Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Some might say he had imbibed the salt of the sea along with his mother’s milk. For hours, he would sit in silence on the shore, allowing the sea spray to dampen his face, his gaze lost in the endless blue stretching toward the horizon. As the day progressed, the shifting hues of the sea mesmerized the young boy, drawing his heart toward the deep, unseen depths.

His eyes drifted to where the blue deepened beneath the jagged cliffs, where reefs and fractured rocks jutted from the water, keeping fishing boats at bay. At times, his mind carried him beyond the towering rock formations that framed Kuasta’s bay, toward the narrowing waters that led to the vast, open sea.

Then, he envisioned a great ship—one of those that occasionally docked at the city’s harbor before embarking on its final voyage to Teirm. A grand vessel gliding over the dark blue, where the boundary between sky and sea dissolved into a single, endless expanse.

And the ship, he thought, was his. Yet, curiously, instead of gliding across the water, his vessel hovered somewhere between the azure sky and the wine-dark sea.

He was his father’s most trusted helper—despite not being one of the eldest children. Born after a brother and two sisters, the fourth of seven siblings, he had displayed an early inclination for the arduous life of a fisherman.

He was the only small child among the throng that surged toward the docks when the boats returned with their catch, the only one who never recoiled from the mighty waves crashing against the rocky shore. Nor did he ever falter in the face of the sea’s sudden tempests, even when the squall darkened the sky and the wind whipped the waves into a frenzy.

Even then, the boy would cling to the boat’s ropes, pressing his small body against the hull, waiting patiently for the sea’s wild spirits to settle once more.

Neither the relentless labor beneath the scorching sun troubled him, nor did he complain about the heavy unloading of the day’s catch or the long hours spent mending torn nets. He was the first and the best at fraying and twisting ropes, at tarring and caulking, as his small fingers worked the material into the wooden seams of his father’s old boat.

And the nets—he had already mastered the art of casting them wide, proving himself the most skilled among them. And as for swimming? He was first in everything.

"When this one grows up, he’ll be a great fisherman—the finest in the world," the father murmured proudly when no one was around to hear. And then, as was custom, he spat three times in the boy’s direction to ward off the evil eye.

At night, sipping his raki among sailors and fishermen in the tavern, he would nod in silence at the praise of his son’s skill and eagerness. “We shall see… we shall see,” he muttered, feigning weariness. “The sea’s path is hard—oh, so hard… who doesn’t know that?” Still, deep down, he smiled in secret at the words of admiration, all the while planning to have the boy’s mother shield him from any ill fortune during the night.

There was no consistency in their attitudes; those who, in one moment, extolled him would—within the next breath—speak ill of his little one without hesitation. The father loved him dearly—more than he ever let on. He tried not to favor this child over the others, yet, in truth, he never succeeded. The sea’s spirits had carved out a harsh life for him, but they had granted him the finest companion to endure it. And the fisherman had already made his decision: the boy might not be his firstborn, but one day, he would inherit the boat—his one and only possession.

That was how the fisherman had planned everything—his child’s future was already set. Yet fate, a force in which the inhabitants of that isolated fishing village placed unwavering faith, had other plans for the boy.

Only weeks before his tenth birthday, the dragon riders arrived in town.

.*.

The decree was proclaimed in the marketplace, then affixed to wooden signboards along the main streets and at the town’s entrances and exits. Town criers carried the news in forceful, resonant voices, ensuring it reached the most distant farms and the loneliest shacks. And the decree applied to all.

"The following day is declared a holiday. Without exception, all children residing in Kuasta and its surroundings must gather in the marketplace early in the morning."

Of course, no town crier was needed for word to spread—reaching even the most distant fishing village.

Throughout the day, all had watched as dragons soared high, tracing graceful arcs over the sea and around the town. Their brilliant scales caught the sunlight, dazzling onlookers, while their piercing cries shattered the sky.

Everywhere, people spoke of the same subject—it was the sole topic of conversation that day. Not a single mouth failed to utter, at least ten times, the words dragon, rider, and egg. The men left their work unfinished, the women set aside their household chores, and the children scurried through the streets, shouting with excitement, stirred by the unexpected summons. Everyone was preparing for the day ahead.

By dusk, garments had been washed and pressed, ready to be worn at sunrise. Hair was rinsed, necks carefully groomed, and nails trimmed. Fathers watched in silent awe as their children prepared, while mothers’ hearts beat with restless anticipation. No one remembered the last time the dragon riders had come, and no one knew whether to welcome such a blessing—or fear the honor that might come with it. Yet the dragons had already bestowed their egg, and by dawn, one of their own might well be leaving forever.

"Let's see!" The fisherman roughly tousled the curly head of his eldest daughter as she adjusted her new ribbons. Men—and even women—were not in the habit of doting on their children; but on this occasion, he allowed himself a rare indulgence. "Let's see if the dragon chooses you, all decked up as you are!"

"More likely she’ll be eaten," teased the eldest son, smirking at his sister. "She’s gotten so sweet these days."

The little ones burst into laughter, but their mother’s expression darkened.

"If you ask me, these things aren’t meant for girls," she said, her tone firm. "We should be preparing her for betrothal—not dragons."

The fourteen-year-old girl blushed in silence but kept weaving the ribbon into her chestnut-blonde plaits, as if not a word had been spoken about her.

The fisherman stepped onto the threshold of his cottage, gazing at the sea as it darkened steadily before him. With a soft sigh, he rested his hand against the door frame. Only now did he realize—his children were growing up. One by one, they would begin to leave him. The girls first. His wife had only just hinted at as much.

He tried to picture it—tomorrow, the dragon choosing one of his own children—but the thought refused to take shape. Come now! Out of so many, would it truly pick one of his? Still, if it were to take one of the girls—no matter what his wife might say—he wouldn’t complain. One less dowry to prepare, one less expense to bear. Or perhaps even his eldest…

"A strong boy, no doubt," he thought. "And for a family, it is a great honor." But then again—to have your own blood taken from you like that?

The fisherman shrugged, brushing aside the unwelcome thoughts. His heart’s desires had always been simpler, more rooted in the everyday. Now, with the wind stilled, the sea lay calm, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. He would have loved to take his worthy little one out tonight, to venture into the open bay and cast their nets. By morning, they’d return with a catch—what a catch! The boat would be overflowing.

But his wife, already in a heavy mood, would grumble if he let the boy get dirty. She wouldn’t approve of a late-night outing, either. All the children had to rise at dawn to present themselves in town.

The fisherman stepped into his cottage, closing the door behind him. The catch could wait. And then, morning came.

.*.*.

The following day, a long wooden table was set at the heart of the town’s marketplace. At its center, the dragon’s egg rested in full view. Beside it stood the dragon rider, entrusted with its safekeeping, and just behind him, his magnificent dragon. The others, who had accompanied him thus far, had evidently departed under cover of night.

The adult residents of Kuasta crowded together, each vying for the best view while urging the hesitant children to step closer. Most had already gathered around the table, their voices hushed, their gazes fixed on the egg.

When the fisherman’s family arrived in town, a long line of boys and girls had already formed, their wide eyes locked on the motionless dragon egg, its surface gleaming beneath the sunlight. One by one, the children stepped forward, circling the table slowly. If the unhatched dragon stirred at their presence, they were to remain close and lay a hand upon the shell. The task seemed simple enough—were it not for the awe the dragon rider commanded and the quiet dread the dragon itself inspired.

It wasn’t simply that the beast—so it seemed to their eyes—was enormous and impossibly muscular. Nor that it surveyed them all with eyes as vast and luminous as twin beacons. No, it was that it truly looked ablaze, its brilliant color flickering like living fire. Even those who had seen dragons soaring over their skies, even those who had journeyed to distant lands and encountered many more, had never witnessed such a sight in their lifetime—let alone their children.

Golden scales cloaked the hunter’s body, and with every subtle movement, it appeared as though flames ignited from within. Small clouds of smoke curled from its nostrils as it snorted, its golden eyes blinking—assessing, assured, and wholly self-satisfied.

Its rider was not even human. The tips of his pointed ears peeked from beneath long silver hair, cascading loosely over his shoulders. Clad in white, his gold-embroidered vest and matching belt shimmered under the light. At his waist hung a long golden-bronze sword, its hilt adorned with a yellow diamond. Taller than most elves and bearing an unmistakable air of royalty, he observed the children with his gray, slanted eyes—patient, knowing, waiting.

The morning hours in Kuasta’s marketplace crawled by under the relentless sun. By nearly noon, only half the children had been examined. Most had stepped forward, lingering before the egg, yet it remained indifferent to them. On rare occasions, it had tilted ever so slightly toward one, and once, it had let out a shriek. But despite the gasps of the crowd, despite the brushes of small hands, despite the rider’s steady encouragement, nothing happened. Each time, the young hopeful stepped away, shoulders slumped, disappointment settling in their wake.

As the line of children dwindled, the young son of the fisherman glimpsed the dragon egg more clearly, drawing nearer with each step. Its shell was a deep, oceanic blue, like the waters where the sea plunges into darkness, traced with silver-gold veins that shimmered—like sunlight dancing upon a tranquil tide. How beautiful it was! To the child, it seemed an untold treasure, even more mesmerizing than the golden dragon, ablaze beneath the unrelenting sun.

Just as the sun’s golden light melts into the ocean’s depths—its brilliance fading beneath the endless blue—the egg, too, seemed to shift, its deeper hues prevailing the longer one gazed upon it. Its sleek surface glowed, darker in some places, lighter in others, shifting between the midnight blue of unfathomable depths and the pale aquamarine of a sunlit shore. And did it not resemble a ship, like the one from his dreams? Poised to carry him away, between sky and sea, toward a fate yet unknown?

The fisherman’s children had finally reached the table. As the eldest brother stepped forward, the egg jolted—then rolled toward him. The crowd, restless and growing weary—some idly chewing on their midday snack of bread and dried fish—let out a collective gasp. And then, silence. Every gaze locked onto the egg, anticipation thick in the air.

The eldest boy stood frozen, as if spellbound, watching the egg wobble from side to side as sharp, shrill sounds escaped from within. The proud dragon rider stepped forward, his gaze steady, urging the boy to reach out and lay his hand upon the shell.

"It seems the little dragon has seen something in you—something it likes," he said with a knowing smile.

The young boy first brushed his fingertips over the shell, hesitant, before pressing his full palm against its deep blue surface. And then—the egg grew still. No trembling, no shifting, no sound. As if in recognition. As if waiting. The crowd held its breath. Had the chosen one finally been found?

But then, with a sudden shift, the egg rolled in the opposite direction. The dragon rider beckoned the boy to approach once more, urging him to lay his hand upon it again. This time, however, the egg bounced—just slightly—before rolling even farther away. A hush fell over the crowd. Disappointment flickered across the boy’s face as he hesitated, but there was no denying the truth. He had no choice but to step aside, joining the growing number of children who had been tested—only to return to the crowd as mere spectators.

The egg responded much the same to the fisherman’s daughters. With one, it lay motionless for a long while as she cradled it in her arms, her touch gentle, almost reverent. The crowd erupted into cheers, a wave of hope swelling through them. And yet—nothing. No movement, no sign. Just stillness.

By the time his fourth child stepped forward, the fisherman’s patience had worn thin. The unborn dragon had toyed with his family for far too long, as if mocking his son and daughters—teasing them with the promise of hatching, only to withhold it at the last moment. Neither the boy’s strength nor the girls’ gentleness had moved the creature beyond a few sharp shrieks and foolish wobbles atop the table.

And now, as his beloved youngest stepped forward, the egg jolted—then bounced once more, sending a ripple through the crowd. Murmurs swelled, excitement sparked, and in an instant, the marketplace erupted into an uproar.

"It seems likely..." the fisherman murmured, his legs unsteady as anger gave way to fear. They couldn’t take this child from him—they just couldn’t! But then, he forced himself to breathe, to reason. The same had happened with his eldest son—stronger in the arms than many grown men—yet in the end, the dragon had turned away.

And so, the fisherman ignored the villagers’ insistent nudges, as well as his wife’s panicked, incoherent prayers. She clutched their older children close, as though she had lost them once before and only now found them safe again. But the fisherman did not falter. He steadied himself.

The boy stood spellbound as the egg rolled toward him, its shrill cries piercing the hushed air. His heart swelled, a flood of emotions rising within him. And up close—it was even more beautiful than the deep blue of the sea he so adored.

For a fleeting moment, he thought the shimmering veins had melted into undulating waves, rising and falling in perfect harmony, carried by a fair wind.

"You are a ship, after all—meant to carry me on a journey." A wide smile bloomed on the boy’s lips. "And I will be there to guide you, wherever the winds may take us."

The surface’s pulses deepened as the boy reached out, his fingertips grazing the egg. The hardened shell seemed to soften—melt—almost liquefy beneath his touch. And then, the desperate shrieks from within grew louder. A heartbeat in the dark. A rhythm building. Strange, rhythmic thumps followed.

Soon, shards of deep blue scattered outward, and from the remnants of what had once been the dragon’s egg, a tiny sapphire-colored head emerged—blinking, breathing, alive. And at that very moment, a triumphant roar split the air. A golden plume of fire shot skyward from the great golden dragon, its exultation undeniable.

The dragon rider stepped forward, resting his palm gently atop the boy’s chestnut hair. "What is your name, child?" His lips curved into a knowing smile, his gaze brimming with warmth.

"Brom… sir," the boy murmured.

"Brom, young one—come. Embrace your dragon."

The dragon rider gently led the boy forward, toward the trembling sapphire-hued creature. Wet and unsteady, it lay atop the table, its tiny frame shifting among the shattered fragments of its shell.

.*.*.*.

At the hour of deepest twilight, as the sun surrendered to its vast embrace, a vivid glow streaked across the distant clouds illuminating the sea like a whispered farewell.

The fisherman cursed as, for the third time, the thread tangled in his torn nets. He had no patience for such meticulous work tonight. With a grunt, he tossed aside his reed needle. The light had long since faded, his vision no longer as sharp as it once was. By now, he should have given up—returned to his hut, to his family.

Yet his beloved son remained inside, bidding farewell to his mother and siblings, and the fisherman’s heart could not bear such a bitter parting. What could he do? The dragon had claimed his child—his most capable, his most cherished. That strange creature had chosen for itself the very one he had deemed his helper, his heir. The child who had been his pride. The one he had imagined as his solace in old age. The only one whose presence eased the strain of the day, whose hands lightened the burden of labor.

All his children were good—he had never uttered a complaint. But not like this one.

And now, the man felt hollow. Drained. Aged beyond his years.

"Father!"

The fisherman turned sharply, his breath catching as he faced his son. The boy stood on the pebbles, waiting, cradling the dragon in one arm—not that he had let go of it even once throughout the day. The creature rested its long, broad head against the child's shoulder, nibbling at the collar of his shirt with sharp teeth, leaving tiny holes scattered across the fabric. Slung across the boy’s other shoulder hung the satchel his mother had packed for him, holding the few belongings he owned.

So, the moment had finally come.

The fisherman tightened his grip on his needle, pretending to focus on the painstaking work of mending. "You’d best break him of that bad habit of chewing," he grumbled. "Or soon enough, you’ll be without clothes."

"Father… I'm leaving," the boy said hesitantly.

That afternoon, soon after his first touch of the sapphire dragon—and after the tremor of their initial connection had settled—he had asked permission to return home, to bid farewell to his parents and siblings. And permission had been granted—so long as he returned by nightfall to the dragon rider and his great golden dragon.

The truth was, they had never once left him. From the moment he departed the city, they had shadowed his journey to the fishing village, gliding low above him, unseen yet always near. And later, they had settled—quietly, deliberately—atop a hill just beyond the village, waiting.

The fisherman kept up the pretense of mending his nets, working in silence. But then—the needle snapped between his fingers, its sharp point piercing his skin. He cursed under his breath, tossing it aside in frustration. When he finally turned, the boy was there, waiting. Patient. Quiet.

The dragon fixed its blue eyes on him and unleashed a piercing cry, tearing through the evening’s stillness like a blade. The fisherman stiffened, his glare cold, unyielding. If only he could grab a heavy stone, crush its skull—bury it deep beneath the earth. That wretched creature had stolen his child…

The dragon shrieked again, its cry unrelenting—until the boy pressed his burned hand beneath its jaw, scratching gently. At the center of his right palm, the wound ran deep, but the edges had already begun to heal, a strange, silvery crust forming in its wake.

"Hush, quiet!" the boy ordered. The creature stilled, then purred in contentment, returning to nibbling at his shirt.

"Farewell, then," the fisherman said, his voice clipped, tight. "Be good. Be obedient."

The boy lingered a moment longer, waiting—hoping—for something more. But his father only rummaged through his things, pretending to search for another needle.

"I'm thinking of you, Father," he finally said. "Who will help you with your work at sea?"

The old man shook his head, motioning for him to go.

"Go on… don't worry. There are hands to help."

He kept struggling to thread the needle, the growing darkness swallowing the sea, making his work near impossible. And only when he heard the slow drag of his son's worn shoes over the pebbles—as the boy made his way back to the hut, where his mother and siblings waited—did the fisherman finally turn.

Three times he spat in his son's direction—to ward off the evil eye.

And then, with the back of his hand, the old fisherman wiped away a lone, salty tear that had slipped quietly from the corner of his eye.

"Don't cry, I love you all. I will come back to see you soon," the boy promised, his voice warm but resolute. One by one, he embraced his mother, his siblings, his friends, holding onto the moment before it slipped away.

Then, with the dragon still clinging to his shoulder, he turned and walked toward the hill beyond the village’s edge—toward those who awaited him.

Brom never returned to Kuasta. Not while his family still lived.

.*.*.*.*.

"Our names are Oromis and Glaedr," said the dragon rider. "From now on, you will address us as Ebrithil. We will lead you to the island of Vroengard, to Doru Araeba, where we will be your teachers. You will show us the proper respect, and we will demand your full attention. Wisdom, diligence, absolute obedience—these are the foundations of your training. Dedicate yourselves wholly, and there will be no reason for things to go awry."

The rider of the golden dragon fastened the child's legs in the saddle before mounting behind him, his cloak unfurling to shelter them both—the boy and his dragon—beneath its folds.

And with a mighty leap, Glaedr sprang skyward, wings spreading, catching the wind as they ascended into the depths of the night.

"Are we flying straight to Vroengard, Ebrithil?" the boy asked, his voice tentative. Traveling at night felt unnatural to him. He had pictured a slower departure—spending the night in Kuasta, beginning their long journey with the first light of dawn.

Within the satchel at the dragon rider's side, another precious cargo lay nestled in warmth—a crimson egg, pulsing with the hues of fire and blood.

"No, Brom Finiarel. We will first make a stop in Teirm. You see, this time, the dragons have honored us with two of their eggs. If fortune favors us, by this time tomorrow, we will not leave alone—we will have another pair beside us."

*****************************

Α/Ν: According to the information we get from The Inheritance Cycle, Brom’s family practiced the profession of an illuminator.

According to my dictionary, an illuminator is someone who decorates manuscripts with paintings around the margins. We owe them the beauty of ancient codices and Renaissance books.

However, in a city near the sea—isolated as it is described—my imagination immediately placed Brom in a family of poor fishermen.

Thus, anyone who does not agree with my change can imagine that Brom's family were indeed illuminators, but that his father, for some reason, drifted away from his kin and turned to fishing instead.

Another thing: The fisherman father’s character, I believe, is quite similar to Brom’s own as Eragon’s father. Both love their son deeply but either cannot—or do not wish to—show it.

Chapter Text

As usual, the child lurked behind the half-rotten boat near the tavern’s entrance—a vessel that sometimes served as his bed for the night. Or at least, for the hours when his mother entertained one of her usual lovers. His companions were the harbor rats and mangy cats, seeking refuge in the same boat on cold winter nights.

None of the regular patrons could recall when this peculiar decoration had appeared, or if there had ever been a time when it wasn’t there. In truth, the tavern keeper’s father-in-law—a former sailor who once owned the boat—had originally left the small skiff by his shop’s entrance, intending to sell it.

Either it had never fetched the price he had hoped for, or its sentimental value outweighed whatever sum it could have earned. So it remained in the same spot, even as the tavern changed hands.

The boy nestled behind the boat and waited. Each time a patron pushed the tavern door open, a surge of rancid oil, suffocating heat, stale food, and sour wine spilled into the night for a few fleeting moments, making his empty stomach churn. When a large group of men descended the two steps separating the inner hall from the entrance, he seized the moment—darting in behind them and slipping beneath the empty tables along the edges of the room.

As night settled over the harbor’s piers and the streets emptied of honest folk, the tavern filled with old sailors, dockworkers, boatswains, seafarers, and castaways. Only then did the boy timidly emerge from his hiding place, slipping into the drunken crowd, begging.

Tonight, he was lucky—the tavern keeper hadn’t spotted him immediately to chase him out with kicks. Wine had flowed freely, and most were already deep in their cups. The boy clung to the hope of earning a scrap of bread.

Yes, he knew this well—he had to earn his food, for nothing was ever freely given to him. Before they tossed him a crust of bread or the head of a herring, he would first have to do everything in his power to amuse them.

