. Eragon did his best to wrap them in his wings. The small traces of blood on their pale blue hides was not their own.

Roran was slick with blood and gore.

Eridor's mind remained latched onto his sons, thrumming with pride as they regaled him about how they had defended themselves without fire. Saphira and Elva crowded them. Raising his wings so they could reach Trinnean and Caradoc, Eragon lowered his head to Roran's eye level.

Roran, he murmured. Thank you for protecting them.

His brother in all but blood shrugged wanly. "I only brained one little bastard smaller than you."

Eragon briefly pictured Roran scaling a dragon's neck, teeth bared in a snarl as he brought down his hammer again and again... He shook the image from his mind.

Roran's brown eyes searched his. "That monster that set you off so quickly. Is it dead?"

Aye, he said softly. And then he felt forced to add, It wasn't one of the dragons that killed Katrina. He actually killed one of the two that carried out the order.

A vein in his cousin's neck bulged dangerously and Eragon braced himself for the fury. Instead Roran's eyes slid to Trinnean. Despite their ever-growing size Eridor's sons were still very much children, shielded from war's harsh realities as best their guardians could. Roran bit back his venom like he would for a human child. Trinnean and Caradoc watched him warily, no stranger to his frantic shifts from apathy into frothing rage or dark despair.

"How about the other one?" he gritted out.

In his heart of hearts Eragon knew Roran would not rest until he had hunted Jarshan down and killed himself in his attempts at vengeance. It did not matter Jarshan had been in thrall to Galbatorix himself, a man spiteful enough to lash out a camp mostly comprised of wounded and noncombatants.

Acted on Galbatorix's orders, Eragon said at last. And not all of him is dead.

Roran stubbornly kept his roiling emotions behind iron walls but he could not hide his impotent rage from Eragon. Once, before he had realized a Rider's strength, Eragon had simmered with the need to avenge Garrow but thought himself powerless to do so. His cousin had no dragon bond or dragon heart, only his strong arms and smith-forged hammer against demons that had wormed their way up from hell.

"Then see that he suffers for it."

Roran lowered his shields for none but his cousin, for his visions of vengeance were so vivid even Eragon flinched. For a moment he was both avenger and the punished, pulverizing bone and muscle blow by blow even as Roran imagined what a dragon would feel as a human smashed its way through to its Eldunari.

Eragon silently vowed Roran and their family to do the vision justice.

Roran retreated behind his shields and said nothing.

From Zar'roc dripped the blood of a dozen dragons, all effaced with a simple spell. Murtagh grimly wondered if his father had found massacring wild dragons clan by clan so near effortless.

Thorn kicked at the corpse of his last foe. The female had been near half again his size. I'm pretty damned sure real wild dragons weren't impervious to magic.

Murtagh rolled his eyes, mustering up his magic to heal the latest round of burns and bite marks from the red dragon's hide. "They all sure as the seven hells considered themselves real dragons. More so than even you and Shruikan."

In the background Shruikan's black vastness loomed out of the night. For so long Murtagh had dreaded him as a mere extension his master's whim, feral rage incarnate. The knowledge a sorrowful soul lurked behind those once empty eyes did little to diminish Shruikan's reputation. Though he had been an unwilling participant in the Fall muscle memory had guided him true. Shruikan had snapped the spines of smaller dragons like a terrier loosed among rats and ripped out the throats of those rivaled him in size. His hide was red in their blood and his wings ripped ragged by their claws.

Thorn rolled his eyes. If that... thing is a mountain than Shruikan is a molehill next to him. And now that mountain has an army. Your brother doesn't stand a chance.

Murtagh blinked. He doubted he would ever grow accustomed to correlating his brash little human brother to fire made flesh. Distantly he wondered what Morzan would say if he knew the fates of his sons, the elder a distorted shadow of himself and the younger a dragon King.

"Eragon," he muttered aloud. "What do I even say to him?"

He he had been dragged off to Urubaen and enslaved against his will. Murtagh certainly wasn't about to fall down before a dragon and beg for forgiveness for what Galbatorix had forced him to do. Murtagh had helped ensure Dras-Leona's peaceful surrender and risked his own life against the dragons that had erupted from human forms. He and Eragon were now allies for the same cause, not enemies on two disparate sides.

Murtagh wished for the luxury of being able to scry his brother from a safe distance so that both of them had the freedom to retreat when pushed to their brink, to take slow and careful steps to a true reunion after the worst of their ill will had been vented away. Eragon's dragon form prevented such long distance communication without use of a third party magician on his end. Murtagh's words, whatever they wound up being, were for his brother alone.

We're hellbent on dying at his side in trying to kill a dragon that leveled a city full of the Empire's greatest magicians?

Against his better judgement Murtagh's lip quirked. "Aye. Something like that."

Jarshan devoured the cow out of desperation. He slowly cracked the bones between his teeth out of sheer boredom. Angela happily prattled onward. Their one-sided conversation meandered between the benefits of human dexterity over draconic power before musing on how a human could be spent toward studying the higher mysteries, such as the differences between frogs and toads.

At the beginning Jarshan had been content to weather the witch's mad ramblings in silence. She had saved his life, after all, and then brought him a cow from the human camp with no questions asked. Then there came a point when his surprisingly deep well of patience finally evaporated.

You were a gods damned star, Jarshan snapped at last. Above everything, with the knowledge of all that was and ever could be unfolding beneath you. Why would you give omniscience for the next best thing to utter blindness?

"What do you remember about your time up there?" Angela asked silkily, eyes turning skyward. Their forebears glittered coldly above.

He growled at her.

"Exactly," the witch agreed easily. "When we're so high up above everything what's done below means absolutely nothing to us. Why do you think even those like me have next to no memory of it while we're down here? Our heads are so full of the things that matter that there's no room left for hot air and idle possibilities. That's why even the great souls must fall back to earth sooner or later. Rebirth is what keeps us tethered to the world and fading to who knows where."

Jarshan snarled in her face. I was happy among the ancestors. Eridor fell first! Our kind was nearly extinct, and I knew he was going to find a way to fuck things up even more than Heitgera had! Look what he did to his abomination of a host!

Angela arched an eyebrow. "Am I really the one you want to have this conversation with?"

The stone-scaled dragon paced before her, all too aware of his cage's invisible confines. The witch was now his keeper. To leave her behind was to desert the one damned dragon soul in this camp that had no grudge against him. Risking Eragon's wrath met death as the best case scenario or else being turned loose for the mountain-lord's offspring to hunt down.

He couldn't help his bitter laugh. You mean to tell me I can seek him out at any time?

"I've been waiting for you to get bored and wonder off for gods know how many hours now," Angela replied. "How long did you and Eridor share the same skies?"

Over eighty years.

"And what do you anything you two might have said to each other over that time?" Some lingering human instinct made Jarshan open and close his mouth without comment. "Aye, I figured. What makes you think his memory is any better, considering how much he's been half-assing it this entire time?"

He mulled over Angela's question long and hard. Some of the confusion that had haunted him since his first stirrings of consciousness in this new life finally dissipated. A far thicker fog rose to replace it.

Jarshan rose to his paws and brushed aside the remnants of his kill. He rustled his wings before settling them against his sides. He left the witch behind without taking flight and made no effort to disguise his footfalls. Jarshan merely announced his presence, avoiding both an aggressive charge that suggested conflict or a silent approach that brought to mind treachery on a long-ago night.