The boy stood in the center of the dimly lit hall and began to dance, spinning on his bare, skinny legs. He followed with a few harbor jokes and performed endless antics, drawing bursts of laughter from the drunken crowd.

Many times, the boy’s mere appearance provoked laughter. His long, awkward legs—bare and thin—invited ridicule as he moved them clumsily back and forth. The same went for his mismatched eyes, one blue and the other black. Though he always tried to hide this deformity beneath his long, raven-black hair, those eyes inevitably became the target of the cruelest taunts.

"Hey, bastard!" shouted one of the dockworkers from a group that had already drunk far more than they should have. Just moments earlier, they had been on the verge of coming to blows, but the boy’s presence had prevented it. "Did your mother have a fling with a blue-eyed man and a dark-eyed one at the same time? Is that why you've got eyes from both of them?"

The boy lowered his head and bit his lips hard until they hurt.

"See what happens when you’ve got too many fathers?" shouted another man. "Each one gave you something, so you’ve got no reason to complain!" And the whole group burst into laughter.

And so, they tormented him until boredom set in, tossed him some scraps, and forgot about him. The boy withdrew into his corner, sitting quietly as he gnawed on the hard crust and the bone he had fought so hard to earn.

Then, he stepped out once more into the night.

He looked around, breathing in the salty breeze carried by the gentle spring winds—sweeping in from the sea and curling through the narrow, grimy alleyways of the city. The boy judged it was still too early to return to his mother’s shack. Too early, because she likely hadn’t yet rid herself of her company, and he had no desire to cause trouble by showing up and bothering one of her clients. So, he settled into the hollow of the boat—after first chasing away two cats—and set about counting the stars.

How many there were up there in the heavens! They seemed to multiply as they flickered, as if calling out to him. How he longed to rise up one night… to soar like a night bird and reach them! But his brief moment of delight did not last. Soon, his heart sank once more into misery. The stars might have been beautiful, but they were distant—far away, up there. The world down here was awful. Especially for him.

The tavern door creaked, and two men stepped into the narrow alley. The boy shrank as deep as he could into the boat, holding his breath so they wouldn’t see him. What he had experienced earlier was the better side of the tavern. But he knew its worst side too.

If a patron drank too much and the boy became a nuisance, or if the tavern keeper got his hands on him when no one compassionate was around to intervene, he rarely escaped without kicks or slaps. And if someone lost a coin or misplaced a handkerchief, he was always the one accused of stealing.

Of course, a couple of times, those accusations weren’t entirely false—he had swiped small things before—but he usually saved that for the open spaces of the harbor and the marketplace, places where he could run and vanish.

Especially after the terrible incident last winter—the memory of which made his legs tremble and his stomach clench.

.*.

That winter night had been bitterly cold—the one when they tormented him so. A biting wind sliced through the narrow alleys, freezing his face, numbing his hands and bare feet, and cutting through his thin shirt, sending shivers down his spine.

The boy couldn’t bear to stay in the boat any longer, so he slipped into the tavern early. He danced until his skinny legs ached, told every filthy joke he had overheard from the sailors, and even performed somersaults on the stained floor. He poured his soul into entertaining them, making everyone laugh. Then, one of them—a boatswain, known around the harbor for his hard heart—called the boy to sit at the table and placed a full plate of food in front of him.

The boy stared at him with his mismatched eyes, bewildered. But the man urged him to eat. Perhaps the boatswain had been so amused—or simply so drunk—that he had ordered a plate of food for the boy.

The child dove into the meal—luck had never shone on him so brightly before—and emptied the plate before his benefactor could even blink.

The boatswain found this hilarious and ordered a jug of wine for the boy, insisting—amid laughter and teasing—that he drink it all in one go. The boy choked, the sour taste of the wine repulsed him, but he knew his benefactor would be angry if he refused.

Between gasps, retches, and coughs, he emptied the jug. Through his dizziness, the boy could hear the men around him laughing and jeering, the tavern keeper’s voice cutting through, demanding payment. Then, the boatswain reached for a coin in his belt—and didn’t find it where it should have been.

The man’s laughter vanished as if by magic. Fury consumed every fiber of his muscular frame, and his rage erupted upon the boy beside him. Grabbing the child by his scrawny legs, he flipped him upside down, ripping at his patched shirt and rifling through his trouser pockets. Then, he slammed the boy’s small hand onto the wooden table, shouting for him to return the stolen coin and threatening him with terrible vengeance.

The boy writhed, swearing he had neither seen the coin nor touched it, but the boatswain held him fast with arms like iron clamps. Finally, drawing a dagger from his belt, he severed the last joint of the boy’s little finger, wrenching a scream of terror and pain from him. He might have done worse if the other patrons hadn’t intervened, pulling the boy from his grasp and spiriting him out into the night.

The boy staggered back to the shack he shared with his mother, perched at the edge of the harbor beneath the city walls. Seeing him in such a state, she hurriedly sent away the man who had been sharing her bed that night. She tended to his wound until the bleeding stopped, wrapping his hand with clean linen torn from one of her own undergarments. Once he had calmed, she held him close, whispering comforting words.

And that night, for the first time, the boy heard that his father and mother had loved each other.

They were both poor—he, a sailor from a northern town whose ship regularly docked at Teirm; she, a maid in the house of a wealthy merchant—but they had planned to marry as soon as they had saved a little money.

"Just one more voyage," his father had told his mother, "and we’ll have the money we need."

But they were young, and their love pulled them irresistibly toward each other, so they rushed to be together. When the sailor left, the young woman hadn’t yet realized she was pregnant. Months passed, but the sailor never returned. Meanwhile, the swelling of the maid’s belly became undeniable, leading to her dismissal from the merchant’s house.

Alone and desperate, she settled in a shack on the outskirts of the harbor and city, searching for work to support herself and the baby she was expecting. Most of the time, she took in laundry; at other times, she managed to work as a waitress, cook, or cleaner in taverns. But as her belly grew, she was often dismissed, forcing her into the seediest corners of the harbor.

Every day, she searched, asking after her beloved, but no one had seen or heard anything of him. And then, just weeks before she was due to give birth, the terrible news reached her.

Her beloved’s ship fell prey to foreign pirates. Before the dragon riders and their dragons could intervene and destroy them, the scoundrels had already slaughtered some of the bravest men—including him.

So, the unfortunate woman accepted that she would give birth alone, without a husband, and to the dreadful fate awaiting her and her child in a society that did not forgive moral transgressions.

When the baby came into the world, the woman’s situation worsened. No one would take her in as a laundress or hire her in their shop as a waitress. The little money she had once earned was now completely gone. Then one night, driven mad by hunger, she left the baby alone in the shack, wailing, and went out to the harbor. The descent was easy—especially for a young woman alone with a child, shunned by the world. No matter how hard she tried, honest work as a laundress was rare to find.

By now, everyone simply called her a whore.

That’s what the boy learned on that cold night, nestled in his mother’s warm embrace, while the sharp pain from his severed finger drove him mad.

But his mother had told him something else, too. She had told him he must be strong, endure, persevere. If his father had lived, everything would have been different. His stomach would be full, their home warm, his body clothed in fine garments. But most of all, he would have had a name. Because, as it seems, a name is one of the most important things a person can have. Those who tormented him at night—the tavern patrons, the market workers, the men at the harbor, the boatswain—they all had names.

But he had not.

That night, the boy made up his mind. They might mock him now, laugh at his expense, strike and kick him, force him to beg or steal just to eat. But one day, he would become someone.

And then, they would see what awaited them.

.*.*.

When the dragon riders arrived in the city, the boy was still asleep in the shack. It was the shrill cries of the dragons that tore through the morning, waking him as the giant, winged lizards sliced through the sky above the sea and harbor.

Still groggy, the boy stepped into the shack’s doorway, rubbing his eyes to chase away the remnants of sleep. If nothing else, the dragons were magnificent. Morning light glinted off their scales, their varied colors melding together in a shifting cascade. Their thick bellies loomed like overturned ships, while the delicate membranes of their wings at times eclipsed the sun. Some of them spewed fire.

The boy seized the largest stone he could find and hurled it skyward with all his strength.

"Get lost, you wretched lizards!" he shouted. "You saved everyone else—but not my father!"

It was foolish to think his stone could reach so high, foolish to think the dragons would even notice him. He was far too small, beneath their concern. Yet, somehow, his anger settled.

Feeling calmer, he stepped back into the shack and drained the last of the water from a half-empty cup left on the table overnight. His mother lay asleep, alone on the broken bed.

"Mother, I’m heading to the market," he called as he stepped outside.

The woman murmured something in her sleep, turning onto her side and pulling the bedding over her head, shielding herself from the morning light.

The boy kicked small pebbles as he walked, whistling a monotonous tune while heading toward the city center. The dragon riders were wealthy. Maybe one of them would spare him something to eat.

By the time he reached the market, the dragons were gone. The dragon riders had stood before the gathered crowd, reading aloud the decree summoning the children to present themselves two mornings from now. Before departing, they had pinned copies of the proclamation to wooden signboards along the streets.

"To hell with them," the urchin muttered, slipping into the crowd, listening to the hum of their chatter about the grand event.

His empty stomach rumbled like the dragons’ growls, loud enough that a few turned to look at him. Slipping behind stalls and baskets, he moved unnoticed, ears keen to catch what had happened—since he couldn’t read. Seizing the moment amid the vendors’ distraction, he swiped an apple from a basket and, farther along, snatched a loaf from a stall. Seeking refuge, he ducked beneath a cart, out of prying eyes, and devoured them.

This had worked out after all, he thought. The dragon riders hadn’t given him anything to eat, but with everyone fixated on the dragons, it made no difference. At least his stomach was full.

Satisfied and full, he tucked half the loaf into his shirt, saving it for his mother, and did the same with half of the apple.

Later, as he wandered along the waterfront, he chewed the last of his apple, flicking its seeds at the gulls. When the sun climbed high and boredom set in, he turned toward the shack. By now, his mother would be awake, and he was eager to bring her the bread and share the news.

.*.*.*.

On the morning of the second day, nearly all the residents of Teirm had gathered early in the market square. At the heart of the grand plaza, the golden dragon, Glaedr, lay stretched out lazily, his massive form at ease but ever watchful, while beside him stood his dragon rider, Oromis. The crowd’s gaze was fixed on them—but also on the small boy standing proudly at their side, cradling a newly hatched blue dragon in his arms. Fingers pointed, voices whispered, curiosity thick in the air.

A short distance away, upon a similar table to the one in Kuasta, rested the crimson dragon egg, waiting. Waiting for a child whose heart would stir its own, calling it forth from its hardened shell.

In a city as vast as Teirm, beyond the adults accompanying their children, many others had gathered—some drawn by the spectacle, others eager to trade. Peddlers had set up stalls along the market’s outskirts, offering everything one could need—food and clothing, tools and trinkets, and rare goods carried from distant lands.

The testing of the children had begun early, yet the red egg remained still. The dragon rider Oromis watched the young hopefuls approach—among them, several elven children, residents of the city, who bowed deeply in elaborate courtesy before his golden dragon, then stepped forward to face the egg. He wondered if today would bring them as much luck as the last. The red egg lay silent, indifferent, while the line of children stretched on.

Suddenly, shouting erupted at the edge of the square, near the peddlers’ stalls. A commotion. Two men had cornered a child—one seized him by the scruff of the neck, while the other drove his boot into him. The dragon rider’s gaze locked onto them. Whatever grievance they held against the boy, they had no right to treat him so.

Raising the hand that bore the mark of the dragon, Oromis halted the testing process in an instant. Leaving Glaedr to guard the egg, he strode forward, his steps long and purposeful, closing the distance from the heart of the square to the wretched scene unfolding at its edge.

"This is unacceptable!" Oromis thundered.

The two men, frozen in fear, released the child at once, their hands fumbling with their hats as they bowed before him in a clumsy display of submission.

"He’s a thief, my lord—a filthy little bastard who does nothing but steal," one of them spat.

"He’s not even worthy of standing before the dragon’s egg," the other added, as the crowd murmured in uneasy agreement.

The dragon rider examined the boy closely, noting the drops of blood trailing from his right nostril. His clothes were patched but clean. His feet were bare, yet his nails were neatly trimmed. His black hair, long and unruly, had been carefully washed and combed. And his eyes…

Those eyes held Oromis captive. One was black, as dark as the boy’s raven-colored hair. The other was blue, as clear as the sky on a cloudless day.

"The decree says: all children," Oromis shot the men a sharp glare, his voice firm, his stance unyielding. Then, extending his hand toward the boy, he called: "Come, child!"

His voice, calm and deep, carried the weight of a command beyond defiance. The two merchants, along with those who had murmured around them, fell silent, heads bowed in unquestioning submission.

While the scene unfolded, the boy slipped away from his tormentors, seeking refuge behind the dragon rider. He sniffled, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. Then, something happened—something he hadn’t expected.

Oromis raised his palm. A silver light flickered before the boy’s mismatched eyes. The bleeding stopped. The pain vanished.

For a moment, the boy simply stared at his benefactor, still unable to grasp what had just occurred.

"I didn’t come to steal," he murmured. "I only came to find you—to ask for your help. To take my mother and me away from here… away from a place where no one wants us."

The boy’s eyes traced the dragon rider in awe. Never had he seen such beauty in the streets, the docks, or the harbor’s hidden corners—though, he had to admit, neither had he ever encountered such sternness in a gaze. Yet this lord inspired trust in him.

For the first time, as the boy spoke, he did not brace himself for a slap across his cheek. "My dream is to leave this place far behind, and my mother agrees."

A sorrowful smile touched the dragon rider’s lips. One of the greatest sorrows in the world is being unable to help those in need.

"Our order is clear—we escort the new riders of the eggs back to Vroengard. It is not our intention to interfere with local authority, but before we depart, we will speak with the city’s officials about you. Come!"

The boy followed the dragon rider like a loyal pup as he led him back to the table where the red egg lay waiting. His gaze lingered in awe upon the golden dragon, its scales gleaming like fire, before shifting to the small boy standing beside it.

In his arms, the broad head of the blue dragon turned—its gaze locking onto him. Then, suddenly, the creature let out a piercing cry.

"Hi…" murmured the brown-haired boy, lifting his wounded, silver-streaked palm toward him.

The urchin hesitated, about to respond—when the crimson egg rolled toward him, its surface shuddering, and the dragon within let out a piercing shriek.

.*.*.*.*.

Within hours, his life had changed irreversibly. Without fully understanding why, the dragon of the crimson egg had chosen him—claimed him—as its rider. Before he could even react, the creature lunged, knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling onto the market’s stone pavement.

The rest blurred into a dream—hazy, fleeting impressions slipping through his grasp. By the time clarity returned, the choice had already been made. It was too late to refuse the honor bestowed upon him.

As his eyes fluttered open—at first unfocused—he glimpsed two heads, one blue and one red, looming over him. And beside them, the curly-haired boy’s face hovered in quiet recognition.

"My name is Brom," the boy had said, offering his hand to help him up.

"Mine is Morzan."

Most of Teirm’s residents had already departed, their hopes dashed. Yet a handful remained at the market’s edge, murmuring in discontent, questioning the dragons’ judgment.

Paying them no mind, the dragon rider and his golden dragon meticulously examined the crimson hatchling, just as they had the blue one the day before. She was just as healthy—a strong female, her wings powerful, her teeth sharp, claws like daggers, horns gleaming.

From the very first hour, she was devoted—fierce, unyielding—to the one her heart had chosen.

A few hours later, the boy would proudly present his strange new companion to his mother. Together—the two of them, or rather, the three—sat on the doorstep of their hut at the edge of the harbor walls, gazing out over the endless sea.

"Master Oromis said we can’t take you with us," the boy murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow. Never before had he been separated from his mother—even in his deepest dreams, he had always imagined they would leave together.

"But I will come to see you," he promised, hoping to ease the grief in her eyes—eyes that, for some time now, had struggled to hold back tears.

Then, suddenly, he lifted his head, pride flickering beneath his anguish. "But if you want, I won’t go! I’ll give the dragon back and stay here, with you."

At those words, the small dragon hissed in sharp disapproval, its eyes flashing as it cast a warning glare at the woman.

She laughed. Time had stolen smiles from her lips, but these last few hours—despite the shock—had filled her heart with hope for her son’s future. The dragon rider himself had honored her humble home with his presence and given his word: he would care for her child, for he would be his teacher.

So, she reached out and wrapped her son in a gentle embrace.

"This is your path, my boy," she said, her voice breaking with emotion. "If the dragon has chosen you, it means you are stronger and braver than all the rest. Ah, my own flesh and blood…" Her eyes glistened with tears. "How proud your father would be to see you now—if only he had lived..."

The boy buried his face against his mother’s bosom, clinging to her as if she were the only anchor in a world shifting beneath his feet. The red dragon, seemingly stirred by the sorrow, latched onto the fabric of his tunic, whimpering softly.

The time for farewell had come.

"I will return, Mother," the boy vowed. "And when I do, you will see them all tremble before your son."

Years later, Morzan would return for his mother—just before the end.

.*.*.*.*.*.

"You don’t have shoes, do you?" Brom sat on the ground, fingers working at the laces of his own patched-up pair. "Here, take these," he said, handing them to the other boy.

"And what will you wear?" Morzan asked, puzzled, his mismatched eyes lingering on the young dragon rider. "Do you have another pair?"

"No," Brom replied, hesitating. "But I really don’t mind. Your feet are injured, and…"

"Upon our arrival in Vroengard, each of you will receive whatever is necessary," Master Oromis declared.

Morzan took the patched-up pair in his hands, turning them over, inspecting them with quiet deliberation. But he did not put them on. Instead—just when Brom least expected it—he seized him by the shoulders and pulled him into a fierce embrace.

"You and I—we will be friends forever," he declared, his voice unwavering. "As long as I live, I will never forget what you just did."

*********************************************

A/N: That chapter was harsh—but so is life. Sometimes, even more so.

According to Inheriwiki, Morzan had mismatched eyes and was missing the distal phalanx of a finger.

Morzan drank—for many reasons. Perhaps he could no longer bear to face who he had become—or what he had done. Or maybe being forced to drink in the tavern had been a traumatic experience—just like everything that followed. But sometimes, we become exactly what we despise, repeating what we most wish to forget.

The ancient philosopher Socrates believed that no one is born evil—something I, too, believe. It is circumstances that shape a person’s character.

 Those who are granted wealth, power, or authority must also have the wisdom to manage them well.

Chapter Text

"This is the dragonhold—the place where dragons rest." Glaedr folded the golden membranes of his wings as Master Oromis dismounted, using the dragon’s hind leg as a step. Then, he helped the two boys down. "For now, the hatchlings will stay with you in the rooms provided for you. During this early bonding period, dragons and riders are encouraged to spend as much time together as possible. Later, once they have grown enough and feel ready, they will be moved to a similar dragonhold."

The children gazed around in awe. They stood in a vast hall, open to the east, perched atop the highest floor of a towering fortress. The stone floor was layered with fresh straw, still carrying the scent of the meadow from which it had been cut. In places where the straw had thinned, the boys could make out deep claw marks—long, jagged furrows gouged into the stone, like a plow carving through freshly tilled earth. The walls bore the charred remnants left behind by dragons' fiery breath.

Master Oromis loosened the straps securing Glaedr’s saddle. During their journey to Vroengard, this unusual contraption had shielded the riders from the dragon’s tough scales and the sharp horns along his spine. Glaedr assisted, tilting to one side and shaking off the burdensome weight. Oromis carried the saddle to one of the long wooden shelves lining the northern wall of the hall. The children noticed other saddles resting there—similar in design, though some bore subtle differences and far more elaborate decorations.

"I wish to be alone. I am tired, and I will rest now!" Glaedr declared, yawning as he slowly made his way toward the carved stone basins scattered around the hall, filled with fresh water and food.

Oromis gave a slight bow to his companion, and the two boys, bewildered, mimicked him.

Morzan and Brom followed their master out of the vast dragonhold, stepping through a small door that led to a winding corridor descending into the tower’s depths. By the time they reached the base, they had encountered other dragon riders and a few hurried servants attending to their duties. Yet, without exception, all paused to step aside and bow to their master—some addressing him as Ebrithil, while others used unfamiliar and enigmatic titles. From the way everyone treated Oromis, and from his own quiet composure, the boys realized their master must be a person of great importance.

"I will lead you to the quarters where young dragon riders share their space with their companions—the dragons," Oromis said kindly. "There, you will have everything you need as you await your orders."

They crossed a large square, where a marble statue of a dragon and his rider stood at its center. The dragon’s sculpted scales gleamed in the morning light, almost seeming real, while the rider’s face and body were painted in lifelike hues. One might have thought both were truly alive. The dragon rider sat proudly atop his saddle, while the dragon’s long neck curved toward him, as if acknowledging his presence.

"This is Eragon, the first Dragon Rider, and his white dragon, Bid'Daum," Oromis explained to the two children, who stared at the statue, spellbound. "There is much to see and learn—and, fortunately, unlimited time."

They reached the entrance to the young dragon riders' quarters, where a group of young men and women had gathered. Laughter and excited exclamations filled the air, their attention so completely focused on the center of their circle that they failed to notice Oromis at first.

Suddenly, a strange polyhedral construct shot into the air above their heads, provoking even more cries of admiration. Its geometric faces gleamed in the sunlight, whirling at dizzying speed, stirring up fresh waves of laughter and shouts—until, at last, it dissolved into hundreds of dust-like particles, scattering with the wind.

"That was incredible!"

"We want more!"

"Come on, come on, just one more…"

"Alright, calm down!"

Their attention once again became absorbed by whatever had captivated them, and they fell silent, standing still. This time, however, the two children managed to distinguish the young dragon rider at the heart of the gathering. He rubbed his palms together, murmuring strange words, and a brilliant silver light burst forth between them. As soon as he opened his hands, a winged bird soared into the sky and vanished beyond the treetops.

Laughter, applause, and exclamations of admiration once again filled the space, prompting the young dragon rider to bow with an exaggerated flourish, a playful smile lighting his face as he basked in the admiration of his audience.

Only then did he finally notice Oromis and the two children, standing patiently to the side.

"Ebrithil!" the young man called out joyfully. As one, the group turned, twisting their right palms in a strange gesture before bowing to Oromis.

"May I ask why you are not attending your lessons at this hour—and why you are wasting your magic so recklessly?" The master's voice held a stern edge, yet amusement flickered in his eyes.

"Ebrithil!" a young woman called out. "He managed to harness the dust particles and shape them into objects!"

"We wanted to welcome the new dragon riders and their dragons," the young man said with a smile, stepping forward and giving the two children a friendly pat on the shoulders. "Welcome to Doru Araeba! On behalf of everyone, I wish you a pleasant stay and great success."

The young men and women encircled the two children and their hatchlings, showering them with warm words of welcome—until Oromis declared, "Enough!" and strode toward the entrance of the building.

Brom obediently followed him inside. Morzan, however, lingered, mesmerized—his gaze fixed on the enigmatic young dragon rider, who had once again become the center of the gathering.

"One more!" shouted one of the girls.

The young man laughed and stretched his palms open toward the light. Just as his voice entranced his eager audience, so too did his hands draw the dust particles from the air, pulling them toward him. He closed his palms, trapping the swirling dust between them, and as he stepped toward the boy, he murmured the same strange words once more.

Before the mesmerized Morzan, he opened his hands. Resting in the silver-lit center of his palm was a tiny, multicolored butterfly, its delicate wings gently opening and closing. Smiling, the young man offered it to him

"It's yours—a welcome gift," he said with a smile, carefully placing the butterfly into the boy’s hands. Then, he gestured toward the entrance. "You’d better hurry! They won’t wait for you."

Morzan dashed after Brom and their master, his open palms cradling the delicate butterfly as he struggled to keep it balanced. He was desperate to show his friend the precious gift he had received. Yet, before Brom could truly see it, the butterfly flickered its wings one final time—then melted away within Morzan’s grasp.

"You have just met Galbatorix," Oromis told them, his voice measured. "The most promising dragon rider of his generation."

.*.

"Did you notice something?"

"Like what?"

Morzan had spread his new attire out on the bed, admiring it. His small red dragon purred contentedly, its tail wrapped around one of the wooden bedposts.

"All the dragon riders who came to welcome us were humans," Brom remarked.

He had changed earlier and now sat on the window ledge of his friend's chamber, cradling his blue dragon in his arms.

"And?"

"Where were the elves?"

.*.*.

Galbatorix was someone they would encounter often, as he always seemed to have a hand in everything.

It was said that he descended from a branch of Broddring’s royal family—one that slowly dwindled and eventually faded away, leaving no male heirs. His older aunts had secured reasonably advantageous marriages with noblemen of the king’s court. However, his mother—a woman of greater ambition—never accepted that, despite still holding the title of princess, she had been forced into marriage with the mere viscount of Inzilbêth.

Thus, as soon as her son began to display his potential—both in physical prowess and intellect—she arranged for him to be taught by the finest scholars. The achievements of this gifted child soon drew the attention of the dragon riders, who chose to test him by entrusting him with a dragon egg, its shell the shade of royal purple.

When the purple dragon hatched for him, Galbatorix bid farewell to his parents, his teachers, and his city, following the dragon riders to Doru Araeba. The viscount and princess parted ways with their son—he, with tears in his eyes; she, with a proud smile.

As for the boy, he would eagerly follow whoever promised him knowledge of the entire world. And the riders of Vroengard possessed an inexhaustible wealth of wisdom and lore.

In his early years at Doru Araeba, Galbatorix followed every rule—his days devoted to rigorous training in martial arts, magic, and flight. His dragon—a striking female, descended from Umaroth himself—bonded with her rider in both soul and mind, forging an unbreakable connection. Even when separated for the sake of their training, Jarnunvösk—the name the purple dragon chose for herself—and Galbatorix remained perfectly attuned to one another, their thoughts and spirits intertwined to a degree unmatched by any of Vroengard’s young students.

The dragoness aided her rider, whose brilliant mind absorbed knowledge at an astonishing pace within the vast libraries of Doru Araeba. She also lent him the energy he needed to process information with greater ease and speed.

All dragon riders, especially those who had spent countless years alongside their partners, prided themselves on being two bodies with one mind, two beings with a single soul. Yet Jarnunvösk and Galbatorix—despite their youth—forged this bond more completely and flawlessly than any who had come before them.

Since the gifted young man mastered his lessons far more quickly than his fellow students and advanced faster than anyone else, he soon found himself with ample free time—time he eagerly devoted to broad and extensive studies. Once the scrolls in the bustling common chambers of the libraries had become familiar to him, he wandered through the more secluded halls, seeking knowledge buried deep within the archives.

Dust-covered parchments and centuries-old leather-bound books passed through his hands. He ventured even deeper into the ancient caves—carved into the mountain’s stone—where the primordial magic of the tribes who once inhabited Alagaësia lay safeguarded, immersing himself in their philosophy. There, he uncovered whispers of a hidden, forbidden magic—one fiercely guarded by the elders of the dragon riders. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how deeply his magic entwined with that of his bonded companion, he failed to wield it.

"We are still so young…" Jarnunvösk murmured, draping her wing over him as he sought solace in the dragonhold, inconsolable over his failure. "There is so much we do not yet know."

"I am certain this magic holds ultimate power," Galbatorix muttered, leaning against the dragoness and closing his eyes in frustration. The magic he had wielded earlier to break through the riders' secrets had utterly drained him. "The elders are so greedy—they keep the best for themselves."

Jarnunvösk tucked her snout beneath her wing, playfully nudging her chosen one as her barbed tongue brushed against his back. "Do not speak ill of the elders," she chided, feigning offense. "After all, one of them is my sire."

Galbatorix gently scratched the delicate scales beneath her rosy snout. "They are fools to think that locking away such secrets will stop the curious from seeking them with fervor."

"It worked just fine on you, little one," the dragoness murmured. She could feel the exhaustion pressing heavily on her chosen rider. Even the surge of energy she had given him wasn’t enough. The strain of the magic he had wielded was now taking its toll.

"The only thing they achieved was exhausting us tonight. Once we grow stronger…"

"If they believe this magic is dangerous, they likely know best," Jarnunvösk interrupted sharply, steering his mind away from frustration and toward the emptiness in her stomach. "Let’s go hunt together," she suggested. "We’re both hungry."

Galbatorix laughed, wrapping both arms around her neck. "I’m exhausted, my beauty," he replied playfully. "I need food and sleep."

"All the better!" The dragoness lifted him into the air and gently set him down beside the racks of dragon saddles. "I’ll hunt for both of us, and we’ll sleep beneath the stars. Just make sure to put the saddle on me—you wouldn’t want to ride atop the bare scales of my back."

.*.*.*.

"Brom's dragon declared today that she wishes to be called Saphira."

Morzan sat at the edge of a marble balcony, gazing out toward the sea. Beside him, his red dragon rested on her haunches, her tail coiled protectively around her chosen rider. A long, barbed tongue flicked from her fearsome jaws like a serpent, snapping at a bird that had dared to pass too close.

"And well she should!" The dragoness shifted, settling more comfortably beside her chosen rider, carefully resting the tip of her tail upon his knees. The horned end was a formidable weapon in its own right, and now that she had grown enough to take pride in it, she never missed an opportunity to remind him.

But the boy had changed as well.

The rich food had filled out his once-skinny frame, softening the sharp angles of his face. Now, he was dressed in warmth and elegance—black velvet trousers covered his long legs, complemented by gleaming leather boots. A white shirt and a black vest, trimmed with red, adorned his upper body, fastened at the waist by a black belt where his ever-present silver-smoked dagger rested. His raven-black hair, carefully polished and tied at the base of his neck, no longer hid his mismatched eyes.

So far, Morzan had no reason to feel ashamed in the city of the dragon riders—his studies in the ancient language were progressing splendidly, as was his training in martial arts.

"You don’t think you should tell me yours as well?"

A deep growl rumbled from the dragon’s throat—a clear warning that the question should never have been spoken. "When I decide, you will be the first to know."

Morzan turned toward the dragoness. "I am certain that you found it days ago, yet for some reason only you understand, you’ve kept it a secret from me."

The dragon’s slitted irises flickered rapidly, crimson eyes gleaming with fury. "I still need a few more days. I have some names in mind, but I haven’t decided which is the most formidable yet."

"Then until you decide, I’ll call you Red-Eyes. Or maybe Red-Face?" Morzan burst into laughter.

Sometimes, he enjoyed provoking the dragon without quite understanding why. At other times, he felt an inexplicable urge to corner—even insult—Brom, despite their strong friendship. To Morzan, Brom was like a brother. Fortunately, the other boy’s gentle temperament had always kept discord at bay. And Brom, in turn, felt the same way about Morzan.

"Red-Face, Red-Face!" Morzan teased, laughter ringing in his voice. But in an instant, he found himself flat on his back—a curved claw pressed threateningly against his throat.

"Say it one more time, and I’ll give you plenty to think about—because you’ll regret it!"

The boy laughed, wrapping his arms around the dragon’s neck. "You know how much I love you!"

At his words, the dragon eased, allowing her chosen rider to rise and straighten his clothes.

"Fine. Until you decide, I’ll call you Red-Eyes. I adore your eyes."

A satisfied purr rumbled from the dragon’s throat. Over the past few weeks, she had grown considerably—her size now rivaled that of a small horse. She had already begun flying alongside Master Glaedr, testing the strength of her wings, though their instructors had yet to grant permission for her and her rider to fly together.

Morzan knew how fiercely proud she was of her flight. Before a gathering of young hatchlings, Master Glaedr had named her Princess of the Winds—a title she bore with quiet reverence. Her heart brimmed with longing to share this gift with her chosen one.

"You will come with me to the dragonhold." Her voice echoed with firm resolve in his mind. "And there, I will keep you—you will spend the night with me."

"And why, pray tell, should I forsake my soft mattress and spend the night atop straw?" Morzan asked, his tone teasing as he rubbed the scales beneath her snout affectionately.

"Tonight, I want you close to me." The dragoness once again coiled her tail possessively around his waist. "Your presence may help me, and by sunrise, I might have chosen my name."

"You had better!"

That same gnawing jealousy from the morning clawed its way back into his heart. Brom's dragon had a name—while his did not.

.*.*.*.*.

Brom kept his arms close to his body, knees tucked in as he fought to maintain his defense.

Morzan’s furious assault had already landed several hard blows to Brom’s ribs, leaving him winded. The grip of his staff slipped in his sweaty hands, but his focus remained locked on his opponent’s every movement. With a clever feint, Morzan aimed his staff toward Brom’s head, only to twist it at the last moment and strike at his ribs again. Brom’s arm moved swiftly, deflecting the blow. Morzan retreated, panting. If nothing else, Brom had succeeded in wearing him down.

"Let’s do it again—this time, slower." His arm muscles felt heavy, as though the wooden staff were forged from iron.

"That feint was clever," Brom remarked. "You’ll have to show me."

The sun had begun its ascent, casting golden light over the bustling courtyard, where pairs of dragon riders practiced swordplay and more. The two friends continued for a while longer before finally resting their staffs against the courtyard wall. They gathered their shirts, draping them over their sweat-drenched shoulders, and shared a flask of water.

"No word yet… about them?" Morzan’s eyes darkened.

For weeks, a group of young dragon riders and their dragons had ventured northward, tasked with observing and documenting Urgal settlements along the Spine. Each dusk, they had reached out to their base using the scrying method—whispering into the water’s surface to share what they had seen. But now, many days had passed without a single message. The elders had begun to worry.

"The elves said that even after joining their minds, they were unable to reach any of their own."

Brom had always shared a stronger bond with the elven dragon riders. His gentle and courteous nature made him far more acceptable to the rigidly proper 'pointy-ears' than Morzan, whose rough—sometimes outright brash—demeanor often set him apart.

"I heard the elders have already sent a search party. Reports indicate the Urgals have multiplied at an alarming rate, and their leaders have grown dangerously warlike. The elders fear an ambush."

The collective way in which the dragon riders lived and acted defined them—if not as friends, then at least as comrades. In theory, they all cared for one another, though in practice, that was not always true. Morzan knew many elves who wouldn’t spare even a single green leaf—the very ones they so adored—if something ever happened to him.

The fate of this particular group had become a matter of discussion and growing concern among all the students and residents of Doru Araeba—most of all, Morzan himself. Among them stood the dragon rider Galbatorix, alongside his royal-purple dragon, Jarnunvösk—a mentor of sorts, and a personal friend to the poor boy from Teirm.

"Since the elders knew, they shouldn’t have sent such young and inexperienced dragon riders on this mission."

"They may be young, but they are far from inexperienced. They are far more capable than the Urgals when it comes to defending themselves. I only hope they are safe."

Brom sighed and tightened his grip on his staff. "Time to get back to training."

Suddenly, murmurs spread from the edge of the courtyard.

"They found them, they found them..."

"Are they well?"

"Are they alive?"

A ripple of agitation surged through the crowd, spreading like a wave. All motion ceased as riders exchanged alarmed glances.

"Dead... all of them dead..."

Darkness clouded every mind. A cold stillness settled over the dragon riders—human and elf alike. Images of horror flickered through their collective consciousness, sharp and unforgiving.

...Dead dragons… frayed, scattered scales… bellies torn open on the snow… entrails spilled… and the riders—men and women—with severed throats… gaping mouths… lifeless eyes… mutilated corpses… and blood everywhere… blood greedily absorbed by the earth and frozen solid by the ice...

"Dark magic! They were struck down by arrows enchanted with sinister arts."

A collective groan escaped from every mouth. Humans and elves alike began their mourning.

.*.*.*.*.*.

"Embrithil, not all the bodies have been found. One is missing."

"That’s… very strange."

"Perhaps they took him as a slave?"

"I doubt it! The Urgals never take prisoners."

"Then… could he still be alive somewhere?"

"Search the entire area! Leave no stone unturned. Find Galbatorix’s body. If he is dead, I will bury him with the others. If he isn’t…"

How could he have survived such devastation? His purple dragon lay lifeless among the others, her heart impaled by the iron of an enchanted arrow. Jarnunvösk’s once-pristine scales were stained with black, congealed blood; her beautiful eyes gaped—two hollow voids, feasted upon by ravens. And yet, aside from these wounds, her body bore no other mark.

Umaroth mourned his daughter, and the entire mountain trembled, echoing the dragon’s wrath.

In the nearby regions, the dragon riders discovered slaughtered Urgals; maimed wild creatures; ancient trunks torn apart. But neither Galbatorix’s body nor his elf-forged sword was found.

"Embrithil, perhaps there is still hope for him…"

Vrael gripped the white sword, Islingr, at his side, shaking his head sorrowfully. Even if Galbatorix had survived, what hope could there be for one who had lost half his soul? Half his mind? The other half of his body?

.*.*.*.*.*.*.

"He lives!"

Brom sat with his elven companions, sharing a drink brewed from mint leaves, when Morzan burst into the room, throwing the door open with force.

The violent intrusion shattered the elves’ quiet, contemplative mood, prompting them to rise in indignation, their cold stares drilling into the intruder. A sharp remark—something akin to "Do they not knock before entering in your village?"—echoed in elvish dialect, laced with barely concealed irritation. The words scraped at Morzan’s ears, but he hardly cared. He had long known their opinion of him and harbored no illusions about it.

"He’s alive!" The rider of the red dragon repeated, his voice ringing with certainty.

Brom abandoned his steaming drink, springing to his feet and seizing his friend by the arms. "They found him? Where is he?"

"Here! They’ve brought him to Vroengard. He’s with the elders now—they’re questioning him."

Without a second thought, Brom left the elves behind and followed Morzan out of the room, barely registering the stunned expressions on their faces.

Murmurs of disapproval trailed after them—unspoken reprimands about his lack of courtesy and disregard for etiquette drifting in their wake.

"A hunter found him in bad shape and cared for him in his cabin. He burned with fever for weeks, but somehow, he survived. They just told me—I haven’t seen him yet."

Gesturing as he spoke, Morzan relayed the news to his friend while striding swiftly toward the central building, where the Dragon Riders’ elders kept their offices. He urged Brom to quicken his pace.

"As soon as the heavy snow melted, the hunter wasted no time—he sent word to the Dragon Riders immediately."

A small gathering had already formed outside the elders' chambers, growing steadily as more riders arrived.

Murmurs and whispers wove through the crowd, mingling with exchanged glances full of apprehension. The Dragon Riders of Doru Araeba stood waiting—some desperate to understand how the disaster had begun, others yearning for answers about the final moments of lost friends. And some, drawn by sheer disbelief, simply wanted to lay eyes on Galbatorix—the man who had survived such a terrible fate.

Because, let’s be honest, everyone understood the truth: when one half of a dragon-and-rider pair is lost, the other—if they survive—is left as little more than a broken shell.

A few pressed closer, straining to catch even a whisper from behind the tightly closed doors, hoping to glean some clue. But it was in vain—the elders’ magic had sealed the chamber completely, allowing not even a murmur to escape.

Hours passed before the door finally creaked open.

Most of the Dragon Riders had grown weary and left. Only a handful remained, waiting with anxious hearts—among them, Brom and Morzan.

And then, standing in the doorway, was Galbatorix himself.

Or perhaps… he wasn’t?

Was this truly Galbatorix, the same bright, charismatic young man they had bid farewell to only months ago? Or was it someone—or something—else entirely?

It was clear that the man standing before them had left his soul behind in the savage mountains of the Spine. He had bled out upon the ice until there was nothing left—and what remained now was nothing more than an empty shell.

His once-bright eyes were dull, sunken deep within their sockets, framed by crescent-shaped shadows like bruised moons. His cheeks, pale as death, were drawn tight, and thin lips barely concealed blackened teeth.

The proud, sturdy frame that had once carried him now stood hunched, shriveled—mere bones wrapped in the remnants of a once-great form.

Two elders rushed out, pushing away all the younger ones who were waiting outside.

"Not now, not now! This is not the time."

"Please, everyone, leave. Depart at once!"

One of them reached for Galbatorix’s scarred arm, perhaps in an attempt to steady him—to offer support. But the shattered Dragon Rider refused the gesture, his body stiff, his gaze unreadable.

With a sharp flick of his hand and an angry glance at his would-be helper, he strode forward alone, cutting through the gathered crowd.

His posture was upright, his head held high—yet his pale cheeks betrayed his weakness. His gaze was empty, fixed on nothing. His slightly parted lips seemed frozen in a silent scream of pain.

He walked alone until he reached the turn in the corridor.

And there—where no one could see him anymore—he collapsed.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

"I heard they’re sending him back to his parents."

His father—after all these years of his son’s absence in Vroengard—had grown frail with age. But his mother, despite the passage of time, still ruled the viscounts’ estate with an iron grip.

Under the cover of night, Brom and Morzan slipped into Galbatorix’s chamber.

All of Doru Areaba—riders and dragons alike—lay in slumber, the city steeped in silence. At this hour, they hoped to find Galbatorix alone. If he was asleep, all the better.

It was Morzan’s reckless determination that had dragged Brom into this endeavor. From the very beginning, the elders had isolated Galbatorix, forbidding all visits. A healer remained by his side most of the time, tending to him. But Morzan had noticed that, in the small hours of the night, even the healer would leave, leaving the chamber unguarded.

So tonight, they had waited. And when the moment was right, they slipped in unnoticed.

Galbatorix, however, was not asleep.

Seated in an armchair with his back to the door, he seemed lost in the night sky, watching the reflection of the stars shimmering on the sea’s surface.

The two boys approached cautiously, their footsteps silent.

The pitiful Dragon Rider’s face was vacant, his expression hollow. The same empty stare they had seen in his eyes when he left the elders’ chamber lingered still. A thin ribbon of saliva dripped from his gaping lips, staining his shirt.

Morzan knelt beside the armchair and nudged Galbatorix’s shoulder. "Galbatorix? Hey, Galbatorix!"

At first, he paid them no mind, as though no one stood beside him, as though no voice had spoken his name. His clouded mind drifted far, lost in some distant place.

But Morzan persisted.

And at last, that vacant gaze shifted—irritated, disturbed.

The boy’s heart clenched. The whites of Galbatorix’s eyes were nearly red, riddled with broken veins, shimmering with reflections of flames—hellfire. A hell of fire and blood. What depths had this young man wandered through all this time? What horrors had he endured, for mere weeks to be enough to hollow out his soul like this?