Eridor's host had no such qualms about descending from the air, his white form gleaming in the moonlight. Jarshan warily watched for any flicker of flame but Eragon landed without a spark at the very edge of their mental range. Despite the distance between them Jarshan was painfully aware how much smaller this dragon was, especially when he and Eridor had stood as equals in life. Eragon was an echo of Eridor, but not of Safiri. He did not look like their lost son but rather like an artist had attempted to sculpt Eridor from half-faded memory and without enough clay to do so. Jarshan was still perturbed at seeing the six royal horns on one who not was of the direct line, one who was not even a dragon at all.

Yet Jarshan was still grudgingly impressed at the regal stature Eragon could command, a stance not stolen from Eridor but rather honed on his own. Crowned king so young, Eridor had always burned with the need to prove himself, and had shown his anger in the taut of his muscles. Eragon was surer in his skin.

This was Eragon's body. It was not Eragon in control. Jarshan recognized Eridor without even having to look him in the eyes, for this little dragon scarcely more than a yearling carried himself as if many times that size.

You have the strength to seize control from a realized King? Jarshan wondered aloud.

Smoke spewed from borrowed nostrils. Eragon was generous enough to step aside and retreat deep within himself so we could have some privacy. He'll rise up the moment you raise a claw against us. Not that you'd know anything of a reciprocal bond. You were always too proud to take on a mate after I won Safiri's heart.

Jarshan had never been a stranger to autumn's urges. He had fought rivals for the attention of pretty females. Losing to Eridor had stung his pride and cost him the chance of a proper courtship with Safiri, but there had been far more fights and females in the years after. Jarshan had won his fair share but the courtships had never gone beyond mutual physical satisfaction and amiable partings when winter had cooled their passions. He had never been consumed by the urge to seek another half of his soul and drive their couplings further. Jarshan threw Eridor's self-absorption back in his face and sneered at it.

Had you not won Father's crown and driven our face further into the ground I would have left you and Safiri to your broods. You forced my paw when you continued siding with the gods damned Riders over your own race!

For a moment Eridor reeled. Then he parted smoking jaws in a snarl. And your collusion with Galbatorix resulted in the Fall!

Jarshan did not flinch away from the accusation. The weight of his inadvertent sins had dimmed his star in his first death and would drag him down to hell in his second. If the ancestors had not thought me worthy of the King's Trial I would have bowed to a new ruler, even if they had to force me to submit. How was I supposed to know our kin were utter idiots when it came to securing the succession? Or that Galbatorix was the fucking mountain-lord?

You wanted the King's Wrath only for yourself! Eridor roared. How does it feel that Aiedail blessed a human with the power you craved for a century?

It could have been you. Both dragons blinked at each other before Jarshan realized he had shared that thought. There were still eggs being laid after your dea... Murder. After your murder. Safiri chose the first she found suitable. You could have done the same and won back your title in half a year's time.

I would have been found and slaughtered long before my first flame, Eridor dismissed. Or bent to Galbatorix's whims. Few laid in that time were even capable of hatching. Fewer still ever did. None lived long past their first words.

Jarshan swallowed a grimace. He vaguely remembered having similar reservations about the possibility of hatching an ignorant little beast of burden. Serving his former master as an adult wild dragon as a nominal ally was one thing. Becoming a Forsworn's pet in a new body was quite another.

The point had become moot for them both after the death of the last she-dragon. Privately Jarshan admired his brother's ingenuity in postponing his rebirth until Saphira's egg had finally slipped from Galbatorix's clutches. Surely Eragon could not have been born long after. If Eridor and Safiri could not live as equals in their new life then they could at least have enjoyed the bond between Rider and dragon, a connection deep as their first if different in nature, and had their vengeance upon Galbatorix in casting down his Empire.

Jarshan raised his barriers thick and high when he tried to remember the exact reason for his own rebirth. Why had he chosen a boy destined to become a humble herald for the rebel side? Had he been content at the possibility of serving under his brother's reincarnation and playing a modest part in the King's downfall? He had stirred in his own dormancy until he had sensed Eridor's restless fragments. His human skin had not become a prison until Eragon's transformation into a dragon had rocked his Eldunari to its core.

During their brief time together as stars had Eridor and Safiri devised an elaborate design to ensure they could once more be King and Queen of dragons? Or had Eridor grown discontent with their original plan of dragon and Rider over his lonely decades? Had Jarshan felt compelled to stop his brother from further making dragons a mockery of themselves?

You were selfish, Jarshan murmured at last. But not selfish enough.

With that slightest push, the power of the King's Wrath would not have resulted in Eridor's reawakening and Eragon's impossible transformation, but a King's true rebirth in the flesh and not as a shade.

Selfish? Eridor rumbled. I gave up everything so Eragon and Saphira could lead their lives!

Oh, aye, his brother jeered. Surely Eragon asked to awake a dragon when you have instead funneled your fire through his magic. You're the one who twisted him and his bond with Saphira beyond recognition. You forced them together. Were it not for a fluke Eragon could have been consumed entirely by the King's Wrath. And now you haunt their lives through his eyes when Safiri slumbers in contentment. Are you aware enough to hear that, Eragon? My brother fucked you over to relive his life because he hadn't the balls to take it all when he had the chance!

And yet he thrives where you burned Jarsha into nothingness! Blue flames spewed from his maw, but Jarshan did not care. He was a boy, Jarshan, innocent of all crimes but having sprung from you!

Jarshan's fury faded into flabbergast. Jarsha had been young, certainly, but more than old enough to have a strongly defined sense of self. Not like those young, brief little hatchlings that scarcely lived long enough to leave instinct impressed upon their Elundari, let alone enough of a presence to spark a star.

Slowly, his head tilted to the side. ...Apparently elvan arrogance carried over after all. Eridor roared, too furious to be properly shaken by the remark. The Riders insisted nothing exists after death simply because they could not sense it. Do you think all there is are the stars and our hellfire?

Eridor blinked back. His brother rolled his eyes.

During his frantic fight for rebirth Jarshan had subsumed his host's body and molded it into one that suited his awakened soul. Even in his wild hysteria he had ensured to cleanly sever Jarsha's link to the body so he didn't remain a living ghost like Eridor, a prisoner in another's mind. The boy was dead, his soul set free to whatever human life existed.

He wondered if the mountain-kind, in all of his arrogance, had been so thorough in ridding himself of Galbatorix.

Chapter Text

Since the time of Ilirea the heartland of Alagaesia had been well-developed, wild forests tamed into fields and pastures to support sprawling towns and cities. There should have been roads and flat lands, an easy march unencumbered by any obstacle but the hordes of refugees fleeing Urubaen's ruins and their vicinity.

Instead the roads fell into jagged rifts and valleys, fresh wounds gouged into the heart of the earth. In the distance loomed mountains that speared the clouds. The few shaking survivors that joined their train spoke of heaving earth below and fire above from untold numbers of dragons. Their homes were ash and families scattered.

It fell to Eragon and his clan to forge ahead to scout routes for the ground forces. Neither he nor his family flew ahead without at least one elf to guard them.