"You! I know you…" For a brief moment, his eyes flickered with recognition, as the words slipped slowly from his wounded lips.

"I am Morzan, your friend!" The boy seized the young man’s arm, thrilled that he had managed to pull a memory from the depths of his clouded mind. "And Brom! He’s here too, with me."

The brief flicker in his eyes faded, swallowed by a sorrow so deep it seemed endless. His breath hitched—ragged, uneven.

"You didn’t help me… No one helps me…"

His voice trembled, barely more than a whisper, yet heavy with the weight of shattered trust. His pained eyes welled with tears, pooling until they could no longer be contained. Two drops slid free, falling onto Morzan’s hand like burning embers—silent accusations, unspoken pleas.

The Dragon Rider—once proud, once unbreakable—was crumbling.

"Me? Help you… Yes—anything you want… Whatever you ask… Whatever you need, I’ll do it!"

In an instant, the shattered Dragon Rider transformed—his head snapping up with defiant pride, shoulders squared, gaze sharpened like a blade. He seized Morzan by the arms, his grip ironclad, as if demanding something far greater than mere words.

"Do you remember? Do you remember? Do you remember how I helped you when you first arrived?"

His voice, raw and edged with desperation, tore through the silence.

"When the elves looked down on you—calling you beneath them? Do you remember how I always defended you? How I showed you the things you couldn’t master alone?"

A tremor ran through his arms, but his grip only tightened, as though clinging to the certainty of his own words.

"Do you remember how I helped you every time you turned to me in your need? Tell me—do you remember?"

His eyes—once hollow, once drowning in grief—now blazed, wild and untamed, the embers of madness flickering in their depths.

Morzan felt fear creeping in. Galbatorix seemed enraged with him—for reasons he could not understand—as he shook him like a puppet in his iron grip.

"I remember, I remember…"

"Then why won’t you help me, huh?"

His arms dropped lifelessly to his sides, and the madness in his gaze dimmed once more. Morzan took the chance to inch backward, putting some space between them.

Brom’s hand touched his friend's shoulder—gentle, urging. "Morzan, we should go."

Morzan nodded in reluctant agreement. Everything they had heard about Galbatorix’s state of mind seemed to be true. Yet his heart wouldn’t let him leave like this—not without saying just a few more words. His youthful face drew close once again, searching the expression of his older friend.

"I haven’t forgotten all that you’ve done for me, and I never will. I will always consider you my friend. I promise I’ll help you. Get better, and I’ll support you in whatever way I can."

Galbatorix lifted his gaze to him once more. "None of them help me…"

"I will!" Morzan declared with determination. "I will be the one to help you in whatever you need. I swear it!"

Brom had remained silent all this time. The thought that something terrible could happen to his beloved Saphira always unsettled him. And now—here it was. Every fear brought to life, reflected in the face of Galbatorix.

“They say you’re leaving. That you’re going back to your parents,” Brom said, simply to say something.

Galbatorix nodded, calmer now. "It’s true. In a few days, I’ll leave—it’s already arranged." But as he turned toward Brom, the lines of his face hardened. "I will return, though! I will return only once I am strong enough to defeat every single one of my enemies."

The boy froze. That hardened face, that wild gaze, foretold nothing but pain and suffering. If only Morzan would finally make up his mind and leave. But his friend had moved past his initial fear—determined now to prolong his stay in the chamber.

"Galbatorix, you have no enemies here," Morzan mumbled, "only friends…"

Galbatorix’s eyes flashed with fury at the word ‘friends.’ He sprang to his feet, grabbing Morzan once more.

"Friends!" He spat in disgust onto the floor at their feet. "If those cursed ones hadn’t kept their magic secret—hoarding it for themselves—I would have had the power to save her. My beautiful Jarnunvösk wouldn’t have been lost."

He sank back into his chair, despair etched deep into his face. "But you swore to help me! You will help me… won’t you? You’re still my friend… aren’t you? You remember how… beautiful she was…"

Wrapping his arms tightly around his ribs, as if trying to hold himself together, he began to rock back and forth, his motions slow, fragile—broken. Tears spilled freely down his hollowed cheeks, carving silent paths of grief across his skin.

"Oh, my love—heart of my heart, my sweetest soul… that I could not save you."

His voice cracked, trembling under the weight of the words—a heart-wrenching outburst of grief and longing.

"How could you leave me alone?"

Brom couldn’t bear it any longer.

The mental bond he had been sharing with his sapphire-blue Saphira intensified, tightening like a vice around his thoughts. The young dragon, unable to endure the overwhelming sickness of loss any further, demanded his immediate presence at the dragonhold.

A sharp breath caught in Brom’s throat. His pulse pounded against his temples, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t name—panic, grief, dread. His legs moved before he had fully processed his retreat, carrying him instinctively toward the door.

Then, suddenly, he bolted, fleeing in a rush, breath shallow, heart hammering, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Morzan lingered a little longer before finally seeking out the presence of Red-Eyes, his beloved companion.

He stayed just long enough to renew his oath once more.

He stayed until Galbatorix, drained of every last flicker of defiance, collapsed inward, sinking back into the fathomless void of his own mind and heart—into a silence deeper than despair, heavier than grief.

*****************************

A/N: Those who have lost someone truly beloved can understand. Even they, however, eventually recover after a reasonable amount of time. The reason? All of us (hopefully) possess a complete sense of self. But Galbatorix—just like Brom later—had shared his very being with another creature. Their violent separation left them both incomplete. The first one was consumed by megalomania and madness. The second devoted his life to a purpose. But the pain must have been unbearable for them both.

I believe that the elven Dragon Riders—except for the elders—likely saw humans as inferior. That belief forms the basis of my references to them, both in this chapter and the next. Perhaps I am mistaken, but the world of the Dragon Riders—despite their authority—was far from ideal.

I hope I managed to capture the shifting depths of Galbatorix’s fractured mind. It was truly a challenge.

Chapter Text

Oromis dipped his brush into the dark ink once more, completing the ideogram of the Liduen-Kvaedhi on the yellowed parchment. From the corner of his eye, the elder Dragon Rider noticed Brom waiting patiently a short distance away. Their lesson had ended twenty minutes earlier, yet the young man had yet to depart. Kneeling at the edge of the chamber, the student remained still, waiting stoically for his teacher to address him.

"Do you wish to speak with me, Brom Finiarel?"

The young man rose and approached his teacher at a measured pace.

"Erbrithil, I had that same tormenting nightmare again."

Oromis set his brush down with deliberate care on the dish atop the desk. His gaze lingered on Brom, studying him intently.

"Brom Finiarel, how many times have I told you not to let fear rule your heart?" His tone was firm, yet deep within his eyes—if one looked closely—there was an unmistakable warmth for his student.

"The hatchling suffers!" Glaedr was somewhere nearby, his mind fully intertwined with that of his Dragon Rider. "The worst part is—Saphira knows nothing of it."

Oromis rose from his seat and stepped forward, standing before his student. "Have you shared your fears with Saphira, Brom Finiarel?"

Brom lowered his head at the stern tone.

"No, Erbrithil," he admitted. "I don’t dare tell her that, in my dreams, I often see her dead."

His eyes widened as the memory of the nightmare surfaced—the horror he had endured still vivid. The same fear that had haunted him since childhood, the one he had fought so hard to banish, had returned once more in recent times, no matter how desperately he tried to suppress the dark thoughts.

Oromis rested his palm on his student’s brown hair, sending a soothing wave of energy through him.

"No one escapes their fears, Brom Finiarel," the teacher declared. "Share them with the other half of your heart—Saphira must know how you feel."

What Oromis asked of Brom was no easy task.

Brom, with his gentle demeanor and reserved nature, always presented a courteous front to others while keeping his deepest thoughts and fears locked away. He spent most of his time withdrawn from the human Dragon Riders, enduring disapproving glances and subtle smirks whenever he indulged in the superstitions of his secluded, peculiar homeland. He was the target of teasing whenever he knocked on the door before exiting a room or spat three times in Saphira’s direction to ward off the evil eye.

Lately, his only interactions had been with a few elven Dragon Riders, while he spent most of his free time at the dragonhold, in the company of his sapphire-blue dragon.

Brom’s friendship with Morzan fluctuated like the phases of the moon. At times, the young man from Teirm seemed like a trustworthy friend—perhaps a bit forceful, sometimes even possessive to the point of exhaustion. Other times, his teasing and mockery went too far, veering into outright offense. Yet Brom had never stopped considering him a friend.

Still, on mornings after a night haunted by nightmares of Saphira lying lifeless, Brom withdrew from everyone more than ever.

"Go to the forest, Brom Finiarel," Oromis said, his tone heavy with genuine concern. "Stay there as long as you need and reflect. Observe the life around you and come to understand it. If you truly appreciate life—the cycle of even the smallest being—you will stop dwelling on death."

Brom bowed silently and departed. Some days, his mental and emotional connection with Saphira was absolute. They spent their hours together, soaring over the city, the harbor, the forests, and the mountain of Vroengard. They shared all the joys that the bond between rider and dragon could offer, as well as the disappointments, anxieties, and desires.

Brom knew they would live together for countless years, sharing the experiences and passions of an endless life. Everyone born in his time would have long since turned to dust, yet Brom and Saphira would still remain—bound as ever.

Unless…

He made his way to the dragonhold, seeking the one chosen by his heart and mind. Oromis was right. He and Saphira had to focus so completely on life that the fear of death would never touch them.

.*.

Morzan focused all his strength—body and mind—until, after several moments, a surge of energy left him, flowing into the gemstone embedded in the hilt of his new sword. Suddenly, he felt drained, weakened, as the world spun around him. The hollow feeling in his stomach only deepened the dizziness.

The red dragoness leaned toward her rider, the tip of her muzzle—lined with fearsome teeth—grazing the teardrop-shaped ruby. In the next instant, a surge of energy burst from her nostrils, shooting into the crimson gemstone, flooding its facets with power

"Here you are, little one," the dragoness boasted. "Consider it a gift from me."

"Master Oromis will notice your help. He said I must succeed in transferring the energy on my own," Morzan grumbled, yet his hand lingered on his companion’s muzzle, stroking it gently.

"It would have taken you weeks, and you wouldn’t have filled even half of it," the dragoness countered. "Besides, you’re not alone—Oromis knows that better than anyone. You and I, in this life or the next, will always be bound together."

Morzan laughed in satisfaction and wrapped both arms around the neck of the one who was the other half of his heart and mind.

"My sweet Red-Eyes!"

For a long time, the red dragoness had claimed a fearsome name—an ancient word that sent chills through those who dared to utter it, its meaning a reflection of the terror one instilled in their enemies after a relentless assault. She bore it with pride, and her Dragon Rider never tired of speaking it aloud.

Yet, in their most private and tender moments, Morzan still called her by the childhood nickname he had given her—"Red-Eyes." She accepted it as an affectionate gesture, purring in satisfaction.

"Let’s fly together," the dragoness suggested. "If you wish, we can even cross the sea."

The steep cliffs on the far side of Alagaësia stirred a wild exhilaration in them—one they kept entirely to themselves, sharing it with no other.

"Our masters won’t like this," Morzan said with a grin, already reveling in his defiance. "When we return, punishment will be waiting for us both."

"It won’t be the first time," the dragoness snorted, her heart already stirring with longing—for the solitude of the journey, for the far shore, away from everyone else. "Let’s stand atop the highest peak and dream of the ways we’ll humble our enemies."

The red dragoness shared a unique, possessive bond with her rider. She guarded him fiercely, striking fear into anyone who dared cast a sideways glance his way. And he, in turn, had eyes for no other living creature but her.

As for Brom? Over the years, he had grown somewhat mild—calm and obedient to the rules. Lately, he avoided Morzan’s reckless escapades, preferring instead the quiet company of his elven friends.

Morzan was jealous. Brom was his friend—they had come to the Riders’ island together. In the beginning, the fisherman’s son had clung to him, looking to him—the more experienced one—for guidance, to learn the secrets of life. So why was he getting tangled up with the elves?

Morzan kept a deliberate distance from the "pointy-ears," ensuring he offended them at every opportunity—doing and saying whatever irritated them most.

A wicked laugh blossomed on Morzan’s lips as he traced his fingers along the blade of his sword.

The elven Dragon Riders—no matter how young, even children cradling hatchlings—knew the workings of magic long before mastering anything else. Magic flowed through their veins alongside their blood, a force as natural to them as breath. And that, they believed, granted them the right to see themselves as superior to their human counterparts.

Morzan never forgot the sidelong, contemptuous glances or the veiled insults aimed at him for his lineage. Ever since Galbatorix had left Doru Areaba—ah, Galbatorix, how he had missed their company—Morzan had been left alone to contend with the elves and the difficult tensions of their forced coexistence.

These so-called "lords" considered themselves noble. Yet, whenever they faced a human in the fencing court, their superior strength and speed ensured victory—but for the human, only mocking smiles and insults awaited. They even dared to question the judgment of the dragons themselves.

As for their females? They considered it an offense for anyone to so much as look at them.

The red dragoness nudged her rider with her muzzle, pulling him from his unpleasant thoughts.

"You are faster and stronger with the sword than many others, despite being human," she reminded him. "Never forget Galbatorix. There were many elves in the lost group, yet he was the only survivor—his combat prowess ensuring his survival, despite being human."

Morzan laughed, emboldened by her words. Yes, he was strong—stronger than many human Dragon Riders. But he had never bested the elves, and so they continued to humiliate him.

"One day, we will avenge these humiliations," his companion vowed. "We are still young, and our knowledge is incomplete. But our revenge will not be limited to those who stand against us now—it will reach back to those who dared to insult you in the past."

Years ago, Morzan had confided in her, unveiling the sufferings of his childhood.

"As for the future, we will become so powerful that none will dare to dream of offending us," she declared.

The dragoness sniffed the air. "Let’s go now, before the sea swallows the sun. Tomorrow, we’ll return—ready to face our punishment with courage."

Delighted by the mischief of their unauthorized departure, she nudged her rider’s shoulder once more, passing on a piece of her joy.

Morzan admired once more the iridescent surface of his new sword, its shimmering blade resembling molten metal in the forge of the universe’s Master Blacksmith. The hilt fit his palm as if it were an extension of his very being.

Then, with quiet pride, he sheathed the precious weapon in its crimson scabbard, striking it against his thigh.

Less than a week had passed since Morzan and his dragon returned from the lands of the elves. Deep within their shadowed forests, they had met the one Oromis had sent them to—Rhunön, the elven master smith of the Dragon Riders' swords.

She had examined the young man with precision, measuring the length of his arms, his height, and his physique. Even the color of his dragon had been taken into account.

A few days later, she forged his sword—an exquisite weapon crafted from brightsteel, drawn from ore found in meteors and fragments of shooting stars, the very stars so adored and sung about by the elves.

Now, only one task remained: to name it.

Morzan would never forget his final meeting with Rhunön before departing Ellesméra.

"Are you certain you wish to give such a name to the sword?" she had asked.

He had merely nodded—a gesture he knew well that the elves despised, just as they disdained all forms of body language, considering it poor manners to respond without spoken courtesy.

"Absolutely certain!" he had declared abruptly. "This sword will be the misery of all my enemies."

Rhunön raised an eyebrow, studying him closely. The young man before her could not have seen more than sixteen summers. Even by human standards, he was little more than a child. A faint shadow of dark fuzz clung to his upper lip and traced his temples along the sides of his cheeks—hardly enough to be called a beard.

"Do you have many enemies, Dragon Rider?" she asked.

In Morzan’s mismatched eyes, the crimson glow of the forge fire flared for a fleeting moment.

"You cannot even imagine, Rhunön Elda."

The elf woman found amusement in it—another boastful, swaggering Dragon Rider of the human race, posturing as if he were great. With ancient magic, she etched the mark onto the blade, just below the protective cross of the hilt.

And thus, the sword had a name.

"Zar'roc."

.*.*.

Against the whispering breeze, the princess adjusted the black veil of widowhood over her silver-streaked hair and scattered rose petals over her late husband’s grave—petals passed to her from a basket by the girl at her side.

The viscount had lingered far longer than his widow would have preferred—but at last, he was gone, leaving her the sole lady and mistress of their estate. And his title, to her beloved son.

"Viscount? Pfft!" What was such a title, pray, for her gifted child? The one so strong in body, so skilled in the arts of war—in magic? The one who possessed knowledge beyond measure?

The princess abruptly turned her back on her husband’s monument and strode toward the main estate. To the world, she played the part of a grieving widow; in truth, she wove secret plans for her son’s ascension.

Three years had passed since the day the Dragon Riders returned to her the one they had once taken with the brightest prospects—only now, he was broken. They placed him back in her arms, in her care, only to depart once more, never again concerning themselves with his fate—now that he was of no use to them.

Three long, unforgiving years…

At first, the princess could only watch as her son wasted away—day by day, night by night. His sharp mind dulled, his strong, well-built body began to break. And as a mother, she could not bear it.

She had tried to help him—had drawn him out, made him speak, opened his heart until he told her everything. Then, she had convinced him to endure, to persevere. And, to some degree, he had.

A mother’s care had been enough to halt his decline—both body and mind. But the pride of a princess could never be content with merely that.

She had emptied the coffers of her home, spent every last coin. She had sold off her jewelry, borrowed, and even surrendered lands from their estate.

Much of the wealth she amassed had funded agents scouring the land for secrets of forbidden magic—anything that might prove useful—or for the purchase of rare, mystical tomes. Other sums secured the services of shadowy figures within the royal court.

The remainder paid for the finest fencing master, a swordsman equal to those of the royal guard, to train her son daily.

At last, the princess had succeeded. She had given her child hope—a hope for a better tomorrow, a stronger future. She had lifted the broken one back to his feet and made him believe again.

And most importantly, she had made him embrace her own boundless ambitions.

The princess had always found her child far too dreamy—long before the Dragon Riders took him away. He was excessively devoted to his studies, always chasing deeper knowledge. Far too warm-hearted with everyone—a trait inherited from his reveling viscount father, one she had never approved of.

Dreamy he had remained, even on the one occasion he visited them for a local festival, his royal-purple dragon at his side. Dreamy, friendly, far too approachable—even with the lower ranks, even with the servant girls in her household.

"Be careful, my son," the princess had warned, casting a disapproving glare at the village girls who dared approach him with bright smiles. "Do not let anyone ensnare you—unless her place in society is truly worthy," she added, meaning only the highest status would suffice.

Fortunately, her child now seemed far more grounded—a fact that filled her with immense satisfaction. One who aspires to great ranks must be strict, measured in his associations. His position did not permit idle promises, nor the luxury of offering hope.

The princess’s sacrifices were finally bearing fruit.

"Oh, my child, I will do everything for you. May I live to see you as I wish…" the woman murmured, quickening her pace as much as her years would allow.

"Do you need anything, my lady?" asked the girl at her side, not quite catching the whispered words of her mistress.

"I wasn’t speaking to you, fool," the old woman snapped.

What a curse it was—these days, she couldn’t find a servant with a mouth who knew how to keep it shut! Another symptom of the decay of the times. How different it had been in her youth.

Back then, would a servant have dared speak without first being granted permission by their master? Such defiance was the consequence of weak rule. Corruption begins at the top, she thought—just as her grandmother had always said.

A ruler must be ruthless, unyielding, a figure who inspires fear—not a puppet whose actions are dictated by others.

The princess shot another sharp glare at the girl. At least her son now kept himself demonstrably distant from all women, his mind fixed entirely on his purpose.

In the great hall of their estate, the princess found her son locked in combat, facing multiple opponents at once—and vanquishing them all.

If nothing else, his swordsmanship was legendary. It was the very thing that had saved him—him alone—during the Urgal ambush three years prior.

Despite the death of his dragon. Despite recklessly hurling himself against the fiercest of Urgal chieftains in a desperate bid to fall alongside his heartbound companion. Despite charging headlong into battle against every beast that prowled the mountains.

He had survived.

Gravely wounded, but alive.

With a flick of her hand, the princess signaled for the swordsmen to withdraw. Then, lifting a cup of rosewater, she let its cool droplets fall over her son’s sweat-drenched brow.

"My handsome son," she murmured, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, "none can rival you in the mastery of war."

Galbatorix’s eyes gleamed with pride. His body had regained all its former strength, along with his unrivaled skill in the art of the sword.

"Mother, dismiss the fencing master—along with the rest of his kind. They are useless to me now."

"And on whom will you train, my child?" The princess caressed her son's cheek with tender affection.

She took immense joy in seeing him reclaim his former strength—watching him make decisions, take initiative once more.

A fierce expression twisted Galbatorix’s face. "I have some in mind—far better than them," he declared, his tone cryptic and edged with certainty.

At his words, the princess swelled with pride, her heart ablaze with ambition.

"My child, the title of viscount is far beneath you. Even without your dragon, you are a thousand times greater—more capable than the puppet perched upon Alagaësia’s throne. Angrenost is nothing but the mouthpiece of the Dragon Riders. I live for the day you seize what is rightfully yours!"

"First, I will bring to heel those who took from me what was most precious, Mother." Galbatorix sheathed his sword, then pressed a firm kiss to his mother’s forehead.

"I will be away for a time."

The old woman smiled, pleased by her son’s initiative. "Find allies among the enemies of your enemies, my boy. Study their weaknesses, trust no one. And always remember—you have no friends!"

A fierce satisfaction filled her heart. She had succeeded in steering her gifted child exactly where he needed to be.

.*.*.*.

Weeks later, as his journey led him to the fringes of the Elven forest, Galbatorix came upon a group of Urgals—and vanquished them all, sparing only one.

The sole survivor. The one he deemed might prove useful.

Having won the recognition of the Nar chieftains—proving himself greater than them—Galbatorix pressed forward, seeking and securing an audience with the Herndal, the ruling Urgal dams.

"What can we do for you, Ushnark?" the elder of the Herndal asked, bestowing upon him the title—acknowledging him as superior to all the sons of their kin.

"I know well that you despise both humans and the Dragon Riders."

At this, the mothers exchanged glances, heavy with unspoken meaning.

"Swear that, when I call upon you, you will stand by my side," Galbatorix commanded.

"And what do we stand to gain, Ushnark, if we aid you against your enemies?"

A macabre smile twisted the man’s lips. Death! The word echoed mockingly in his mind.

The greed in the Herndal mothers’ eyes was chilling—they expected a reward. These same old women had sent their sons willingly to their deaths, driven by the hollow promise of honor and glory.

Galbatorix’s eyes gleamed—cold, calculating. A gaze that had long since hardened, now permanent.

"Do not worry. I will not leave you empty-handed. Each of you shall have everything—everything you are owed."

.*.*.*.*.

At the northernmost edge of the elves’ forest, where ancient trees stood thick and unyielding, their dense canopies filtering the sunlight into a dim, golden haze, there lay a wooden hut.

Not built, but sung into existence by the very pines themselves—a dwelling with bark for walls and a roof of interwoven branches and pine needles, woven by magic into seamless unity.

It was a modest shelter, smaller than a human stable yet slightly larger than two chambers combined. And within its embrace lived an elven hermit, solitary and untouched by time.

His years must have surpassed the thick, even rings of the ancient trees that measured time itself. They spoke of him as one of the first elves to set foot in Alagaësia, forsaking his distant homeland when the world was still young and the stars burned brighter in the heavens.

They claimed his knowledge stretched from the dawn of life to the hidden secrets of eternity. That he had lived through countless cycles—so many that neither he nor any other could recall their number. That he had laid to rest all the loved ones who had ever graced his life.

They whispered of his solitude. Of his quiet preference for the company of trees, plants, and wild creatures, rather than his own kin.

The most enduring legend surrounding him spoke of the scrolls and parchments he guarded—filled with secret and forbidden knowledge. Wisdom that had either traveled with him from his distant homeland or had been painstakingly recorded by his own hand as he observed the endless cycles of time.

Rare were the moments when an elf dared set foot upon the hermit’s land, and rarer still when an elder among the Dragon Riders sought fragments of his vast knowledge. His solitude was respected by all, an unspoken law none dared violate.

Yet when fate entwined his path with another’s, the hermit never turned away those in need. He offered his hospitality freely—if only for a fleeting moment before retreating once more into silence.

Here, his search had led Galbatorix. After greeting the hermit politely and displaying the silver palm of a Dragon Rider, he spoke of having parted ways with his dragon for a mission they had undertaken.

With dusk settling over the land, he requested shelter for the night—a chance to examine the texts of the secret library. His request was granted. His permission given.

Bowing his silvered head in silent reverence, the hermit offered the young man a cup of milk, along with access to his invaluable knowledge.

For hours, Galbatorix pored over the ancient manuscripts, their wisdom sinking into him like ink upon parchment. And as the night deepened, he carefully steered the conversation toward the true object of his search.

"I seek knowledge of the Shades," Galbatorix said carefully. His words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate.

The hermit’s expression darkened at once.

"What is it you seek about the Shades that the vast libraries of Doru Areaba could not provide?"

The old elf was right. Every account of these creatures and their abhorrent abilities was already within Galbatorix’s grasp. The complete history of the Shades—though few had ever existed—had long been recorded by the Dragon Riders.

Yet still, he searched. Not for knowledge, but for a legend.

The young man lowered his head in humble reverence, pressing his palm to his chest—a silent gesture of submission before the elder.

"My lord, the libraries of my companions are indeed vast; in this, you speak the truth. Yet the elders believe that something may have escaped their notice—knowledge that rests under the shelter of your wisdom."

The young man’s humble gaze, his measured kindness, and the quiet reverence in his voice when speaking of his elder mentors left no doubt—his intentions were sincere.

Without a word, the elf gestured toward the place where his search must begin.

And in the darkest hours of the night, Galbatorix finally found what he had been seeking.

That night, the honorable blade of the Dragon Riders was sullied by innocent blood for the first time.

Galbatorix had killed again.

The same sword—crafted by the master artisans of the elves, entrusted to him by the Dragon Riders to defend peace and justice—had once struck down only those who faced him in fair battle, always armed, always standing their ground.

But this time was different.

This time, the deceitful, whispered words of the princess had slipped fully into her son’s mind, twisting his purpose, bending his will.

And that night, Galbatorix lost a piece of his soul forever.

The love he had shared with Jarnunvösk—a love that, despite her passing, had remained hidden, untouched, buried deep within him—was severed at last.

As the hermit immersed himself in silent prayer, bound to the whispering forest around him, his guest reached forth with a dishonorable hand—stealing his life away.

The forest groaned, mourning the lifeless body at its heart. The earth shuddered, rejecting the innocent, spilled blood, as wild creatures fled their nests in frantic confusion, their cries piercing the storm-darkened sky.

A furious wind tore through the trees, snapping branches with reckless fury, while an icy downpour drowned the soil, turning the ground to slick, unforgiving mud.

Nature itself—meant to cradle the millennia-old body—recoiled instead, repelling the murderer’s defilement.

Galbatorix was terrified.

With frantic hands, he snatched up a few precious scrolls, shoving them beneath his shirt, then pulled his dark cloak tight around him before fleeing—fleeing as though the very earth itself rejected him.

He didn’t stop running until his body betrayed him, his legs buckling beneath the weight of exhaustion and guilt.

Collapsing in the mud, rain hammered against his back, cold and relentless. His chest convulsed with sobs, his breath ragged, and his tears—hot and unending—fell like rivers, swallowed by the unforgiving storm.

In the depths of his darkened mind, this was the first—but also the last—time he truly felt the crushing weight of his crime.

He crawled through the filth like a worm, a treacherous serpent dragging itself through the mud, until he found refuge beneath a jagged overhang of rock.

There, shivering and soaked, he fought to steady his breath—to silence the horror clawing at his thoughts.

No. It was not his fault.

It was them—all of them—his enemies, who hoarded their magic in secrecy, locking it away in caves and dungeons, useless to all. It was their greed, their arrogance.

It was their fault. They were to blame—those who had torn away the other half of his heart.

Galbatorix remained there until dawn, waiting—enduring—until the elements relented, their merciless assault finally fading.

Through endless hours, he searched in vain, reaching deep within himself for the bond that had once tethered him to Jarnunvösk. He tried, desperately, to summon the love that had dwelled within him, to feel its warmth once more.

But there was nothing.

His hollow heart lay barren, emptied of tenderness, stripped of love.

What had once lived within him had vanished forever.

He rose, his movements mechanical, his mind a relentless loop of denial.

Not his fault!

The hermit. His enemies. They had cast him into misfortune, not his own hand.

He strode toward the forest’s edge, leaving behind the remnants of the storm, heading toward the world of men. Soon, they would see him—not as a broken man, but as a punisher, an avenger, standing in all his terrible glory.

As the sun rose higher, staining the morning clouds in crimson, a cruel satisfaction swelled in Galbatorix’s chest.

First, humiliation. Then, the deaths of all his enemies. Only through their suffering would redemption be his.

And beyond that—the path ahead would stretch gloriously before him, unchallenged, unstoppable.

Yet, a single thorn still pierced the edges of his mind, an imperfection in his resolve.

For the briefest moment, he wavered.

A subconscious act from the previous night, now replaying at the fringes of his thoughts—again and again.

He had pierced his victim straight through the heart, driving the blade from behind. And afterward, with the same detached precision, he had wiped the blood from his weapon against the elder’s white garment.

Turning it red.

*******************************

Ushnark=Father

A/N: It is true—no one escapes what they fear. Or perhaps Brom’s fears lingered—unshakable, relentless. Not mere apprehensions, but something deeper. Something akin to Cassandra’s intuition—the seer cursed by Apollo to prophesy only misfortune.

As for Morzan’s dragoness, since her name has been lost, I will refer to her as "Red-Eyes." Morzan and his dragon were a perfect match—not simply bound, but fused in mind and spirit. Each magnified the worst in the other.

And yes, I envisioned Morzan as defiant, just as I imagined the elves as proud—perhaps even arrogant. I assume the elven Dragon Riders outnumbered the humans, and any who failed to follow their rules were deemed inferior. Brom walked the well-trodden path, while Morzan rebelled, shaped by his experiences and temperament.

Additionally, the saying that a mother—or any woman—can either build a man up or ruin him became central to the relationship between the princess and her son. Take a young man in Galbatorix’s state—fractured, vulnerable—and begin manipulating his mind. His transformation was inevitable.

Not that the seeds weren’t already within him—of course, they were. But that is true for all of us.

In the end, choice is what truly matters.

Chapter Text

Among the Dragon Riders’ manuscripts that Galbatorix had studied over time, one mentioned an ancient catalog—a record of every known Shade to ever exist. Yet these texts offered little insight into their lives or crimes, for a Shade was swiftly consumed by the very dark magic he had unleashed. Nor did they reveal the secret of their creation.

However, the manuscripts recounted various details—none of which held any value to Galbatorix—about two courageous souls: a Dragon Rider and an Elf. With swords in hand and virtue in their hearts, they had risked their lives to vanquish two terrible Shades—creatures that had survived only to sow chaos throughout the world.

Galbatorix cared nothing for such matters.

Even before he reached the hermit's hut and discovered the parchment that would henceforth guide his path, he had come across a mystical text—procured by the princess’s agents—that spoke of a legend. A legend of an ancient and fearsome creature said to have roamed the world millennia ago, a being that bewitched, slaughtered, and laid waste to all that was beautiful, noble, and sacred.

The first inhabitants of Alagaësia—lost to the gray depths of prehistory—had, with their own unknowable magic, imprisoned it deep beneath the earth, for its destruction had proven impossible.

The legend claimed that this Shade had somehow endured to the present day—or at least to the time when the manuscript was written—sustaining itself by leeching the life energy from the very elements of the earth. Neither man nor elf knew where his prison lay, nor did they possess the means to subdue such an ancient being, if indeed it still existed.

Galbatorix’s discovery that night in the hermit’s hut revealed the hidden location where the ancients had imprisoned the Shade—and the entrance to his prison. The stolen parchment guided his steps toward the northern mountains, far beyond inhabited lands, past even the vast elven forests. It led him to remote wastelands, where scraggly plants barely clung to the earth and ice enshrouded the jagged, blackened rock for nearly the entire year.

Galbatorix walked until exhaustion overtook him, collapsing onto the frozen ground. Sleep came, but only briefly—again and again, the same nightmare wrenched him from its grasp.

...A blade, slick with blood, defiling a robe of pristine white…

A thorn forever lodged in the corner of his mind, a cruel reminder of guilt—the weight of innocent blood spilled by his own hand. And yet, each time he awoke, he rose once more, compelled by the relentless thirst of his quest, pushing the dream to the edges of his thoughts, where it could not hinder his stride.

His path took him to lands so inhospitable that even the mountain beasts could not endure them, where birds were a rare sight. Even the wild dragons, masters of the skies, avoided those treacherous regions, for they offered no sustenance, only desolation.

Had the horrors he had faced in the Spine, along with his unyielding thirst for vengeance, not magnified his resolve, he might never have succeeded. No other would have even dared approach that place. But Galbatorix was a Dragon Rider. The strength of his body, the magic woven around him by his dragon, his madness—perhaps his luck, or even the inexorable fate binding both himself and Alagaësia—had conspired to ensure that, in the end, he achieved his goal.

Upon discovering the half-hidden entrance among the gray rocks, he crept through the narrow, sloping passage—once a sinkhole carved by the waters of melting ice. Hours later, his perseverance granted him passage into the dark dungeon, the underground prison of the abominable creature.

The parchment revealed that ancient magic had bound the Shade deep within the earth, ensuring escape was impossible. Yet, that same magic did nothing to prevent those outside from crossing the threshold and venturing within.

Having steeled himself for the grim encounter, Galbatorix mastered the fear that gripped his blood and stepped forward to confront the Shade. With unwavering resolve, he demanded the knowledge of dark magic—the secrets that would grant him the power to subjugate his enemies.

The creature—a blackened skeleton draped in tattered rags—let out a chilling laugh at the man’s request. The only reason he had not attacked outright was his desperate longing to glimpse the world beyond his prison. He yearned to know how time had unraveled, what had become of his jailers, whether the sun still shone and the stars still burned brightly in the sky. He hungered for news of the powerful figures who now ruled the land and whether the faintest glimmer of hope remained for his freedom.

The man’s presence in the depths of his underground prison, after centuries of solitude and abandonment, whispered a treacherous possibility in his ear—that perhaps, at long last, the opportunity had finally arrived.

"The knowledge you seek is mine in its deepest mastery, wielded countless times throughout my existence. Yet, tell me, human—if I take you as my pupil and grant you my teachings, what do I stand to gain in return?"

"Freedom from your underground prison," Galbatorix vowed. With a measured explanation of the bond between dragons and riders, he hinted at the power he wielded through it. He spoke of the ancient parchment that had led him to the Shade’s prison, revealing that it claimed a summons from the outside could break the creature’s confinement.

This summons, he swore, he would deliver—but only once the Shade had granted him the knowledge of secret magic. With a silken tongue and a promise dripping in temptation, he unfurled his vision of dominance. The Shade would stand at his side, second only to him, endowed with unimaginable power and authority.

Without hesitation, the Shade accepted.

Galbatorix spoke first, unraveling the changes that had reshaped the world above, and the Shade drank in every word with ravenous hunger. And when the creature had absorbed this newfound knowledge, weaving possibilities and opportunities into the depths of his mind, he began to teach.

Galbatorix lingered in the Shade’s underground prison for what felt like an eternity, forcing himself to stifle the revulsion clawing at his mind. He gnawed on moldy roots scavenged from the damp earth and quenched his thirst with the murky droplets that trickled from the melting ice above.

Yet, despite every hardship, he learned. And he learned. And he kept learning—until nothing remained unknown to him. He absorbed dark and terrible magic, spells more horrifying than anything he had ever conceived, sorcery that curdled the blood.

He learned until the day—or rather, the grim and fateful night—when the Shade finally spoke the words Galbatorix had long dreaded: there was nothing left to teach. And now, the creature demanded its payment.

"Before I summon you forth and grant you your freedom, I have one final question," Galbatorix said, his voice edged with curiosity. "You possess great power—I do not doubt that. But how have you endured in this place for over a thousand years?"

The Shade stood in silence, tilting his head in contemplation—should he reveal the source of the energy that had sustained him for centuries, or keep it concealed? At last, he decided. What had he to lose now that the world beyond his prison was finally opening to him? He bent toward the darkest corner of his cell and, from the muck, unearthed his long-buried secret—a radiant gem, large enough to rival three clenched fists. A stone the color of dawn on a clear morning, once carried along by the waters of the sinkhole, hidden away until this very moment.

Galbatorix marveled at its brilliance, its luminous glow overwhelming, forcing him to shield his eyes from its radiance.

"This is what sustains me, what grants me life and the strength to endure," the Shade said. "What you see before you, human, is the Heart of the Dragon."

Galbatorix's eyes widened. The revelation struck like a bolt of lightning—another secret concealed from him, another truth the Dragon Riders had jealously guarded. His thoughts twisted into a storm of rage and calculation. He cursed them once more for their deception, their hoarded knowledge. His mind whirled, recalculating his course, reshaping his ambition in the wake of this discovery. He needed to buy time.

Promising that their journey to the surface would begin at dawn, he curled up in his corner, feigning sleep. But in the hours that followed, his mind churned with fevered scheming—calculating how to claim the gem for himself. The truth was, he had never intended to honor his oath. He would emerge from the lair, but the Shade’s summons would never come.

Yet doubt gnawed at his heart once more. After all the time he had spent in this suffocating underground prison, a single question haunted him—was escape truly within his grasp? Or had he, by stepping into its depths, sealed his fate and condemned himself to remain here for the rest of his days?

The only hope Galbatorix clung to was the belief that the ancient magic had been forged to imprison the Shade—no one else. But doubt gnawed at him. How had the ancients escaped? Or had they never left at all?

Foolish—again and again, he chastised himself. He had acted rashly, blinded by his hunger for the Shade’s knowledge, consumed by his obsession with wielding it to exact vengeance. He should have foreseen this, weighed the consequences, questioned the risk before stepping into this abyss. But that caution had come too late.

These thoughts coiled within him, constricting like a serpent—until at last, he decided they no longer mattered.

He rose, prepared to wager everything. "I am ready," he said to the Shade. "Let us go now."

The creature rose from the hollow where he had made his lair, his movements slow and deliberate. He bent toward the darkened corner once more, reaching for the gemstone buried in the muck—his precious treasure, his lifeline.

Galbatorix’s lips curled into a sardonic grin. The fool had trapped himself. By once again concealing the Dragon’s Heart, the Shade had deprived himself of its life-giving energy and protection.

The ancient scrolls of the Dragon Riders—texts he had once dismissed as worthless—resurfaced in his mind, their knowledge now sharpened into a weapon.

Galbatorix knew how to kill a Shade.

The blade struck true, burying itself in the creature’s heart—where he least expected. A scream tore from his throat, raw and unearthly. The infernal spirits that had shaped his existence unraveled, scattering through the prison like wraiths, shrieking in their desperate search for a new vessel.

But Galbatorix was untouchable now—shielded by the very dark magic those same spirits had once bestowed upon him.

With swift, decisive movements, he seized the Dragon’s Heart and fled the lair. He ran toward the light, toward the new day, ready at last to carve his place into a world that had cast him aside.

.*.

"Mother, I want you to guard my treasure."

Galbatorix had been gone for a long time. When he returned to the estate of the viscounts, he found the princess bedridden, her strength drained by the agony of his absence. Yet the moment his presence filled the room, joy rekindled the life within her, and her recovery began at once.

The Dragon’s Heart, pulsing with its ancient energy, hastened her healing even further. Resting upon her couch by the balcony, bathed in the light of the fading sun, she gazed at her son with quiet admiration.

"You have returned strong, my son! The time draws near for you to claim what is rightfully yours. Ah, why must I be so old and frail? Will I live to see you seated upon the throne of Alagaësia?"

Galbatorix pressed a kiss to his mother’s forehead—a gesture meant to please her, though it held no warmth within him.

Once, he had felt tenderness for the woman who had borne him, raised him, shaped him into something worthy of the Dragon Riders’ notice. But ever since his return from the Shade’s lair, no matter how he tried, the bond he had once cherished lay beyond his grasp.

His heart was now utterly devoid of love.

Galbatorix rose, placing the Dragon’s Heart—wrapped in black velvet—into the old woman’s hands.

"The Dragon Riders must fall first, Mother," he confided, his voice low with calculation. "The Elders—those who have long stood as my enemies—are the pillars that uphold Angrenost upon the throne. Without them, our... king is nothing. Their downfall will bring the rest crumbling down."

He strode to the princess’s boudoir, his movements deliberate. Taking the empty wooden jewelry box in his hands, he lifted the lid and offered it to her.

"Hide my treasure, Mother, and speak of its existence to no one. This, you must know, is my most sacred secret. I entrust it to your faithful hands—to guard with your very life."

The princess placed the wrapped gemstone into the case without a word. She already knew the perfect hiding place—so secure that even her most trusted handmaidens would never uncover it.

She watched her son move toward the door, and with a mother’s intuition, she understood—he would leave her again. Ah, she was so old now. She knew she would not live to see their plans unfold. She would not live to see him upon the throne.

"Where are you going, my child?"

"I am a Dragon Rider, Mother. And the one thing I need most right now… is a dragon."

Galbatorix turned to her, a cynical smile flickering across his face as he lifted his silver-marked palm—the sigil of the dragon blazing upon his skin.

"Swear to me that one day, you will sit upon the throne of Alagaësia" the princess said.

"I swear it, Mother."

.*.*.

The dead of night found Morzan alone, seated at the base of the statue of Eragon and Bid’Daum in the heart of Doru Areaba’s central square. The sea breeze, gentle yet laden with salt and decaying seaweed, drifted through the silent streets, stirring long-buried memories of the distant harbor of his homeland.

For hours, his beloved Red-Eyes had abandoned her rider, vanishing into the wild mountains and the shadowed edges of the forest to hunt. Morzan could feel the dragon’s hunger thrumming through their bond—the primal thirst for fresh blood, the raw vitality that surged through her as she prowled for prey.