The landscape was drenched in wild magic. Not only had the mountain-lord upturned the earth, but the wounds were quickly smoothing into scars that looked as if they had always been there. In the deep rifts lakes were pooling and new rivers steadying their courses. The little saplings at the beginning of their march quickly took root and sprouted into trees that soon matched the human soldiers in height and promised to outpace them. At the outskirts, too far to be disturbed by the army's presence, Eragon even caught scent of prey, livestock turned feral by the devastation or wild game lured in by the magic's draw.

He razed the Empire to raise a dragon kingdom just like Galbatorix did Ilirea for his human city, Eridor mused. I suppose the shoot didn't grow up far from the tree.

He's also the closing fucking thing this world has to a physical god, Jarshan said tersely. Unless you were capable of molding the world to your whim like clay when you were a King.

Eragon growled wordlessly and tuned their bickering out. When it came to scouting ahead Saphira had paired up with Elva. The violet she-dragon was still skittish around him and Eridor both, and Eragon tired of the tension. Of course his murderer in another life would turn out to be more stable to work with. Considering how many ambushes they had encountered already he'd be damned if he let any of his clan go off alone, especially the one the mountain-lord already considered his property.

The saturation of wild magic did not help his patience any. It buzzed in the back of his mind and stirred up his Eldunari. It urged him to action but Eragon still had no damn idea how he should act. Instinct and ancestral memory fell short.

"They're at it again?" Blodgharm muttered, blissfully ignorant to the conversation.

Eragon nodded. The brothers were too caught up in a century's worth of bad blood to notice. Blodgharm had thankfully dropped his enchanted scent after it had lured one too many furious she-dragons to his location. Eragon's own sensitive nose was glad to be finally free of the heavy musk.

A furious roar split the sky from foothills that matched the Spine in altitude. Eragon surged forward, Jarshan at his tail, and into the fray.

Dragons thrice his size, but runts in comparison to their clan-mates, furiously snapped after a stocky red male that nimbly wove through fire and dodged their lashing talons. His voice lost to the din, the Rider upon his back barked spell after spell. Vercingetorix's creatures were immune to magic. Their resistance did not imply to the crimson blade slicing through the air to stab at their eyes or flit between their scales to slash at their arteries.

Eragon parted his jaws. One of the larger females fell screaming to his flames. Another snarled as Jarshan swooped upon the one closest to his size.

Yield! Eragon commanded, words girded with a King's power. The swarm faltered for a moment but did not flee in fear. They served an older authority and nursed a grudge older than the pact.

One by one, they fell to fang and fire. Panting from the exertion, Thorn and the two wild dragons landed on a peak a fair distance from the bloodbath.

Human soldiers would have tried to flee or surrender. The mountain-lord's dragons had all bitterly insisted on fighting to their deaths with the same defiance that had led to their clan's eradication against their kind, the same bonds that had later resulted in the near annihilation of their kind in the Fall. The clan that had clawed their way back into life was now determined to raze the world or die again trying.

Eragon loathed the waste of it all but left the corpses to smolder. In the numerous dragons felled since the Undying none had possessed the sheer inability to die.

Licking the blood from his snout, he appraised the brother he had last fought as a foe upon the Burning Plains. Though they had been on the same side for some time they had not yet encountered the other. Thorn had grown since their last battle, bearing new scars and a darkened underbelly that that still bore the trace of King's Wrath, but so had Eragon.

His gaze swept downward, to the brother he towered over even when mounted on dragon-back. Murtagh stared back at him, a maelstrom of emotion tugging his expression in a thousand directions. Finally his lips twitched into a wan smirk.

"Hello, little brother."

Eragon blinked at him. Then he burst into hoarse, coughing laughter. As if his life couldn't grow any more absurd.

I'm surprised you recognized me in the first place, he jested, as if all the very long months between now and that terrible ambush at Farthen Dur had flowed away.

"Stories of the Dragon Rider that became a dragon king are hard to miss," Murtagh countered neutrally. He paused. "Thorn and I worked up some grand speech to convince you we're hellbent on dying at your side in trying to kill a creature that literally heaved itself out of hell, but I think it's a given we're all seeing this thing through to the bitter end."

Thorn cocked his head up at Jarshan. I am surprised to see you still alive. And by Eragon's side.

When my options were fighting alongside the brother I killed or becoming a bauble in the mountain-king's mountain, I didn't have much choice in the matter, the elder dragon deadpanned.

Eridor's pride flared up. Murtagh and Thorn both drew back from the disembodied presence twined around Eragon's. The dragon himself rolled his eyes and made the usual introductions to the dead dragon who had so rudely taken up permanent residence inside his head.

Eridor plunged themselves into their conversation without a thought more for Jarshan. Damn foolish of you two to fly through these valleys just to pledge allegiance to the King of wild dragons when neither of you fit that criteria.

Murtagh fingered Za'roc's hilt. "Fighting beside my brother is much easier than pledging fealty to him. And we are not alone. We're scouting a path for Feiradis' forces. And, when we located your forces, to forward the request of a meeting between the commanders of both forces to plan a coordinated assault on the mountain-king."

Eragon knew the rough numbers of elves that marched south under Feiradis. His brows rose when he heard how many Imperial soldiers had joined them. With Galbatorix consumed by the same evil that now threatened to do so to all bipedal races alike, their alliance of desperation between elf and Empire suddenly made sense.

His eyes near bulged out of his sockets when he heard exactly how Feiradis and her colleagues planned on arriving.

Despite the numerous assurances and forewarning sent ahead by Eragon himself, Elva did not doubt some paranoid or vengeful spellcaster would have lashed out at Thorn and the Rider upon his back. Together they had slain King Hrothgar and had been the Mad King's tools of choice in burning hundreds of injured and innocents alive. In a few months they had built up the infamy that Morzan and his blood-red beast had needed the Fall to cultivate.

If they were tempting on their own, they were followed by the even grander prize of Shruikan himself. Though Feiradis and near a dozen other allied commanders were mounted upon his bulk he was still Galbatorix's old beast. Even Elva had shuddered when the dread dragon's shadow had first fallen upon her.

But Eragon upheld the promise of peace with more than just words. Below such tempting targets circled the King and Queen of all wild dragons. Eragon had not only made himself a living shield, but carried in him the vow of the King's Wrath upon any who broke the pact. Of course Saphira flew with him in solidarity.

The humans had so many confusing little factions, Orrin and Nasuada and Imperial lords and generals. At least the elves all submitted to Arya, for Islanzadi was under siege in Du Weldenvarden by vengeful dragons seeking to burn her people from the earth as repayment for both the pact and the Du Fyrn Skulblaka.

With so many hundreds of dwarves and men, elves and Urgals, Eragon's own followers were paltry in comparison. His own among the council included himself, his mate, the voice in his dead, the brother who had murdered that voice in the first place, and a witch of dubious sanity.

Elva attended under the illusion of clan unity. She at least served as one more voice to shout down the moronic ideas of human generals that didn't realize their enemy had such a gross aerial advantage and a complete disregard for their own lives. And a very poignant reason why senseless casualties had to be kept to the minimum when it came to suicidal suggestions of sending small groups alone off through narrow mountain valleys where they would be burned alive.

As the petty little peoples kept arguing over the smallest details and dragging their cultures and grudges into it, Elva tuned it out with the ease of one who had long skulked in the Varden's shadows. Stars knew her part of the battle amounted to providing coverage to the grounded force and helping kill any dragon that tried to slaughter them all from overhead.