Suddenly, something strange happened. The Dragon Rider felt it—a surge of fury, raw and untamed. His bond with Red-Eyes crackled with wild energy, her presence colliding against another force just as formidable. A fight over prey, most likely—such battles were not uncommon among dragons.

At first, Morzan remained unconcerned. Red-Eyes was more than capable of handling such encounters, even against older, more seasoned hunters. But then, a sharp pain lanced through his side, unmistakable and brutal. The realization struck hard—she had been wounded.

Instinctively, Morzan reached for her through their telepathic bond. Yet instead of the familiar connection, he met only silence. She had shut him out. She wanted to be alone.

The hours dragged on, yet Red-Eyes had not returned. Nor had she reached out to her chosen rider.

Restless, adrift without her, Morzan wandered the streets. His gaze lifted often toward the heavens, scanning the trembling stars for any sign of her—only to sink once more to the dark stone slabs beneath his feet.

Seated at the base of the statue, he felt the cold, sculpted talon of Bid’Daum pressing against his side—the same side that had, for one fleeting moment, shared his dragoness’s pain.

A shadow of dread settled over his heart.

Suddenly, he noticed the child standing a short distance away, watching him with quiet curiosity. Silver strands in his hair caught the starlight, shimmering faintly as the small hatchling perched upon his shoulder shifted its weight.

The elven boy’s vivid green eyes met Morzan’s, studying him intently, his gaze unwavering.

Only yesterday, this young one had arrived, his jet-black dragon at his side, traveling directly from Ellesméra to the Riders’ city. Two of his fellow elven Dragon Riders had accompanied him, delivering him into the hands of his new mentors.

"Hey there, little one," Morzan greeted the elf.

It was rare to see such a young elven Rider in Doru Areaba. Even by the standards of the ‘pointy-eares’ folk—who matured more slowly than humans—the boy was undeniably young.

Morzan rose to his feet, studying him as he stepped forward.

"May the stars…" the elf began, his voice carrying the practiced grace of one honoring his elder.

"Alright, alright… I know," Morzan interrupted, forcing a smile to conceal his irritation.

By the gods above and below, how could they spend their years wrapped so tightly in polished etiquette? So young, and yet already robbed of spontaneity? Already standing so reserved?

He flicked a finger toward the small dragon perched upon the boy’s shoulder. "What an adorable little creature you have here!"

The hatchling perched upon the boy’s shoulder, its wings fluttering with unrestrained energy. Obsidian-hued scales glistened in the dim light, each movement reflecting fleeting silver beneath the stars. Its eyes—icy blue, like the frozen glaciers of the north—held Morzan captive as he reached out to stroke the young dragon.

The hatchling purred in contentment, but at that very moment, the elven child abruptly withdrew, stiff with offense. A breach of etiquette—one that could not be overlooked.

Despite the shroud of darkness, traces of aversion lingered in his gaze.

Morzan grew angry. "Ah, let me tell you something…"

The brat! He had been raised within the sheltered embrace of his forest homeland, coddled and cared for by his own kind. Let them cast him out one day—into the markets of Teirm, into the harbor… let them abandon him for a night in a tavern among shiphands and the lowest of scum. Then let him see how much of his pride remained.

But of course, his mother had never been tormented by men. She must have been a saint—treated with nothing but reverence and decorum. And the boy himself, standing before Morzan now, daring to look at him with revulsion—he had surely been raised swaddled in luxury. Did he know what hunger was? Pain? The bite of cold? The terror of the night?

Morzan felt the urge to strike him across the face—to see what expression he would wear then.

As the boy stood alone with his dragon, one of the elves from his escort stepped forward. One hand rested protectively upon the child’s shoulder, while the other curled, tense, around the hilt of his sword.

"Do you seek something from this child, Morzan, Dragon Rider of…?"

The elven Rider’s voice—cold, perhaps even contemptuous—was abruptly silenced by a deafening roar from above.

Red-Eyes plummeted from the sky, landing with a heavy thud beside them. Her long neck arched menacingly toward the elven lord, the warning unmistakable. A guttural snarl rumbled deep in her throat, sharp teeth bared, promising violence.

The elf wasted no time. He pulled the child and his hatchling away, shielding them as he guided them into the shadows—until all three had melted into the night.

Red-Eyes settled, her fury ebbing, and turned to her rider.

"I was beside myself with worry for you!" Morzan lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her. His sleeve darkened, soaked through with blood. A deep, open wound gaped at her side, and the membrane at the tip of one wing hung in tatters. "Claw or tooth?" he asked, his gaze sharp as he inspected the injury. The torn wing—yes, that could be mended. But this wound… they might need more skilled healers.

"Claw," Red-Eyes replied, curt and unwilling to dwell.

"Who attacked you?"

"I don’t want to say!" the dragon snapped, stubbornly.

Morzan caught a glimpse inside her mind—an aerial clash, fierce and unrelenting. His own against another. A blue dragon.

"Saphira… Brom’s Saphira?" he asked, surprised.

"I don’t want to talk about it," Red-Eyes muttered, licking her wound with slow, deliberate strokes.

Morzan gently placed his palm upon her torn wing, murmuring the healing words that would mend it. Then, he repeated the spell over her wounded side. If by morning she had not healed…

"I’ll be fine by morning!" Red-Eyes declared, curling up upon the square’s cold stone slabs. She rested her snout against the foot of her beloved.

"Don’t ever do that again—cutting off our bond," Morzan scolded her, his voice soft but firm. "You know I can’t live without you."

"Nor can I without you, little one!"

.*.*.*.

The very next day, the ship bearing supplies for the Dragon Riders docked at Doru Areaba’s port. Among those who disembarked into the bustling city was Galbatorix.

Wasting no time, he sought out his old masters, requesting permission to stand before the council of elders. When his request was granted, he faced the rulers of the Dragon Riders with unwavering confidence. Galbatorix spoke—his words elaborate, meticulously crafted, each syllable sharpened to serve his purpose.

His words were sweet, laced with reverence for the order and deep respect for his old masters. With measured gratitude, he acknowledged the opportunity they had once bestowed upon him—the wealth of knowledge they had so generously shared.

He reminded them of his past: his mastery of magic, his prowess in combat, his sharp intellect, and his unwavering dedication to their cause. Yet sorrow shadowed his voice as he spoke of the misfortune that had struck him in the icy depths of the Spine—the loss of his other half, the suffering he had endured until he found his way back.

But through it all, he had never ceased to be himself—their capable student. Time had not dulled his gifts, nor had hardship broken his will.

And now, he stood before them with a single request—to be granted a second chance. To be tested with a new dragon egg.

Galbatorix spoke with words both rational and honeyed, his voice weaving a careful argument. Yet the elders remained unmoved.

Something in his tone—too measured, too deliberate. The way he carried himself, the subtle edge in his gaze, the unshakable belief that one who loses half of themselves can never truly return. And perhaps, through intuition alone, they glimpsed something far more troubling—a flicker of madness, buried just beneath the surface.

It was enough. Their refusal came swift, without hesitation.

Then Galbatorix changed his approach. He pleaded, he begged—falling to his knees before them, his voice raw with desperation. He implored them not to cast him aside so easily, to have mercy on his abilities, to recognize the value he could bring to their order.

But when they refused again—this time, fully convinced of his mental instability—something within Galbatorix shattered. His carefully planned composure, the honeyed tone of his voice, all crumbled to dust. Fury consumed him. He erupted—curses spilling from his lips, threats sharpened with rage, his words laced with furious denunciations.

The Dragon Riders remained unmoved. Calm, unwavering, they reminded him that the very same ship that had carried him to Doru Areaba that morning would set sail again at dusk. They politely asked him to leave.

Beneath the storm-laden sky of Doru Areaba, its fury a reflection of his own, Galbatorix sought out Morzan. He had never forgotten the promise the boy had once made—the vow to aid him when the time came.

And now, at last, that time had come.

He found Morzan in the dragonhold, where he never left Red-Eyes alone—not even for a moment.

The wound on her side remained open, stubbornly refusing to heal. Yet just as she had refused to speak of her battle, she rejected any offer of aid from others. Only Morzan’s touch was permitted, his presence the sole comfort she allowed.

With a single motion of his hand and a few carefully spoken words, Galbatorix sealed the wound instantly, filling both dragon and rider with relief.

Morzan was delighted to reunite with his old friend. He clasped his hand warmly, eager to hear about everything that had happened during the years they had been apart.

Using the same honeyed words Galbatorix had spoken to the elders earlier, he conjured a mesmerizing vision for the young rider. Without mentioning the Shade, he promised knowledge of unimaginable power—magic so supreme that no force in existence could stand against it.

The time had come for Morzan to abandon the dragon riders and their inadequate teachings. If he left a side gate of the castle open that very night, Galbatorix could slip inside and test his luck with a new dragon egg. And Morzan had nothing to lose. On the contrary, he stood to gain a powerful patron and all the wisdom Galbatorix would owe him. Didn’t his friend from Teirm dream of becoming the strongest and most fearsome of all—someone before whom elves and humans alike would bow?

Thrilled by the promises, Morzan’s mind soared with possibilities. Without hesitation, he sprang to his feet and pulled his dear friend into a firm embrace.

"And why should you be tested with an egg, pray tell? What if the one destined for you lies elsewhere, beyond the castle walls?" They both knew how unpredictable the bonding process was. "If your power is truly as great as you claim, why wait for an egg? Why not seize one that has already hatched?"

Morzan’s eyes gleamed with malice as his thoughts drifted back to his nighttime encounter with the elf child—the way the boy had turned away in disgust. Surely, by now, the child had forgotten him. But Morzan’s heart swelled with savage satisfaction at the memory. Losing his precious dragon, the elf boy would finally get what he deserved.

Red-Eyes purred, her emotions perfectly aligned with those of her rider. A glint of vengeance flickered in her crimson-slit eye.

"A hatchling arrived at the castle just yesterday," Morzan continued. "Its eyes are as blue as the glacial crystalline snows of the north, and its scales are dark like glossy volcanic stone. You’ll see—you’ll like it."

Galbatorix laughed, pleased by the eagerness of his friend and companion. He rested a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder, locking eyes with him.

"You’ve grown," he said, his gaze full of admiration. "The riders trained you well, but I will make you the strongest man in Alagaësia. My plans for the future are grand, and you will stand proudly at my side. Humans and elves alike will bow humbly before you."

.*.*.*.*.

That same dusk, Galbatorix boarded the departing ship, lingering on deck just long enough to blend in with the merchants and workers. As the sailors loosened the stern lines, he slipped unnoticed onto the docks, vanishing into the shadows.

He concealed himself behind mooring ropes and bollards, nestled among abandoned rigging, and waited patiently as the pier emptied. When silence took hold, he found refuge behind a stack of empty barrels near the warehouses, remaining there until nightfall. The side gate Morzan had planned to leave open for him was close by—and in that season, the days were short.

The dragon riders, steeped in magic and absolute dominion over their world, never considered an attack on their sanctuary a real possibility. Who, after all, would go to such lengths to reach their island with hostile intent, only to face their keen blades and the fury of their dragons?

Their immense power lulled them into complacency—and complacency bred negligence. Secure in their autonomy and shared strength, they maintained only rudimentary defenses within their domain. At night, the dormitory of young dragon riders remained unguarded. Who would ever think to harm their children?

They found the elf child sitting cross-legged on his bed, playing with his tiny hatchling. A wooden bowl rested between his legs, filled with small pieces of raw meat. With long tongs, the child picked up each piece, coaxing the dragon to leap gracefully across the bedding to snatch its meal.

The door opened and closed without a sound. Two dark figures stepped into the moonlight that spilled generously across the room. Two whispered words of black magic shattered the silence. The elf child never had a chance to understand how death had struck him. His neck twisted unnaturally, his gaping mouth filled with blood. He lay sprawled across the bed, limbs splayed wide in a grotesque stillness.

Feeling its rider’s life slip away, the small dragon collapsed onto its crookedly folded wings, its legs twitching spasmodically in the air—silent, unable to cry out or even breathe. It would surely perish if Galbatorix did not act swiftly.

With a simple wave of his hand, he sent the hatchling into a deep, unnatural sleep. Then, he wrapped the pitiful creature in his black cloak and lifted it into his arms. He would keep it alive and dormant until they were alone. After that, he would employ the methods he knew well—the ruthless techniques of bending a will, taught to him by the Shade.

The black dragon would bond with him, whether it wished to or not. It would be his, completely.

Morzan was stunned. He had expected theft—not murder.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, his hands covering his mouth, as horror seeped into his bones. The elf’s bright green eyes remained wide open in shock—vacant now, yet forever questioning—fixed directly on his mismatched ones. His silver hair, already streaked with dark blood, framed his frozen expression, while his open mouth seemed to unleash a silent accusation.

"Why did you do this?" Morzan whispered, unable to tear his gaze away from the child’s lifeless body. "We could have taken the dragon..."

Standing behind him, Galbatorix gripped his shoulder, his fingers tightening in quiet insistence.

"He would have alerted his kin in an instant," he said, his voice steady—unwavering. "His death was necessary. Don’t you see?"

Two agonizing moments passed, stretched thin as even their breaths faltered into stillness.

The red dragoness howled within Morzan’s mind, entwined in his turmoil, demanding his presence. In that fleeting span, he was small again—powerless—a frightened child caught in the merciless grip of the boatswain.

It was Galbatorix who shattered the silence, a silence far more suffocating than a scream of pure agony ever could.

"Morzan, come with me! Let’s fly far away with your dragon. If you stay here, you will face the wrath of the elders and all the dragon riders. After all these years in Doru Areaba, haven’t you realized that the elves are the true rulers? Can’t you see how they hoard all the power for themselves?"

The man leaned in, his breath warm against the kneeling youth’s ear, his voice a whispered lure.

"An invaluable scion of the elves is gone. And so what? How many human children starve in the world of men? How many perish from disease, deprivation, and cruelty? Where are the Riders then?"

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like a shadow.

"Come, my comrade, my brother. Let us leave! Together, we will find others to join our cause, and a new dawn will rise over this land of Alagaësia. I swear it!"

Morzan woke from the nightmare conjured by the elf’s lifeless eyes and, like an automaton, followed his mentor in silence.

Once, a young child had arrived in Vroengard, trailing Oromis. Now, a young child was leaving once more—stepping toward a world that, come morning, would never be the same again.

*************************

A/N: I wanted Galbatorix to learn the greatest secret of the dragon riders—the hearts of dragons—from the Shade. I also wanted to highlight just how powerful the energy of the Eldunarí truly is; after all, a single one had sustained the Shade for centuries.

I imagined Morzan’s jealousy toward Brom extending even to their dragons, a rivalry so deep that it would ultimately cost Saphira her life.

I debated whether Galbatorix should carry his elven sword when facing the elders in Doru Areaba. My initial thought was for its blade to pierce the young dragon rider’s throat, but I eventually reconsidered. As I envisioned the scene where he stood before the elders, appearing unarmed seemed the more strategic choice—making him appear friendlier, more persuasive.

For some reason, limiting the killing to a mere incantation from Galbatorix made the scene feel less gruesome. I was tempted to omit it entirely, merely implying it off-screen, but I ultimately wanted to show its effect on Morzan’s psyche.

Chapter Text

Since the night the two fugitives escaped Vroengard on the back of the crimson dragon, they had remained hidden in the most remote corners of the world—places so obscure that the dragon riders would never think to search for them. Avoiding every possible point of capture, they sought refuge in desolate mountain peaks, ancient crumbling castles, wild forests far from elven settlements, and even in the heart of the desert itself.

They survived by hunting whenever possible, scavenging roots and tree bark when food was scarce. In the glacial heights, they drank melted snow, and in the barren desert, deprived of crystal-clear spring water, they quenched their thirst with magic—summoning pools of mud from deep within the sands. It was magic that sustained them. Magic, and their relentless hunger for vengeance and power.

At night, beside the flickering campfire, Galbatorix imparted to Morzan all the Shade’s magic he deemed useful for his apprentice—though he kept the greater part of his secrets to himself.

The naive young man, enthralled by the unimaginable powers now at his command, no longer dwelled on the grand promise Galbatorix had once made of a new, better world. Drunk on his extraordinary abilities, he no longer pondered compassion, mercy, or justice. The world would continue as it always had.

To him, power was an end in itself—vengeance, his only goal.

The overwhelming strength that had made him more formidable than any dragon rider he had ever known had corrupted him so completely that he, along with the dragon at his side, ultimately forgot the original, true purpose of magic: the sacred bond that once united a rider’s soul with his other half—his dragon.

Time and time again, he was forced to justify his actions to the deepest part of himself—a fragment that, strangely, had survived despite the darkness consuming him.

That first murder—the innocent blood of the child-elf rider, spilled as a sacrifice to Galbatorix’s insatiable thirst for power—was rationalized as a necessity of purpose. Galbatorix needed a dragon.

The trials of his strength in the Shade’s dark magic, which claimed the lives of countless unsuspecting villagers and forest dwellers who happened to cross their path, were baptized as collateral sacrifices.

No one who crossed their path in those days lived long enough to tell the tale.

Such was the power Morzan felt each time he raised his sword—only to bring it down again, spilling blood, snuffing out lives without a second thought—that any lingering hesitation soon disappeared. Death became, to him, an indifferent, everyday occurrence. The words of dark magic, spoken effortlessly and wielded without restraint, inflicted pain so seamlessly that they filled him with a savage, frenzied satisfaction.

Galbatorix devoted much of his time and power to molding Morzan into a war machine—a weapon forged to strike at his enemies. Yet his greatest efforts were reserved for the little black dragon he had stolen, its rider slain in the process.

At first, he kept the hatchling sedated for most of the day, waking it only long enough to feed. Even then, under the haze of enchantment, the dragon consumed its meals mechanically, chewing like an automaton.

Using the gemstone he had stolen from the Shade—the dragon’s heart, swiftly reclaimed from his mother, the princess—Galbatorix channeled energy into the hatchling, forcing it to grow at an unnatural pace. His goal was to accelerate its development far beyond its natural rate, ensuring the dragon would soon be strong enough to fly and bear him upon its back.

During the dragon’s slumber, Galbatorix steadily infiltrated its mind, twisting its very essence until it was barely recognizable. He sought to erase every trace of the elf it had once chosen as its rider and bind it, instead, to its murderer. Yet despite all the spells he wove, the endeavor proved more arduous than anticipated. He might never have succeeded—had Morzan not stood by his side.

One night, as Galbatorix watched his apprentice wield dark magic—bringing death to the creatures around him—he saw him for what he truly was. And in that moment, a new phrase took shape within his mind.

Morzan’s delight in wielding control over life and death was boundless. His deep-seated dread of ever becoming the victim—absolute. His relentless defiance of all rules—unwavering.

The words did not merely describe him; they defined him, with chilling precision

With a wicked laugh, Galbatorix spoke the words aloud, watching as Morzan recoiled, his body shuddering with an instinctive dread.

In that instant, the young man’s very essence lay bare before his teacher and mentor. Galbatorix had uncovered Morzan’s true name—locking it away in the depths of his mind, waiting for the perfect moment to wield its power.

From that moment on, that single, unexpected phrase would shift the balance—turning master into ruler, and student into slave.

Galbatorix kept his discovery a closely guarded secret from Morzan. Yet soon, an idea took root—an experiment to wield the same power over the black hatchling. Though its body had grown, its mind remained young, inexperienced, vulnerable.

His efforts were relentless, his spells woven with painstaking precision. But time was on his side, and Galbatorix was in no hurry.

They found countless places to hide, vanishing into the world’s forgotten corners. Whenever they needed to move through the skies, Red-Eyes carried the two men upon her back. Behind them, Galbatorix dragged the stolen, slumbering hatchling, concealed within an invisible, enchanted pocket of space.

Through relentless effort, he finally broke the dragon’s will. Now, bound by its true name, the stolen hatchling was his to command. With this magic, Galbatorix fused his essence with another creature, crowning himself a dragon rider once more.

If Jarnunvösk’s heart still existed somewhere, it would weep for the disgrace of her chosen one. Power—yes, Galbatorix possessed it. Strength of body, immeasurable magic—enough to rival all the beings in the world combined. But he lacked the very essence of what it meant to be a true dragon rider—love, compassion, devotion, honor.

Once the black dragon had grown strong enough to bear Galbatorix upon his back, their days of hiding were over. It was time for the four of them to return to their world—and seek the allies who would help shape its future.

They approached certain dragon riders cautiously—those long suspected of harboring discontent with the order. Some proved receptive to Galbatorix’s honeyed, skillful words, listening eagerly, their minds already primed for sedition.

Those who refused to submit to promises of power and dominion were swiftly erased—along with their dragons. No trace of their existence remained—save for the gemstones Galbatorix tore from the fallen dragons’ corpses, binding them to his dominion. Their essence, once free, now lay forever enslaved to his will.

When the dark allies finally numbered thirteen, they convened in secret beneath the shroud of night and reached their decision. The time had come to unveil their plans for absolute domination.

For a thousand years, the dragon riders of Vroengard had lived in peace. Secure in their supremacy, they never conceived that anyone would dare challenge their existence. And so, the thirteen struck—cutting down every dragon rider they encountered, leaving devastation in their wake as they carved a bloody path through elven and human cities alike.