Her bored eye kept roving over to Shruikan. He was gaunt and overgrown, dull black hide riddled with the scars of a thousand dragons that had tried and failed to drag him down with them. Most of his contributions amounted to weary explanations of why he couldn't slaughter dragons by the dozens and why killing him simply wouldn't cause the mountain-king to drop dead.

I was bonded by force to Galbatorix. Not the demon lurking in his heart. It ate him from the inside out. Galbatorix was the eloquent one. Whenever the Other surfaced all it wanted to was burn things and rant about stars. Shruikan tiredly buried his head in his paws. If anything of my old master survived in the Other it was his sense of the dramatic. He's probably just waiting for you all to draw close so he can erupt from his mountain and give his clan a show as he burns you all alive.

I believe him on that, Jarshan muttered.

Which of course set Eridor off on a passionate rant about a cunning, devious soul that had intricately planned an exact chain of events to unfold centuries ago. And left a large part of the council wondering why the King of dragons was arguing with a part of himself.

Her gaze caught Shruikan's. From the frenzied fragments of memory in the last days of her first life she recalled his eyes as dull and white. Now they were vibrant violet, alight with morbid curiosity.

Privately he reached out to her. Elva was surprised at how light and graceful a touch he had for one so large and blundering. The minds of elder dragons used to near rattle her skull with the force of their presence.

Do they always argue like that? The King and... the old King?

More often than not, she said curtly. There's a reason you're not supposed to wake up when you live a second life. It's not just your life anymore.

Ah. Elva waited for the inevitable question about why she was an exception to the rule. Instead, Shruikan murmured, Forgive me, for though I've tried to commit all the faces of my victims to memory, yours escapes me. Was I the one responsible for your death?

No. No, you were not. Even Shruikan, raised by the Mad King, knew tact. Elva tried and failed to hold her own questions back. Apparently Eragon had been her father in another life after all. How often did your old master bask in his hoard?

He loved gloating in his glories. And I was there upon his finger as the greatest of them all. We know each other, if by soul and not name.

Elva frantically tore through her faded memories, faint snippets of joy and sorrow upon reunited in death. Her siblings were an endless blur in her head. Then there was the blazing heart of hearts that had been her own, and the eight little lives they had sparked together. Five had returned to her.

Norok. Vaal. Frin. And the gaping hole in her soul. She could scarcely form his name. Zohungaar.

Aye, Shruikan intoned. I know them all. They wait, and they languish. As far I as I know they wait still.

Elva pushed the swelling emotion back as she slid back inside herself, but Shruikan latched onto their bond. She flashed back to a day so long ago, when an orphan had so helplessly clutched to an elder female who she shared no bond with except happenstance, and did not pull away.

Please, the stars. Do you remember them? The Eldunarya tell me there are no humans amongst them, but they did not shine like you did. From a monster's face stared a lost hatchling. I have no one and had no one, save my true Rider. And I do not even know her name. Is she among you?

No, she is not.

Even in the unlikely chance Shruikan's original Rider had been reborn their souls had parted upon death. Shruikan had not bonded to the dragon that had given rise to the human soul. His Rider had gone wherever humans went. He could not follow.

Shruikan silently slipped away. She reached out, and did not let him.

Elva vividly remembered gazing into a mirror to behold a prison she thought more terrible than even an Eldunari. From behind the pallid face of a cursed little girl had burned a dragon's fire. Now she gazed upon a kindred soul and felt neither pity nor revulsion, but sympathy, for Shruikan was trapped in the monster his master had wrought from him.

Time. It was time.

Time for the bastard to burn. For them to make his world naught but ashes.

She would be awake soon. At last, he would fulfill his promise to her (his Jarnunvosk) (his heart of hearts), and he would set right all that went wrong.

Sprawled over his hoard like a king upon his throne, Vercingetorix rose, and his clan followed.

Roran had never beheld the Beor Mountains except in his brother's memories. Ahead loomed a peak he knew towered above them in all. The army, now swelled upon the union of so many disparate forces, hunkered down for the night in a shadow that cast a pall over the world. In his mind it loomed darker than Helgrind, for he had stormed that own fortress and emerged with Katrina safe in his arms.

He purposefully turned his gaze from the shadow of death and to polishing his war hammer. It was a wicked thing, with a blunt end for braining and a sharp spike for digging into eyes and scaled flesh. It had been spelled against shattering, handle magically enforced against breaking or becoming slick with blood and gore.

Caradoc sniffed at it curiously. I've seen you use that thing myself, and I still can't believe you humans can make something so small so deadly.

Roran bared his teeth in something that could not be called a smile. "We don't have your claws or fangs or fire, but humans can be more stubborn than even dragons."

Caradoc snorted, unconvinced. We talked Father into letting us join the battle!

By which Eridor and Eragon had reluctantly conceded to them trailing behind the army with the camp followers. With the clan and the majority of Alagaesia's strongest magic-users they were at their safest. Should their clan fall today than there was nowhere to hide where the mountain-king's ilk would not find them and butcher them for their Eldunarya.

Trinnean growled bitterly at his brother. We don't even have our fire yet.

Roran's gaze strayed longingly to the vanguard. Eragon and his clan had taken up their positions for fear of a nocturnal attack, for they would not strike until dawn.

But his own wife and child had perished when he had been off elsewhere. These two dragons, so close and yet so far from their first flames, were his nephews in some sense or another. He had failed Katrina. He would not fail Eragon.

Roran dredged up his patience and patted Trinnean on the side. "In time you will."

Green eyes stared flatly at him. Then they widened in horror at the call that shook their souls.

Roran had burned with the blaze the King's Wrath had ignited in his soul. Now his spirit withered beneath the omen of another.

In the valley the shadows were long and dark, the sky above red with the sun's dying rays. Scales glittering with blood and fire, the demon's Herald ascending from its lair, an army rising in its wake. The beating of their countless wings stirred up a dread wind. Beneath their shadow fell an early night.

A ripple ran through the ranks as men dropped tents and supplies. For a heartbeat they shrunk back.

Then Eragon bellowed in defiance of the dark. His clan at his side, he rose in an explosion of blue flames that for a moment burned away the night.

The army took up his roar, and surged forward to meet fang and fire with steel and spell.

Chapter Text

Murtagh Morzansson proved himself his father's son in truth when he slaughtered more dragons that night than his sire must have managed in all his lifetime. It was not enough. It was never going to be enough.

Thorn's frantic stream of profanity had long since lapsed into feral silence. Murtagh had fallen quiet too, but for the spells he barked to draw the dragons away from the human forces he protected and onto a far more tempting target. Not that even his deep wells of energy had a single drop left. Too exhausted, dragon and Rider communicated only through the innate desperation of shared souls, and burned up what remained of their stamina in whittling away at a clan of fallen stars and resurrected demons.

Dimly, hysterically, Murtagh mused death could not be so bad. He had endured hell on earth. He would die in the world's unraveling. Hell itself could not be so terrible if its worst demons had already crawled their way out.

You! snarled a voice from the deepest, darkest depths of his nightmares.

Wearily Murtagh looked up.

It was not the mountain-king. He would have preferred the mountain-king.

Vercingetorix's Herald was blood-red in the light of the fires. His snout was short and brutal, twisted into a sneer seared into his memory. Morzan's right eye had been a mundane human blue. His left had been black as coal, black as pitch, black as the Herald's eyes.