Wherever they came upon their enemies, scattered and vulnerable, the thirteen struck without mercy, overwhelming them with forbidden magic—no matter how skilled their adversaries might have been. However, as long as Doru Areaba stood, the dream of absolute domination remained out of reach. But Galbatorix had made his decision. The time to strike Vroengard had come. He already possessed countless dragon hearts, subdued and bound to his will. The energy they supplied for his magic was more than sufficient.

His enemies’ time had run out.

.*.

The dark news reached Brom and Saphira as they remained in Ilirea with their mentors. The reports were chilling, spreading like wildfire among humans and elves alike. Whispers turned to fearful murmurs, then to hushed horror, as stories surfaced—ambushes without warning, sudden, merciless attacks that erased riders and their dragons from existence. Blood ran like rivers. Entire lives snuffed out before anyone could react

There were even accounts of dishonorable massacres—innocents cut down where they stood, their screams smothered before they could beg for mercy. But worst of all was the magic—an abomination wielded by the enemy, twisted and incomprehensible, unlike anything the world had ever conceived.

Galbatorix and his thirteen followers were not merely undefeated. They were unstoppable.

Oromis and Glaedr ordered the young riders, along with their emerging dragons, to retreat to Ellesméra—to vanish into the shadowed, enchanted forests of the elves and wait for the war’s outcome. The elders had mastered the art of battle. Their numbers, alongside seasoned warriors and dragons, were enough to stand against the thirteen—those now known as the Forsworn. There was no reason to risk the lives of their children.

Brom and Saphira obeyed. With respect and affection, they bid their mentors farewell, gathered their belongings, and ascended into the skies. Below them, Ilirea stretched in breathtaking beauty, its walls gleaming under the sun.

Yet, as dragon and rider climbed higher, a quiet unease settled in their hearts. Would they see it again anytime soon?

"Farewell, Brom and Saphira! May the wind and sun always be at your backs!"

The elf’s voice rang clear in their minds, bright with unshaken resolve. Beyond the clouds, they glimpsed him and his group soaring through the skies, their dragons cutting swift paths northwest—toward Vroengard. Among them were the friends with whom they had trained, fought, and lived side by side for so long.

"Are we just going to leave them to fight the Forsworn alone?" Saphira’s voice carried the longing that lay buried in both their hearts.

"Our mentors told us to retreat to Ellesméra..."

"Have you never disobeyed your teachers before, young one?"

Brom bit his lip, guilt coiling tight in his chest. As a child, he had eagerly followed Morzan in every prank, every reckless scheme the boy from Teirm devised. But with time, those impulsive escapades faded—until they vanished entirely.

Now, the memory of his old friend struck like a serpent’s bite, coiling around his heart.

…Morzan…

He was gone—vanished along with his dragon on the night of the unthinkable massacre at Doru Areaba. Not long before, he had been seen at Galbatorix’s side. Rumors swirled, whispering that Morzan had become his companion, his right hand.

Brom could not bring himself to accept it.

Morzan had always admired Galbatorix—idolized him, even. But admiration alone would never have led to this. No—such a thing was simply impossible. He had been led astray, consumed by his untamed nature. Perhaps he had even been deceived. Maybe he had helped steal the dragon out of love or sorrow for his older friend.

But murder? No. That was beyond comprehension. The thought refused to settle in Brom’s mind.

"Morzan has made his choice! He is one of the Forsworn now."

Saphira’s unwavering voice echoed through her rider’s mind.

Even if that were true… No! Morzan had been deceived. Brom—as his friend—was duty-bound to bring him back to the path of truth.

His gaze lifted toward the elves soaring northwest alongside their dragons. The thought of losing every friend he had ever loved—of being left utterly alone—was unbearable.

"I want us to fly to Vroengard," he said to Saphira, his voice thick with resolve. "I want to stand in defense of the city and the keep. Our friends will all be there. How can we stay behind?"

The bitterness in his words, laced with longing, resonated in the heart of the blue dragon. She rose sharply above the clouds, seeking a current of wind to carry her forward, sparing her wings from unnecessary strain.

"To Vroengard, then," she declared, her voice resolute as she followed the elven company. "Until now, we have lived for love—our own and that of others. Despite the orders given to us, we will stand beside our friends and fight our enemies, even if it costs us our lives."

With a thunderous roar and a burst of blue flame, Saphira surged forward, pride swelling within her rider as they raced toward destiny.

.*.*.

By the time Brom and Saphira reached the island of the riders, war had already engulfed the skies. Smoke and flames billowed from the dragons’ fiery breaths, choking the heavens the city. Below, buildings burned unchecked, their structures collapsing into embers as roars split the air.

All around them, the great predators clashed—fangs, talons, and searing flames colliding in brutal combat. The riders fought from their saddles, weaving spells or locking blades in vicious duels. Steel met steel, and the clash of swords rang out, echoing through the wild forests of Vroengard.

Weaving through the flames, risking their lives with every beat of Saphira’s wings, Brom and his dragon descended, stabilizing mere meters above the ground. From there, devastation reigned.

The lifeless bodies of dragon riders—elves and humans alike—lay scattered alongside their fallen dragons, draped over balconies, sprawled across streets and plazas. Blood pooled in every crevice, staining the ruined city red. Warriors clashed in a frenzy, their desperate struggle for dominance echoing across the battlefield.

Amidst the carnage, the castle still stood. Before its gates, armed warriors battled in a chaotic throng. And among them, astride his crimson dragon, was Morzan.

Brom drew his sword, pointing toward the battle. Saphira understood. She climbed effortlessly, rising above the chaos before plunging downward—fast, fierce, unstoppable. With a thunderous impact, she landed before the gates of Doru Areaba, where the war against the Forsworn raged.

"Morzan!"

Brom’s anguished cry tore through the battlefield, louder than the clash of steel, louder even than the savage roars of the dragons.

The elven Forsworn, Kialandí, astride his crimson dragon, turned sharply—his gaze brimming with arrogance as he faced the young rider. With a single word and a flick of his hand, he prepared to unleash Brom’s destruction.

"Stop!"

With a sudden thud, Morzan and his Red-Eyes cut off the elf’s advance, forcing themselves between the combatants. "He’s mine!"

Kialandí’s lips curled in disdain, but he deigned to step aside. With a mocking gesture, he invited Morzan forward.

"He’s all yours… human." And with that, he turned his attention to another foe.

Red-Eyes planted herself before Saphira, growling her displeasure, baring fangs as her bloodstained talons tore deep into the earth. Morzan sat unmoved atop his saddle, arms crossed, his provocative smile unwavering as he watched Brom.

Saphira returned the snarl, flashing her own teeth, coiled and ready to strike. Brom pressed his hand—marked by the gedwëy ignasia, the bond that had once united them—against her scaled back, steadying her. Then, he turned to the one he had always called a friend.

"Morzan, you cannot be here with them… You cannot follow the traitors. Is this what Oromis and Glaedr taught us? Where is your honor?"

Brom’s voice rang strong and certain, but beneath it, a plea still lingered.

Morzan’s eyes flashed with fury. So this was how Brom spoke—the whelp. And he dared to threaten him with his sword? To threaten him? Morzan?

He swallowed the insult with difficulty, his rage simmering as he scanned the wards his former friend had woven—pathetic attempts to shield himself and Saphira. The sight nearly amused him. So fragile they were.

A single word, and Brom’s throat would snap in an instant—long before he or his dragon could even comprehend what had happened.

For the sake of their old friendship, Morzan sought to avoid a confrontation. Brom was far too weak—hardly worth the effort. At least, that was how he justified it to himself.

"Step aside, Brom and Saphira—we do not want your deaths. Do you hear me? Move! Or you become our enemies."

"But we are friends!" Brom protested, the words slipping from him like a plea. "We grew up together, we trained together..."

"Then stand with us as friends!" Morzan shot back, his anger flaring. "Your drawn sword against us makes it clear—you are our enemy."

"Morzan, you cannot have forgotten the path we once walked—when we learned together of honor, virtue, and justice. Look deep into your heart and return to your companions, for they are where you truly belong. The dragon riders will grant you forgiveness, knowing that all of this is Galbatorix's doing."

Morzan let out a harsh laugh, his voice steeped in contempt as he drew his sword. The blade gleamed in his grasp, the crimson tear—the ruby bound in silver wire at the hilt—foretelling nothing good.

"Honor… justice… bah. Only power matters. Do you see this blade?" He tilted Zar’roc slightly, letting the steel catch the firelight. "This is the punishment of my enemies—the only answer to the insults I have endured. Zar’roc is the misery of the riders, who unjustly divided the spoils, hoarding the largest and finest for their elven overlords. But the world is about to change."

His voice hardened, dark with certainty. "The elves will bow to my rule, crawl at my feet. So will all those who stand against me. Mercy?" His lip curled. "They will find none.''

Brom shook his head in despair, the truth settling cold in his chest—Morzan’s soul was beyond saving.

"I believed in you… But my faith in justice and truth runs deeper."

He slid from Saphira’s saddle, his boots meeting the blood-stained ground. With practiced ease, he assumed the stance he had always taken against Morzan in the training yard. But this was no training match.

Across from him, Morzan dismounted as well, a laugh dripping with mockery escaping his lips. How naïve his friend had become. Red-Eyes wasted no time. She lunged at the blue dragon with unrelenting ferocity, fangs bared, talons poised—aiming straight for her throat.

…Alas, at the gates of Doru Areaba, friends became foes, crossing blades in battle. Brom was skilled with a sword, but Morzan’s dark magic made him stronger. And so, Brom was about to experience what he feared most—what he had witnessed as a child, when Galbatorix suffered the same fate. The sight that had once terrified him beyond words…

Morzan’s blade struck fast, slicing through Brom’s side. Blood poured forth.

Above, locked in battle with Red-Eyes, Saphira screamed. Without hesitation—without regard for her own safety—she plunged toward the ground, desperate to reach her rider.

Red-Eyes did not waste the opportunity. She had never forgotten the wound Saphira had once dealt her in the hunt. Now, vengeance burned within her.

The instant the blue dragon rushed to save Brom, Red-Eyes found the opening she had been waiting for. Her fangs sank deep into Saphira’s throat.

Saphira let out a piercing cry, and Brom felt the world collapse around him.

The dragons crashed to the ground—Red-Eyes on top, her venomous teeth clamped tight around Saphira’s neck, her talons buried deep within her belly.

"Nooooo…"

Brom’s gaze met his chosen one’s for an instant.

Every last shred of magic within him poured forth, desperate to shield her—to hold onto her—even as her voice faded from his mind.

"…Young one… live…"

And her beautiful sapphire eyes closed forever.

"…Noooo!... This can’t be… It just can’t be… Saphira… my Saphira…"

Brom collapsed at Morzan’s feet.

…A ship for him alone… a sapphire vessel with silver sails, carrying him across the endless blue… toward the place where the sun fades…

…Live!...

…Where light vanishes… and life itself…

"Finish him!"

Red-Eyes’ commanding voice tore through Morzan’s mind, sharp and unyielding. Yet he remained frozen. Motionless—turned to stone.

"Finish him! What are you waiting for?"

Morzan raised Zar’roc, ready to bring it down upon Brom’s wounded body, which lay still at his feet.

Blood streamed from the fallen dragon rider’s side—where the blade had struck him earlier—staining his opponent’s boots.

...You don’t have shoes, do you?...

Morzan’s hands froze around his raised sword. The memory struck him with sudden force.

...Here, take these… Your feet are injured…

Morzan turned sharply, grabbing one of Red-Eyes’ horns and vaulting onto the saddle with force.

"We’re leaving!" His voice sliced through the chaos, sharp and unyielding. His gaze swept the battlefield, scanning for another living opponent

.*.*.*.

As the battle’s outcome was decided, the elven dragon rider—who had bid farewell to Brom and Saphira upon leaving Ilirea—flew low over the gates of Doru Areaba.

A deep wound split his abdomen where the breastplate met the metal plating protecting his legs. His dragon, too, bore grievous wounds across his body.

The rider had spent the last of his magic easing his dragon’s suffering. If they could make it to Ellesméra alive, their kin would tend to their wounds.

Sensing that life still lingered within Brom, the elf retrieved his fallen body and carried him toward Ellesméra.

The dragon was a true hero. Despite his grievous wounds, he flew the great distance, driven by a singular purpose—to save his chosen rider.

Yet, as they neared the elven city, the elf’s soul slipped free from his body. And with him, the dragon’s life faded into the void.

The people of Ellesméra took Brom in, sheltering him within the deep shadows of their forests. There, they hid him from the traitors. There, they mended his wounds.

Among the towering ancient trees and the rare flowers of Ellesméra, they soothed the madness that had seized him—the madness born of loss, of grief, of his severed half.

They sang him the turning of time, gently drawing out the poison that dripped from his broken heart.

Until the cold winters passed.

Until sorrowful autumns faded.

Until his life found new purpose.

.*.*.*.*.

After Galbatorix and his followers triumphed at Doru Areaba and Vrael himself fell, the next to face their wrath was King Angrenost. The rightful ruler of Broddring was dethroned—only to be murdered moments later by the usurper. Galbatorix seized the throne, consolidating power province by province, forging his dominion under a single name: the Empire.

A shame that his mother, the princess, had not lived to witness her son’s conquest. The years it took to forge his reign had passed too swiftly for a mortal’s lifespan. But the oath he had once sworn to her—he kept it. His dominion would stretch for a thousand years, and beyond. For as a dragon rider, Galbatorix knew no fear of time, no dread of age, no burden like those that plagued mortal rulers.

Under the crushing power of Galbatorix and his followers, every army and noble of the kingdom eventually yielded. Those whose honor refused to kneel and swear loyalty were swiftly executed—along with their families.

The elves, shaken by the bloodshed and the deaths of their kin—a tragedy unfathomable to beings untouched by time—retreated in disgrace, vanishing into the shadows of their forests. There, they wove layers of enchantments, fortifying their lands against the coming age.

The few humans who rejected the new rule—those who barely escaped with their lives—fled south, disappearing into the wilds, waiting for better days to come.

Galbatorix distributed castles, lands and power among the Forsworn, ensuring the lion’s share remained his. He surrounded himself with layers of enchantments, sealing himself within the fortress of the old elven city—now renamed Urû'baen.

He summoned all the sorcerers of the land, commanding them to present themselves before him and swear loyalty. Most yielded. Those who refused were erased by the Forsworn.

Yet Galbatorix paid little mind to his sworn followers—so long as they left him in peace. The usurpers dwelled in their castles, wrapped in magic and power, simmering with resentment, consumed by suspicion.

It would not be long before they turned on one another. And that pleased their king far more than it troubled him.

As long as Morzan stood at his side, it was enough. The young man’s loyalty—or rather, his submission—was beyond doubt. Galbatorix knew his true name.

And with that knowledge, he owned him.

For most of his days, Morzan remained in Urû'baen, ever at Galbatorix’s side. The king’s needs kept him close—there were still enemies to eliminate.

The scattered remnants of the few dragon riders who had survived the great slaughter posed no true threat. Yet Galbatorix sent Morzan—his most readily available hand—to track them down and deal with them swiftly.

There were still provinces—like his own city, Teirm—that had yet to yield. But in time, they would. Galbatorix had a plan. And he followed it to the letter.

On the days Morzan was free from duty, he sought refuge in his own castle.

A ruined outpost, worn by time, stood at the base of the Spine, just north of Lake Leona—a place he and Galbatorix had once discovered during their great flight, a sanctuary hidden from the world. To the king, the fortress held little value. But to Morzan, it had become something else. A refuge.

He had grown to love the solitude of the forests, the endless waters stretching toward the distant horizon, the unwavering security of the land itself.

A narrow gorge beneath the mountain encircled the stronghold, leaving it exposed only on the lakeside. Morzan would fortify it, expand its wings, seal it with enchantments. Here, he would reign. A lord in his own right.

Galbatorix agreed. The fortress lay close enough to Urû'baen that, with a single command, Morzan and his dragon would stand in his courtyard before the day was done.

Meanwhile, the dragons who had survived the treacherous slaughter at Doru Areaba—along with those still scattered across Alagaësia—gathered their minds, forging a decision through their collective will. They had been attacked by their own kind—an unthinkable betrayal.

As the native rulers of Alagaësia, dragons had roamed the land for millennia. No creature—save the elves—had ever dared to turn against them, let alone their own kin. But those traitors could no longer be counted among the noble race of dragons. They were undeserving of such an honor. So, as one, the dragons merged their consciousness.

Through the force of their innate magic, they tore the Forsworn’s dragons from their essence—reducing them to nothing more than mindless beasts. Even their names were erased.

The only one spared from this fate was Galbatorix’s black dragon—Shruikan. The dragons recognized the peculiarity of his existence. Shruikan would never have willingly taken part in such treachery—had he not been bound by Galbatorix’s dark spells.

Madness consumed the twelve the moment their dreadful names were lost. And that same madness—patient, insidious—would, in time, seep into the riders who had once been bound to them.

Once his initial shock and fury had passed, Galbatorix, consumed by wrath, decreed that every last dragon—wild or bonded—must be eradicated. Would he allow these untamed creatures to challenge his rule?

He unleashed the Forsworn, commanding them to hunt down and destroy the dragon race. To scorch and shatter all who defied him—for his enemies were now the kin of Jarnunvösk, the one he had once loved. To slaughter their hatchlings. To crush their eggs. To uncover their hidden nests. To lay waste to everything.

Once more, rivers of blood spilled beneath the skies of Alagaësia.

Morzan, alongside Red-Eyes, led the slaughter. With unrelenting fury, Red-Eyes lashed out, desperate to reclaim the terrible name she had once bestowed upon herself. But the name would not return. And with the same madness, her rider struck—consumed by the chaos overtaking his dragon’s mind.

Flesh was torn. Bones fractured and shattered. Flames were smothered, and centuries of wisdom vanished. Eggs were crushed. Hatchlings wiped from existence before their wings had even unfurled. Nests obliterated beneath the dark magic wielded by the Forsworn.

Yet alongside the dragons, there were… other losses—losses deemed merely collateral.

Towns and villages where courageous souls—risking their own lives—vainly sought to shelter dragon riders, hoping to shield them from the usurpers’ wrath. Their defiance was met with merciless vengeance. None survived.

Morzan watched as the Forsworn of elven blood butchered their own kind with unchecked brutality—and he did not react. What once would have filled him with righteous fury, what once had driven him to risk his honor for Galbatorix, now left him indifferent—without the slightest response.

Had the sight of blood truly grown so familiar? Or was it the madness of his dragon, desperate for her lost name, that dragged him deeper into slaughter and savagery? Morzan had no time to ponder such things, nor to seek answers. For him, there were no dilemmas. He had been wronged. And anyone who had harmed Red-Eyes—his other half—was his enemy.

And enemies must die.

Yet, as he watched a mother perish trying to save her child, a buried thought stirred—somewhere, his own mother had to be alive.

He had heard nothing of her since leaving her arms as a boy. Perhaps the time had come to seek her out. Teirm had yet to swear fealty to Galbatorix. If he abandoned the hunt for the dragons and instead returned to where fate called him, he would still be serving his king well.

Once, Morzan had left Teirm with a promise to return. Surely, there were debts left unsettled there still.

.*.*.*.*.*.

As Morzan flew toward Teirm, rage swelled within him—stoked by Red-Eyes, who fed his mind with fury.

He relived the humiliation in the harbor taverns, where he had begged for scraps. He felt, once more, the blows of the merchants in the marketplace. He heard, echoing through his memory, the insults hurled at him and his mother.

And the boatswain… He had never forgotten him. Not a single day had passed without recalling the cruelty and savagery of that man. The missing finger on his hand remained a constant reminder—of old pain… and terror.

What had he sworn to his mother before he left? That he would return one day. That all would tremble before her son. And now, that oath would be fulfilled. He owed it to her. He owed it to himself.

Approaching Teirm from the sea, Morzan arrived as the sun sank toward the west, its brilliance stretching behind him. News of raids, murders, and pillaging had reached the city, prompting its lords to fortify the walls with a strong defense.

With feral wrath, Red-Eyes unleashed her scorching breath, sending the guards scattering in frantic terror.

Morzan, intoxicated by death, could not escape the images of fallen dragons—their torn bodies tangled in a mass of slaughtered riders and humans. The visions refused to leave him.

He arrived thirsting for violence, for vengeance. This city had birthed him, only to cast him aside as an outcast, tormenting him at the margins of its world. He hurled himself at the guards on the walls, his sword bare in his hand, cutting down those who had survived the dragon’s flames. Next came the harbor—the docks and warehouses—where the enraged beast unleashed her fury, incinerating everything in the madness of her wrath.

Above the marketplace, still teeming with people, Red-Eyes descended, roaring out her fury—her emotions tangled with her rider’s. A rider who cackled like a madman as he watched them scatter like ants, scrambling in their desperation to escape.

Rider and dragon hungered for blood, their thirst for carnage consuming them like primal instinct. To them, this was no battle—it was a hunt. Prey—the men and women clutching their children as they fled, their terror staining the streets below. Prey that Red-Eyes burned to shred, to ravage, to incinerate with a single breath of fire—while Morzan’s blade carved through the fleeing masses with merciless precision.