For a moment Murtagh gaped up at the beast that, at one point or another, he had called sire. Zar'roc trembled in a hand weak from exhaustion and disbelief.

Whelp! Human, pathetic little welp! Why won't you just DIE! Then the Herald roared, a call meant to sap the courage from their hearts and leave them quivering puddles.

But Murtagh was beyond courage now. He was beyond fear. His hands tightened around Zar'roc in a death grip. Thorn rose to his full height, growling with him when he snarled up at his sire.

"Like fuck I am!" he bellowed, at the very top of his ragged lungs, with all the hatred and determination he had left in him. It was so strong it bled across his link to Thorn.

Thorn threw himself into the air, the Herald's flames only singing his scales in a narrow miss. The brute was too big to take directly, so Thorn took him from the side, as Jarshan and Shruikan had drilled in their training sessions.

Never so eager to prove himself a kinslayer, Murtagh leaped from his saddle, and brought all the misery his father had ever wrought upon him and the world down a thousandfold.

For a hundred years, his false Rider had kept him imprisoned in own heart of hearts. On the Black King's command Shruikan had grown into a twisted monster and slaughtered his own race so as to rip their own souls straight from beside their still-beating hearts.

Hours ago Shruikan would have preferred death over ever experiencing such a fate again. But then sometime ago in the endless night he willingly devolved back into instinct beaten into his very bones. It did not take conscious thought to shatter spines with a whip of his tail or twist necks with just the right strength to break them.

Once he had devoted every face of the dead to memory. These broken things were not worth remembering.

He did not know how many he slaughtered. Perhaps he felled as many as he had ever murdered in the Fall. It made no impact on their endless numbers.

Not that it mattered. His master had drained survival into his skull. Shruikan slaughtered everything foolish enough to step in his path. He'd do so until they finally dragged him down.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd be fortunate enough to hang on just long enough to glimpse that daybreak on the horizon.

A flash of purple fire, searingly familiar, caught his eye. Shruikan just caught sight of Elva sinking her fangs into another's neck before five more fell upon her.

Shruikan's blood ran cold. And then it burned with a fire that made even the King's Wrath pale.

With a strength he did not know possible, the dread dragon ripped his way through the hoard, and poured his rage out upon them. He did so until he was a broken and beaten wreck upon the valley floor, surrounded by a mountain of corpses and without the strength to drag himself away.

You idiot! Elva roared in his face. You utter, absolute idiot!

Shruikan said nothing. He basked in the contentment she was alive, even as her fury frayed with fear over his impending demise. Fear was good. It meant she was bright and vivid and able to endure the night. Where his master had forced him to kill and claim all his life, at least his death would save another.

Then his vague, fuzzy hope guttered out when Elva shoved him out of her mind. She braced herself before his broken body, one torn wing hanging limply at her side, and prepared to go down fighting beside him.

The night was alive with fire, the bellows of beasts and the screams of the damned. She wished the air heavy with smoke, for all she could smell was burning flesh.

Her son had died on a night like this, not so long ago in the last dying gasps of the Rider War. Her nephew upon the Black Fields had been barely given the chance to realize his fate.

She would meet them soon enough. Or else everything would stop mattering entirely.

Feiradis' magic could not protect from magic that seared through ward and bond, but a muttered spell could block the acrid stench from her nose. And mute the sounds of the dead and dying from her ears. With a calm, even breath she released another arrow upon her exhale. It sailed straight through the eye of her target and thankfully brought the dragon down upon the corpse of another.

In the skies above swarmed a clan as thick and numerous as flies. They fell upon her force with a vengeance, engulfing them in a maelstrom of fang and fire. Whether as perpetrators for the Du Fyrn Skulblaka or of the Pact, they had decreed the elves upon the field to be the target of choice.

Time. How long had they weathered the firestorm, slowly pressed back into each other like lambs in the slaughter? Minutes or hours, what did it matter? For this night was eternal.

Distantly Feiradis was aware her second-in-command had given up on demanding her for orders. Instead she heeded Arya Svit-Kona, for their princess' voice carried loud and clear above the din as did her damnedest to pull their archers back and recover some semblance of formation. At her side stood Blodgharm, the Blood-Wolf, taking every blow meant with her with gritted teeth as it wore down his wards.

Feiradis did not retreat with them. She and a few comrades were utterly done with the very idea. Instead she raised her bow as the dragons descended and shot down the biggest one she could aim at.

The damned mountain-king loomed like a physical god above his swarm of children and children's children. Not even King Eragon could burn a path through the living wall of offspring that defended him from direct attack.

So instead she aimed at the bronze female that flitted between the ranks to devastate all resistance in her path. When the she-dragon descended, Feiradis unleashed certain death.

Beneath the dragon's burning gaze the arrow crumbled to ash. Feiradis just managed to snarl a curse before golden flames consumed her.

Du Weldenvarden had been sung into existence at the end of the Du Fyrn Skulblaka and magically nourished by generations of guardians in the centuries since. Du Weldenvarden had endured Galbatorix and all his armies. Beneath its branches her people had endured to one day take their vengeance.

Before the first elf had stepped foot in Alagaesia, dragon clans had hunted these woods. Their own king and queen had raised their hatchlings on what was now called only the Stone of Broken Eggs. Even after the peace of the pact, wild dragons had scorned the offer of having the lands returned to them. None had wanted to live so close to those that had shattered their eggs and brained their hatchlings. They had sneered the Stone of Broken Eggs to be the place of the dead, and Du Weldenvarden reeking of elves and their magic.

Now the Guarding Forest burned. Dragonfire tempered by the bowels of hell devoured tree and enchantment alike.

The dragons of Islanzadi's time had forsaken the forest entirely. Their ancestors were hellbent on reclaiming it through fire and blood.

In the Du Fyrn Skulblaka they had died by the dozens through the simplest of spells. These demons that had crawled out of hell were immune to magic. So many fine spell-casters had been lost in those first few foolish advances.

From her hall the queen of elves grimly surveyed the red glow on a horizon far too close for comfort. It was not the sunrise. It wasn't even the sunset, for the smoke obscured the skies day and night. Ellesmera was under siege, and the fires at its borders burned closer than they had the night before.

Mere moments before a messenger had somberly delivered the most recent death toll. She could not even bear thinking the number.

Islanzadi was not alone. Beside her perched her new constant companion, who had refused to leave her side since that first pale-eyed dragon had wormed his way into her hall. Her ruffled feathers singed with smoke and fixed her with a beady black eye. "Wyrda."

"Aye," she conceded. "I suppose it is."

When Evandar had been cut down in that desperate final defense of Ilirea and she had been thrust upon his throne, Islanzadi had retreated into herself. In her grief she had ordered the ragged survivors of their army back to Du Weldenvarden. For a time they went willingly deaf to the dying screams of the Order and their allies. Rather than offer shelter to the last wild dragons the elves had licked their own wounds and mourned their own dead. Now the ghosts of their fury had come to claim their vengeance.

"First we nearly hunt you to extinction, and then the pact that should have brought us peace brought about your annihilation. By the standards of the wild dragons my people- I brought this down upon my people."

Blagden said nothing.

Days of unyielding siege ate away at Islanzadi's hope. Feiradis had already marched south with the bulk of their army. They were under strict orders to strike down Vercingetorix himself or die trying, for this would never be over while that demon still breathed. Arya remained with King Eragon and the rest of the vanguard. Islanzadi had at least been able to make her daughter see sense. If she tried to run back north now, then she would have been too late for either battle.

Perhaps with Feiradis or Arya their people yet stood a chance of rebuilding themselves. Islanzadi could offer only flames and soon naught but ashes.

"It is fate, then," she mused aloud. "For me to die here. For Ellesmera to burn, so that the elves might be forced to down the ashes to rise up again. Why save my mate's life if it all to led to this?"

Blagden cawed in outrage. Shaking the ash from his feathers he flew so violently into her face she wondered if he thought to pluck out her eyes. "Do you think us your fathers, who cut me and my clan down upon the Stone of Broken Eggs? Do you think me like them, who want only ashes? Fate! It is no one's fate to be like those who came before!"

So Islanzadi inhaled deeply, forced herself to sit back, and truly consider those that came before. Queen Dellanir, who had quietly renounced her crown and retreated into the woods to abandon all but her own whims. King Evandar, dead in that foolishly valiant final stand. Idunn, her dear Idunn, dead in a vain attempt to resurrect a race they had no claim to.

She was not them. She could not afford to act like them.

What could she do, when these dragons resisted magic itself?

No. Magic bound by the ancient language. They were vulnerable to dragonfire for all they had burned within hellfire. And Du Weldenvarden nurtured wild magic still.

Islanzadi's eye found the tree that dominated the canopy, uneasy in its dormancy, the one being in her woods that had not mourned the death of dragons.

She ran to wake it, the Menoa Tree and all her centuries of simmering hatred.

"Wyrda!" Blagden shrieked, following her stride for stride.

"Fate," Angela ranted deliriously. "It always comes down to fate. Well, fuck fate! Fuck it with a-"

Her rambling made a brown she-dragon glance her way just long enough her way for Saphira's flame to blind her. Neither she nor Jarshan bothered with a killing blow, instead merely swooping back into the fray just as the shrieking female plowed into a mountain at full speed and broke her own neck.

In the beginning of the fight Jarshan and Angela had cut a devastating path through their foes. But, for all she spun like a dervish and leaped like a frog possessed, for all her inner fire, Angela was a human witch with a human's stamina. And now she barely had enough to cling to Jarshan's back.

Not that the gray dragon would ever put her down before he himself was dead. His debt to her had, in the peculiar matter of dragons, deepened into a stubborn, defiant sense of attachment.

When Saphira momentarily faltered to catch her breath, and a dragon near her age took it as a chance to strike, Jarshan swooped to her side to neatly snatch his neck.

As queen and false king of the dragons, it had only made sense to join together. On their own they were tempting targets that still took away from the greatest of them all, the true king. Together they were a great enough prize to lure some of the endless multitude from Eragon's tail.

Rise, Saphira urged desperately. Rise, dearest!

Eragon was too far away to clearly hear her words, but her love and resolution rippled across the link. Above the din sounded a distant roar of frustration she knew to be her mate's. He was fighting, gods dammit. Not even the King's Wrath was enough to burn its way through an endless clan always ready to throw themselves between him and his sire.

A ragged male tried to take Jarshan from beneath. He could not completely dodge in time. The violent force sent Angela flying from his back. Jarshan screamed.

The male snapped after her. Saphira caught him first. Sinking her fangs into his throat, they fell from the skies together. Her claws gouged into his hide as she moved him to take the brutal impact that could have killed them both if she had been caught beneath his bulk.

Saphira looked up. Jarshan had landed awkwardly on a mountainside, the witch clutched loosely in his paw. Leaving her foe to his death throes, Saphira hastened to their side. Angela was either utterly delirious or utterly mad when she smiled beatifically and patted Jarshan's paw as if he were the victim and she his bedside healer.

Witch, Jarshan snapped. Angela. Don't you dare die on me. Not when-

"There, there," she consoled. "It's almost da..." Her final word died on her lips, as Angela slumped limply over in his paw.

Saphira did not know whether she lived or died. She did not care, for in that same, terrible moment utter cold gripped her head of hearts.

She did not turn eastward, where Eragon remained locked in his perpetual stalemate. Not west, where Elva stood downed and defiant. South. She turned south, toward the cave Trinnean and Caradoc sheltered in.

All protectors but Roran were already dead when his own bottomless strength finally failed. Heavily burned, he fell in a haze of hateful agony, and did not rise again. Her sons, her brave and foolish sons, without flame and without a chance, sprung to his defense against the invader that forced his way inside.

Saphira (Safiri) bellowed a mother's rage and mother's denial. Pulled by her own magic, she blazed like a comet through the skies, burning a vengeful trail toward her children.

In her heart of hearts, she knew she was still too late.

His clan was dying. They numbered but ten, and though they each fought with the fire and ferocity of a hundred dragons, they were outnumbered by a clan of countless. Against the endless night, their sparks were going out.

Far off Shruikan bled out, his pleas for Elva to flee falling on defiantly deaf ears. She had died with her clan once and would do so again. Thorn and Murtagh snarled at certain death with the same hellbent determination to drag it down with them.

Against the back of his mind, even Jarshan's voice faintly echoed as he slashed down dragons with one paw and cradled Angela in another. Her brilliant soul rested in unconsciousness, still certain of a dawn that would never come.

Worst of all was Roran, who hated himself above all else. He had not protected his wife and unborn child. He could not even save his own damn nephews, trapped in a cave with nothing to do but stand over his broken body to make the same last stand their parents had.

And Saphira (his Safiri) frantically raced for them, too late to do anything but avenge them.

SAFIRI! Eridor screamed. He jerked their (Eragon's!) body so frantically that they nearly had themselves caught on an elder's claws. Eragon just managed a plume of flame that lanced through its heart. My sons! Not again! Gods, not ag-

Once more Eridor grappled for Eragon's body, to turn his Wrath away from the mountain-king's protectors and upon those that threatened their family. To waste their last chance of ending this abomination before it ended everything they ever loved.

Eridor was but one more enemy, so Eragon swatted him down to, and wove his way between two titans. Both lunged after him, succeeding only in tangling themselves and plummeting to their deaths before they could wrench themselves free.

The mountain-king's shadow blotted out whatever starlight might have peaked through the smoke. His voice shook through Eragon's soul, old and vast as the earth. Oh, little bastard, what a poor king you are. Hear your clan dying all around you! Hear their screams as my clan claims their Eldunarya! I shall save you for last, when you are but king of nothing.

Eragon's pursuit had driven the mountain-king and his protectors high above the earth, where even the smoke of the fires below were but fragile wisps. There was no escaping the mountain-king's voice, so Eragon burrowed deep within himself, reaching past Eridor's futile hysteria to draw upon his clan. For just a moment he allowed himself to look down.

The battle was far below, distant flashes of flame and a torrent of wings. He could not make out any of his own except Saphira. Her magic burned bright and blue around her as she blazed across the battlefield like a comet. Dragon after dragon fell upon her. Dragon after dragon fell dead, for the only beings that mattered with the younglings standing defiantly over their dying uncle.

Up so high, it was easier to see. Easier to listen.

The king of dragons knew his clan numbered but ten. Still, the voices came unbidden.

One despaired at the thought of having failed a king twice before and now steeled herself to die for the daughter of the second. Another paced helplessly among the noncombatants, wishing only the power to save her beloved if he was not already. That same beloved braced himself for the end he had staved off far too long.

And kept coming. An endless, invisible multitude, straining against unbreakable bonds and screaming for release, for revenge, to burn and blaze and rise.

Eragon shook his head blearily and rose, for they could not. The mountain-king's protectors snapped sluggishly after him. None could manage a breath deep enough for a spark when their massive lungs heaved for oxygen in the thin atmosphere. For once his puny size offered the advantage.

He must have been high enough to see the stars. Yet Eragon did not glance above. His gaze was fixated below.

A small part of him muttered about oxygen deprivation, that his senses were so muddled he had transposed the stars on the earth below. His heart of hearts insisted it was not so.

There they were, a second sky below, dragon souls that shimmered every size and color of the rainbow. They trembled like sparks before the winter wind and strained like fires high in the hearth grasping for more than fresh firewood. This was not the mountain-king's treasure trove. They were his. All of them.

So Eragon inhaled the thin air until his lungs felt ready to burst and Called.

He Called with every last spark in his soul, as the First King had once Called to him.

His clan answered. Every last one.

And rose.

Chapter Text

Saemora the Destroyer devoured spells and elves like hell did souls. She was her sire's pride and joy. And she had the runt the elves called princess within her sights, no matter the blue-furred beast and the silver-haired female that tried shoving themselves between them. She supposed there was honor in dying alongside one's leader, no matter how pathetic that leader may have been.

From miles and miles above, first sounded the Call. The Call Saemora had last heard when she had already been confined to the depths of hell and had hoped to never, ever hear again.

Saemora keened in dread, the fatal flame dying in her throat. No matter how mighty or numerous her clan had been before their fall, that Call made her realize how utterly alone they were. How utterly alone she was.

Her Mountain King roared, dark and terrible, but even he was muted by a shattering sound from deep beneath that the earth. As if the earth's heart was made of glass, and the King's call had cracked it open entirely.

And her sire's captive souls surged forth, brilliant and terrible as the dawn.

Shackled to their Eldunarya no longer, they were stars, made only of flame and spirit. Their burning eyes fixated upon her.

Saemora snarled back and dredged up the flame that could unmake magic itself. It passed harmlessly through them.

As one, the spirits unfurled their wings, and rose to claim the skies they had long been denied. Their claws wrenched at her own Eldunari as they ascended through and around her.

She drew her forelegs protectively inward, seared but physically unharmed. She was flesh and blood, of a whole different plane. The knowledge granted her new strength. Her sire had the power to truly resurrect his clan, where the false Eragon could only hope to liberate Elundarya that cared only for ascension. Vercingetorix was invincible. She was invincible, immune to the stars themselves-

The storm of arrows that speared her wings and torso were not so intangible. Neither was the she-dragon with scales the color of starlight that sprang from amongst the elves to sink her fangs into her throat.

And then Saemora no longer knew light.

Only blackness. And burning.

Then, nothing at all.

Roran clung to a precipice. And his numbed, bloody fingers were slipping.

A part of him, deep and innate and growing, whispered it was okay for him to let go. Long past time for him to have done so, even. He knew Garrow and Marian were waiting at the bottom, his parents ready to envelop him with open arms and carry him into peace ever-lasting. Katrina awaited with them, their daughter fat and rosy in her arms.

But the faint, frantic thought of the lives depending for him atop that cliff kept him stubbornly clinging. Even as he inched further and further down into that deep, restful dark.

Then the fire surged through him. It was not his own, for he had never been of flame. He was born of earth and iron, just as solid and dependable, and his soul screamed as the inferno consumed him from the inside out.

But of course it could never do that. Roran knew this fire was his brother's. While it burned, it promised to fill his veins with new strength and new life should he have chosen to take it.

So he took it. Without a moment's hesitation.

His being singing with the flame, Roran started climbing.

He was still too slow. It still wasn't enough.

So Roran gritted his teeth, dug in deeper, and banked that inner fire high and bright as it could go.

Then he let go of the edge.

And soared.

Roran's eyes snapped open to blazing reality. Trinnean and Caradoc stood tall over him, surrounded by the ghosts of their brothers and sisters, and with twin plumes of flame that joined into one drove back a male thrice their combined size with an agonized shriek.

The spirits spread their wings and rose through the roof of the cave. His shoulder black and charred, the furious dragon advanced with fire blooming in his throat.

Enraged, Roran sprang, bowling his nephews over as he fell upon their death. And violently smashed its head again and again until the cavern floor until it stopped twitching.

Two minds brushed lightly again his own. Roran's head snapped back toward the twins at an angle that should have been impossible. Trinnean and Caradoc had climbed shakily back to their paws and now gaped up at him in reverential disbelief. Some of Roran's fury banked to let in an odd mix of pride and annoyance for them.

U-Uncle Roran!? Trinnean spluttered at the same time Caradoc exclaimed How in the seven hells-

Roran shoved them from his mind as gently as he could. Strong as they were, his nephews looked properly small now, and so he forced his bulk between them and the cave entrance. Stubborn little bastards, they were, trying to sacrifice themselves for him like that. That was his damn job.

No matter how large and clumsy he felt, there was size and strength enough in his limbs to beat whatever bastard poked its head into the cave next without ever again having to pick up that puny little war hammer.

When the next one did, Roran proceeded to do just that.

Elva had made a last stand once before. She could do so again, to follow her family wherever they would go, be it to the stars or the mountain-king's treasure trove. And she and Shruikan were clan now, wayward orphans that had found fellowship among their ragtag royals. If this was his dying day, then she would go beside him.

Then their king Called. And Elva answered, as she had before and always would. Unfurling whole wings, for of course one was broken no longer, the violet she-dragon ascended with her family at her side.

Vercingetorix's clan turned tail and fled upward after their sire. Elva laughed after them and danced a dragon's dance beneath the clearing skies. The souls of her loved ones spun and duck and wove around her. There were her adopted siblings and aunts and uncles, too numerous to name. At her sides were her sons, gallant Norok and graceful Vaal. Then there was Frin, her darling daughter, who had always burned brightest of her children.

And then Elva dipped away from them all to fall into place beside Zohungaar. He burned the same brilliant white as his fires in life. Together they spun into the dance they had first performed in their nuptial flight as the years and horrible distance fell away like a bad dream. The gaping hole in her heart was alive with fire and light.

Oh, Zohungaar, she wept. His heart could not fall into place beside her own, for it burned too bright and vast and all around her. All her love could not tamp his spirit down when it yearned only to rise to the place it had long been denied. Fly, my love, fly. You're free now, forever and always.

Zohungaar flew, rising after their children and the souls of their clan. Elva did not follow. It was not yet time to join them.

Yet, though she wistfully gaze up after the stars of her clan, she was not entirely forsaken. Another soul tentatively brushed against her own, bright but not unbearable as a star's.

In disbelief she gaped at he left, to behold Shruikan as he truly was. Galbatorix and a century of captivity had forced him into the body of a beast, scarred and gaunt. Now his dull black scales were the sleek deep ebony of a raven's feathers, his once-ragged wings smooth and deep as the night. Free of every last scar and visible rib, Shruikan stood comfortable in his skin at last. Even if he was a slim male of her size, if not even slightly smaller.

Elva gaped as her mind groped for the appropriate response. ...Shouldn't you be bigger?

Shruikan chuckled, his smooth mental voice no longer incongruous against his physical appearance. After decades shackled beside a throne I felt... large. Oversized. Clumsy. Your size felt just about right. His violet gaze fixated on the dragons above, the burning souls driving the black shadow of the mountain-king further and further into their element. Shouldn't we follow them?

Elva impulsively almost retorted it was impossible to follow the stars unless one intended on dropping dead first. Then she belatedly realized the dragons that followed in the wake of the liberated souls were not so intangible.

She threw open her mind and far wide. And quickly closed it, when she realized how vast their clan had become.

How many had there been like her, dormant souls that had suffered in slumbering silence in skins wrong and stifling? How many had fallen secure in the knowledge their King would one day wake them? Had she, not so long ago, thought to have done the same?

Throwing introspection to the wind, Elva snorted and pressed after them with Shruikan as her shadow. Their King was Calling.

Saphira was no longer alone. Beside her soared her mother, the Storm-Cleaver, who burned with pride at her fire and urged her onward. Behind her followed the maternal half-siblings dead all before her own hatching, alongside the shades a dormant part of her recognized as as brothers and sisters and sons and daughters. She was Saphira and Safiri and her heart soared beside them.

Their souls soared upward, far and away, and Saphira did not rise with them. She stubbornly clung to those that kept her grounded on this world, in this life, and left the stars to wander where they willed.

Her mind first registered the broken pile of bodies before she noticed the brute standing among them. He was a massive male, bulging with muscle, the color of freshly tilled earth and with thick, curling horns like a ram's. From a stranger's face, drenched in blood and gore, Roran's weary eyes peered out.

Saphira allowed the inferno around her to gutter out as she landed beside them. Neither bothered asking what had happened, for the obvious answer was the kingly Call still thrumming through their souls. The moment she touched down Trinnean and Caradoc squeezed their way past their uncle, clambering over their paws and against her side as they frantically tried telling her what had happened.

She got the gist of it. Both of you had your first flame? Weeks early? She tried hiding the part of her soul that ached they had been forced to find their fires so brutally early, but nothing could dampen the thrum of deep and weary pride. Well done, my twins. Well done. We're so very, very proud of you.

They were not alone. One after another, dragons landed by the dozens on the surrounding mountains. They were not the mountain-king's. They had never been.

Vaguely Saphira realized she knew some of them. There was Jeod Longshanks, staring out from the face of a gray and grizzled male, with a prim and elegant female that could only be Helen beside him. There was Sindri, whose scales were the color of starlight her hair had once been.

All of them, strange or familiar, had eyes only for her. Saphira froze uncertainly.

Two more dragons, one gray as stone and the other the fresh green of springtime, alighted. Jarshan said nothing, gaze heavy and expectant. Angela, hazel eyes now a vivid emerald, winked at her.

Go on, she urged quietly. You're Queen of us all, remember? How can we all follow our King when you might need us here?

Saphira gazed skyward. Above Eragon burned bright and blue as a beacon as he and their clan converged beneath the rising stars and the looming shadow of the mountain-king.

The Queen of Dragons added her Call to her King's. As one, their people spread their wings and followed.

Murtagh grit his teeth and gripped Zar'roc all the tighter through the fire that throbbed through his limbs and then the Herald's wild, convulsing death throes. Only when the bastard's last twitch died down did he at last shakily pull his hands away from the blade. He left Zar'roc and all its misery firmly implanted in the thick flesh of his father's throat.

Mind too frayed to bother with magic, he crawled through the flesh and gore on his hands and knees, kicking a loose fang free. Wriggling through, Murtagh greedily gasped for fresh air, and emerged into the world slathered in blood and slobber. Only the grim satisfaction in the deed prevented him from forever suppressing the memory of near sliding down his father's gullet before forcing his way back up.

Thorn buzzed anxiously on a nearby cliff, torn between two very conflicting sides. Murtagh rolled his eyes and waved him away.

Go on, he groused mentally. I've had more than enough of this shit to last me a lifetime.

The red dragon needed no further prompting. He threw himself into the air, chasing after the tail end of his clan. Only a very, very small part of Murtagh wanted to follow them. The overwhelming majority that was his stubborn humanity told it to shut up and go back to sleep.

Slumping wearily against the Herald's snout, Murtagh craned his head upward to watch the spectacle.

If he thought the sky had been filled with dragons before, Eragon's clan blotted all else out.

Some of Vercingetorix's clan had the common sense to flee. Some foolishly chose to grapple with certain doom. Those that chose to fight died in a blink of an eye.

Eragon cared not for the mountain-king's protectors. He cleaved a straight path through as he and his clan converged upon the colossus himself.

The mountain-king's ear-splitting roar was drowned out by the King's Call, reverberating into a deafening rumble as his clan carried it in turn. At last the mountain-king tried for his flame. And only choked and spluttered when the smaller dragons pelted his throat in flame. Then they directed the torrent to melt his eyes in their skull. Like a ruthless horde of ants, yet more dragons fell upon Vercingetorix's wings, shredding their ragged membranes with fang and claw.

The mountain-king swatted futilely after them. For all his might he was a flying mountain, slow and sluggish, and the smaller dragons deftly ducked and weaved between his claws.

Eragon's first and only shot made Murtagh squeeze his eyes shut against the brightness. He wrenched them open just enough to glimpse radiant blue fire sear straight through the mountain-king's Eldunari and out the other side. The beast's last cry ended as a gurgled, broken grasp.

When the broken, smoking body stopped rising and started its final plunge to earth, Murtagh belatedly realized it would smash mountains, level entire valleys, and definitely kill whatever ragged forces had endured the battle below.

Eragon bellowed again. He breathed again, Saphira adding her flame to his. Thorn added his red flame, and Jarshan his silvery-gray, and Shruikan and Elva and countless others until the whole sky burned brighter than starlight, brighter than daylight, so bright Murtagh hid his face away and hoped the radiance did not scorch his eyes from their skull.

He did not look up until the first particles, too small and fine to truly be called ash, started raining down from above.

Only then did the King of Dragons crow his victory. From the valleys below human shouts and Urgal bellows, dwarven horns and elfin songs, joined in the cries of dragons.

With only their father's corpse around to judge, Murtagh tilted his head back and added his own, hoarse and human, to theirs.

A faint streak of red split the eastern horizon. Dawn was breaking.

"Well," he growled haggardly, "it's about goddamn time."

Down and down he (they) falls, through earth and through fire, past his children and children's children. His Herald, his Undying, his darling Destroyer. Where are they?

He falls past his old prison and deeper down still, as if there is a layer to this hell that could contain him forever. No matter how many centuries it took, no matter if the stars themselves started guttering out, he will drag himself out of here. What was will be again, and again, and again. Until everything was right again, just him and her.

But this time is different.

(hush, now) (i'm here)

She is no illusion. She is his (mate) (Jarnunvosk) heart of hearts. She has made a life hell for centuries untold, until that brief and blessed time their souls had found each again.

Her soul against his, he stops fighting. For the first time since out of the egg (since she died in his arms), he knows peace.

(rest, love) (rest)

He does.

Together, they drift away.

Their crucible is empty. There is nothing else to burn away.