The city was abandoned in moments—its docks smoldering, its marketplace reduced to ruin, its streets emptied of life. And above it all, flying low, he brandished his blood-soaked sword, his cries reverberating through the lifeless expanse.

"Come forth, lords of Teirm! You wealthy merchants and haughty traders! Step forward, sailors, servants—all who once spat upon my name! The bastard who once danced for your amusement has returned. So come—let us revel as we did before! Let us see who laughs now!"

He slipped from the saddle, leaving the dragoness to unleash her fury—wherever, however she pleased.

He, in turn, became the hunter, cutting down prey until his thirst was sated. Festering rage steered his steps toward the cellar of the old tavern, his mind clouded—his sole purpose, to finish off whoever lurked within. Wrath and hatred still boiled in his veins. How had he not yet had his fill of death?

Deep within his heart and mind, he could hear—could feel—the dragoness howling with the same unbridled rage. She circled wildly above the charred ruins of the harbor docks, her hooked talons tearing through the wreckage, demolishing what little remained of the wooden shelters and warehouses still brimming with goods.

The sun sank into the sea, its crimson glow staining the waters—blood and fire merging as one. By morning, Teirm’s harbor, its market, the heart of the city—would never be the same again.

At the edges of his mind, Morzan sensed the panic of the townsfolk—those who had already scattered from the once-bustling streets. Yet in his soul, he felt nothing but delirious exhilaration.

Whether hidden in stone cellars or dark hovels, whether wealthy or destitute, lord or laborer—they had all tasted the same terror as Red-Eyes raged above, her fiery breath raining destruction upon the innocent and the guilty alike.

And Morzan himself laughed like a madman, brandishing his blood-soaked sword.

The tavern stood deserted. In their frantic rush to flee, the patrons had scattered wine and scraps across the floor, overturned chairs and tables in their wake.

Morzan listened in the dim light, straining his senses—yet no presence revealed itself. His throat burned from his wild cries—and from the smoke curling up from the flames. He seized a full pitcher of wine from the abandoned counter and drained it in a single breath.

As the potent liquid rushed down his throat, quenching his relentless thirst, he felt the heat of his blood surging through his veins—the revival of his body, the clearing of his mind. He refilled his cup from the barrel and drank… drank… Drank until his rage softened into a smoldering satisfaction.

And then, he turned to leave.

As he stepped outside, he sent a vicious kick into the boat, splitting it cleanly in two. With the heel of his boot, he hammered the rotting wood until it crumbled into shattered debris. His fury had finally settled—mirroring the dragon’s waning rage.

She had long since perched atop the cathedral’s roof, gnawing idly on the charred bones of some half-burned beast.

And then, Morzan remembered the true reason for his journey to Teirm.

His mother.

“Revenge matters too,” Red-Eyes remarked between bites. "The people of Teirm got exactly what they deserved.”

“It does,” Morzan agreed, “but my mother matters more.”

With swift strides, he crossed the desolate alleyways, reaching the harbor. The charred wreckage still smoldered—some parts still aflame. No one had dared emerge from their hiding places to extinguish the scattered fires.

“Could Mother still be alive?”

In Vroengard, the elders forbade young dragon riders from visiting their families during their early years. Only when they came of age—finally granted permission to travel—did the elves find their relatives unchanged, preserved by time. But for humans, it was often too late. By then, their parents—perhaps even their siblings—had already succumbed to the passage of years.

His heart clenched. Never before had he considered the possibility that his mother might no longer be alive. But now, the thought clawed at him. Soon, he would have to face the truth.

Morzan made his way to the far edge of the harbor walls, to the place where—long ago—a desperate servant and her child had sought refuge in a wooden shack. In larger cities, similar dwellings often served as workhouses for prostitutes, spaces where they received clients. But back then, he had been just a child. He hadn’t known such things.

A group of elven archers still clung to the ramparts, keeping watch from their perch atop the walls. The moment they spotted him approaching, they unleashed a rain of arrows.

Two words—accompanied by the slightest flick of his palm—were all it took. In an instant, every defender collapsed, lifeless.

Red-Eyes abandoned the carcass, her wings spreading wide as she glided over the edge of the harbor and city walls.

"You relish the chaos alone," she grumbled.

Morzan spat, cursing. "I'm wasting no more time on them. I need to find my mother."

His nerves had finally settled, his fury ebbing as the northern wind carried smoke and embers to the far side of the harbor—no longer choking his senses.

He strode forward in long, urgent steps, kicking pebbles as he once had, until the dark silhouette of the shack came into view, pressed against the base of the gray stone.

The shack still stood, its lone window battered, a portion of its roof rotted through.

He halted at a distance, his pulse hammering in his chest—ready to shatter.

“Mother!”

No light burned within. The water bucket once kept by the door was gone. Yet, in the dim glow of dusk, the same ragged mat lay at the threshold—woven from scraps—just as it had been before. The door hung unlatched, sagging on its hinges.

Morzan listened. Beyond the door, a faint heartbeat echoed—a fragile rhythm, steady yet frail. His chest tightened. Slowly, he stepped forward, his hand hovering near the worn wood.

Then, without hesitation, he pushed his way inside.

The bed and stool had vanished, leaving only a pot abandoned in the corner—blackened, empty, forgotten.

On the table, a dry cup sat untouched, coated in grime and dust. Beside it, a bowl held the remnants of moldy bread, its surface speckled with decay.

Against one of the wooden walls, barely visible in the dim light, lay a bundle of discarded clothes.

"Mother?" His voice barely rose above a whisper.

Then—light. Brilliant crimson flared, cutting through the shadows.

The bundle stirred, shifting.

"Mother!"

Morzan surged forward, tossing aside the tangled fabric. And there—among the rags—he found her. Wrapped in scraps, barely moving.

She no longer resembled the young woman he had left behind all those years ago. Her hair, once vibrant, had turned white, thinning into unkempt strands that clung to her withered cheeks and slumped shoulders. Her body was gaunt, hunched—reduced to little more than skin and bone. The pearl-like teeth she once had were long gone, leaving her mouth gaping, toothless, her gums nearly blackened.

She stared at him with clouded eyes, lost to time—unable to recognize anything or anyone. And she reeked.

It was her. There could be no doubt. His mother.

“Mother, it's me—your son.”

The dragon rider held her close, whispering words of care and love, smoothing her unkempt hair with gentle strokes.

In the opposite corner of the hut, an overturned bucket lay abandoned, its wooden handle snapped. He fetched fresh water, warming it over a fire in the stone hollow, then carefully washed her. He dressed her in clean clothes pulled from deep within his pack, combed her damp hair, and tied it back at her nape.

Next, he cleaned the pot, prepared a simple broth with his supplies, and fed her its warm liquid—slowly, spoon by spoon—never letting her slip from his embrace.

And all the while, he spoke softly, tenderly, weaving memories of their old life into the quiet of the room.

The old woman gazed into his eyes, bewildered by this unexpected visitor who tended to her with such tenderness. Something about his face seemed familiar… something about his mismatched eyes… yet the effort of thinking weighed on her, drained her. So she let herself relax under his care, surrendering to the quiet comfort of this unforeseen fortune.

Morzan wrapped her in his woolen cloak and lifted her into his arms, stepping onto the shoreline. He bore her all the way to Red-Eyes’ saddle.

"She’s coming with us," he told the dragoness. "At our castle, she will live out her final days in peace."

He fastened his legs securely with the saddle straps and cradled his frail mother in his arms, ensuring she was warm for the journey. Before Red-Eyes soared beyond the walls, embarking on the long road home, she gave a single, sudden, fierce beat of her wings. Then, with one breath of searing fire, she set ablaze the shack of shame where her chosen rider had first drawn breath.

"We have taken our revenge on Teirm!" she thundered within his mind, triumphant and cruel. "Now, nothing remains to remind us of that miserable past." Skimming just above the fortress walls, the dragoness unleashed fire upon the lifeless elven bodies, reveling in the sight of the dead consumed by flames. "We leave, satisfied!"

They rose above the half-ruined city, soaring nearly into the clouds. Below them, the Toark River gleamed, winding its silver waters as it flowed toward the mountain ridge and Lake Woadark—before curving downward along the Spine’s foothills, stretching toward Leona Lake. Once they crossed the ridge and Woadark’s waters, their journey would be nearly at its end. Beyond the dense forests that cast their shadows over the northern edge of Leona Lake, hidden from the prying eyes of wandering travelers, lay the secluded ravine. And within it, the fortress Morzan had claimed as his own.

Soaring above the clouds, nearer to the stars, Morzan held his mother tightly in his embrace, sharing with her the story of his life since their parting. He spoke of the lessons he had learned in Doru Araeba, of how the dragon had strengthened him—of the knowledge he had gathered in the vast libraries, and of the undeniable truth that the world was, indeed, round.

He spoke of his growing power, of the influence he now wielded as the right hand of their new king. He painted vivid pictures of life within the castle, where she would dwell in luxury. He promised her dozens of maidservants to attend to her every need and whim—servants who would move at her slightest gesture, fulfilling her every request without hesitation.

She would no longer carry the weight of worries. From now on, warm wool, rich silk, and fine dresses would clothe her. A lady-in-waiting would style her hair as she selected jewels, each more exquisite than the last. There would always be plenty of hot food, ensuring she would never again recall the hunger they once endured.

Such were the promises he whispered to her throughout their journey, and the hours slipped by swiftly. They had nearly reached the castle.

“Morzan…” Red-Eyes' voice echoed in his mind, shattering the comforting warmth that had filled his chest as he spoke to the old woman. “Morzan, can you feel her heart?”

At those words, the dragon rider froze, his breath caught in his throat. He placed a hand upon his mother’s body—but found no trace of life flowing within her.

“Mother?” He caressed the tightly wrapped bundle with trembling fingers.

“Mother!” His cry tore through the skies, carrying the full force of his lungs.

Had he only just found her, only to lose her again? He—so mighty that the entire world trembled before him?

The castle loomed closer; from above, they could already make out its gray walls and battlements, softened by the morning light that heralded a clear day ahead.

“We don’t have time to reach the castle,” Morzan said. “Land on that hill over there.”

Without hesitation, Red-Eyes plunged downward. The hill he had pointed to was a barren rock, stark against the dense trees at the forest’s edge, near the gorge’s beginning. She touched down at the summit, folding her wings.

Morzan dismounted, laying his mother’s body upon the stone and kneeling before her.

 “Her time has come.” Red-Eyes nudged her chosen one’s shoulder gently with her muzzle. “There is nothing more you can do.”

The truth in Red-Eyes’ words, the helplessness of it all, made Morzan’s strength falter. He gently uncovered the old woman’s face. She must have passed somewhere between the lake and the descent into the forests. Her skin was still faintly warm, her features peaceful, as though she were merely asleep. Surely, she had left this world quietly, hearing her son’s voice in her final moments. Her expression remained serene, her lips curled into a faint smile.

Morzan laid her to rest within the stone and, in time, erected a monument in her honor. From the castle chambers, the hill stood visible in the distance, and if one looked closely, they could make out the monument at its peak.

In the years to come, only Morzan would visit the grave, tending to it with unwavering care—keeping it clean, adorning it with jewels, precious stones, and flowers.

Upon the marble slab, an inscription was carved—one that no other soul would ever be able to read…

**********************

A/N: I see a difference between Galbatorix and Morzan. The former lost love and warmth when he was severed from his other half—his true half. Morzan, though maddened by the dragon, still harbors passions within him. A mother meant nothing to Galbatorix anymore, but I imagined Morzan differently. Despite all his extremes, his mother is—and always will be—Mother.

I think the next chapter will focus on Selena.

I had never thought much about Brom as an adult beyond what I had read in the books. However, as I wrote this chapter, I found his thoughts strikingly familiar—his emotions, his ideas resonating in a way I hadn’t expected.

Now, I can’t wait to write about his love story with Selena.

Chapter Text

Before the mother felt the sudden joy of that first stirring of new life deep within her womb, no one had expected a second child to grace the family. The fertile years of youth had already faded into memory, and life’s burdens weighed heavily upon her and her husband. Long days of labor had etched lines into the father’s face, making him appear older than his years, and the mother followed closely in time’s steady yet inevitable march.

Yet, despite the hardships, the pregnancy brought an unexpected joy—a quiet but profound happiness that spread through their home. Their eldest son, too, eagerly anticipated the arrival of the new member, imagining the days when laughter would be shared and another pair of hands would lighten the family’s load. Life on the farm was demanding, but extra hands were always a blessing.

When, in due time, the little girl was born, she became the boundless and genuine joy of everyone around her. She was lively and charming, playful and clever, a child whose presence effortlessly enchanted all who met her. With a natural grace and a mischievous spirit, she had a way of drawing people in, leaving them spellbound by her radiant energy.

She was beautiful, too—her bright, intelligent face framed by almond-shaped, expressive eyes, and full, well-formed lips the color of wild strawberries.

As she grew older, her charm reached far beyond her parents’ secluded farm, extending all the way to the village of Carvahall. There, she effortlessly won the hearts of its people. No boy remained untouched by the spell of her presence, and no girl failed to envy the spark and beauty that made her unforgettable.

“When this one grows up, she’ll marry the finest suitor,” boasted Bartram, the blacksmith and a close family friend. He spoke with certainty, casting a meaningful glance toward his beloved apprentice—a boy the same age as the girl’s brother, whom he had raised as the son he never had.

The question of who would become the finest suitor in Carvahall when Selena—this was the name her parents chose for their little girl—reached marriageable age was the subject of much discussion. At night, the villagers voiced their opinions in the tavern, and during the annual festivals, where young women donned their finest attire and the parents of sons scrutinized each girl’s skills with discerning eyes, speculation ran rampant.

Alden the butcher had his sights set on her for his son, while Ostven the tanner envisioned her as a match for one of his own. And so the talk continued, growing ever more certain that Selena would one day belong to one of Carvahall’s finest families.

But before that time could even approach, sorrow swept through their home. One by one, the parents passed away, leaving their children to face the world alone.

First, the mother succumbed to a severe illness in the dead of winter, her frail body unable to rally when the early, cold spring arrived. A few months later, grief claimed the father as well, his sorrow too heavy to bear.

Left behind, the eldest son, Garrow, took on the weight of responsibility—not only as a brother but as the head of the household. And the young girl, too, was thrust into the realities of a life where childhood quickly faded, replaced by the endless toil required to keep their home standing.

From that day forward, Selena’s life changed. Once, four pairs of hands had worked the farm; now, only two remained. Every waking hour was consumed by labor, the days blending into an endless cycle of grueling, repetitive tasks.

Her once-cheerful face grew somber overnight, the innocence of childhood fading as swiftly as the seasons. Her playfulness and charm were washed away in the basin alongside the soiled linens, and the warmth of her spirit dimmed, lost in the glow of the kitchen hearth. Her grace and liveliness lay buried beneath the hay in the barn and the filth of the animal stalls, swallowed by the demands of survival.

The soft hands that had once known only needlework and simple chores grew rough with toil, hardened by the weight of responsibility.

Though hardship weighed heavily upon her, casting shadows of premature responsibility across her proud brow, one thing remained unchanged—the almond-shaped eyes in her lovely face, still just as dreamy as ever. Eyes that envisioned another world, a distant place beyond the horizon. A world that, to her, was better.

As Selena grew, childhood faded, and in its place, the grace of a young woman emerged. With time, her allure deepened, and the young men of Carvahall found their hearts quickening at the mere sight of her.

Suitors began sending proposals to Garrow, each one hoping—if only fleetingly—to entwine his fate with hers. Whenever she walked through the village streets, her presence left an impression so profound that whispered sighs followed in her wake, lingering like the echo of an unspoken dream.

Selena, however, harbored different thoughts about her future. Among all the young men of Carvahall—whether formally or informally paraded as eager suitors—not one held her favor. No one matched the man she had envisioned in her dreams, the one meant to stand beside her.

The monotony of farm life and the quiet rhythm of Carvahall did not suit her. She had been born in the wrong place, in the wrong home—destined for something greater, though she could not yet name it.

But what is the point of living if one does not strive to correct such mistakes?

.*.

That day was warm—a true summer’s day. Since morning, a brilliant sun had dominated the sky, unobstructed by even the faintest cloud. By midday, its heat grew relentless, pressing down upon the harvested fields, where bundled stacks of oats stood as remnants of the villagers’ toil over the previous days.

Fortunately, the backbreaking labor had ended before the sun’s full fury took hold, spreading its heat across the parched earth, turning the soil beneath them into hardened dust and making the farmers’ work even more unforgiving.

By now, the men had gathered at Morn’s tavern, mugs of beer in hand, relishing the cool respite after hours of labor. Meanwhile, housewives and their daughters lingered by wide-open windows and doorsteps, their voices weaving through the warm air in soft conversation.

All the villagers awaited dusk, when the rare, scorching sun would finally bow to the horizon, and the whispers of the evening wind would tumble down from the forests of the Spine, offering long-awaited relief.

Selena finished her farm chores late, as always, before tidying up the kitchen—tasks she disliked but carried out with quiet diligence. Though she had chosen the lightest clothing that morning, wearing only what necessity demanded, the relentless summer heat paid no mind. Sweat traced thin rivulets down her forehead and chest, sticking her clothes to her skin as the air refused to grant relief.

Garrow had left for the village earlier, drawn by the hunters who had paused at the farm—partly to break their journey, partly to cool themselves at the well basin before pressing on.

Left alone, Selena stepped into the yard, seeking refuge in the narrow strip of shade behind the northern wall of the wooden barn. Even the water in the animals’ trough, thick with the day’s lingering warmth, offered no relief. It reminded her of laundry water—like it had first been heated in a kettle over fire before being poured into the stone basin. If she were to bathe in it, the heat would cling to her skin, refusing to let go.

The idea of bathing was tempting. Alone, with no tasks left to weigh her down, and the river so close… There, among the reeds, she was certain she would find a trace of coolness. So, she locked the house behind her and set off toward the Anora River, drawn by the promise of its refreshing embrace.

By the riverbank, the heat softened, no longer pressing down with the same intensity. Despite the height of summer, patches of green still clung to life among the browned grass, offering glimpses of resilience. Scattered across the landscape, small, tranquil pools shimmered under the sunlight—cold river water gathered in their depths, carried with force from distant mountain waterfalls.

Selena kicked off her shoes, sighing as the cool touch of grass met her bare feet. Beneath the shade of the willow, she stretched out, letting its drooping branches veil her from the relentless sun. Lifting the hem of her long skirt, she allowed the faintest down on her calves to catch the golden light, shimmering like silk spun by daylight.

As always, Selena’s thoughts drifted far beyond the farm and its endless toil—beyond the confines of Carvahall and its dreary inhabitants, so tediously alike in her eyes—even farther than Ceunon, the nearest great city to the north.

Her mind roamed to all she had heard and even read, in the only book she had ever been fortunate enough to hold, The Chronicles of Teirm—brought back by Father Cadoc from the farthest journey of his life. Within its pages lay cities and shores she had never seen, histories and wonders more vivid than the fields she worked.

Selena sighed as memories of her father surfaced—his gentle hands settling her on his lap, his patient voice guiding her through the first letters, using that very book as her primer. How dearly he had loved her… His devotion was boundless, his love unwavering. For as long as he lived, he had cherished her like a princess, shielding her from toil, ensuring she never knew true exhaustion. He may not have been wealthy, but for her, he always found a way.

If only Selena could find a husband like her father—someone older, someone who would cherish her. Perhaps a merchant who traveled to distant cities, returning with gifts and stories of lands beyond her reach. A man who would dress her in finery, adorn her, and seat her in the parlors of his grand home. Someone who would surround her with servants, sparing her from the toil that had hardened her hands. A life filled with intrigue, where each day would bring something new. A life beyond the monotony of simple existence. Were such dreams too grand for a village girl from Carvahall?

Maybe so. To her brother, however, the matter was clear—Selena needed to be more grounded. It was time to choose a husband from among the village’s young men. Some had already approached Garrow, hoping their friendship with him might grant them favor in her eyes.

Selena understood his urgency. He had to see her wed, as was his duty, so that his own turn could come. His sweet Marian wouldn’t wait forever.

Selena sighed and turned onto her side, her gaze drifting with the swirling, rushing waters of the river. If only she could follow them—carried away, far from here, beyond the limits of her world.

She drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of damp earth and the freshness of wet grass. Before her, the water pooled and shimmered in the golden afternoon light, cradling both the coolness of the mountains and the lingering warmth of the day.

Selena dipped her long fingers beneath the water’s surface, a pleasant shiver rippling through her. Though the sun was beginning its descent, the heat still clung to the earth, stubborn and unrelenting. Nothing would satisfy her more than a cool, playful plunge into the shimmering pool.

Selena rolled up the sleeves of her light blouse, unfastening a button or two at the front, welcoming the faint breeze against her skin. She hitched her skirt high—well above her knees—as she eased her feet into the crystalline waters, the cold spreading in tingling waves over her heated flesh. Leaning forward, she plunged her arms in up to the elbows, lifting handfuls of water to her neck and sweat-dampened chest. Each splash sent rivulets trailing down her skin, washing away the weight of the relentless heat—if only for a moment.

“What else do you have to show us, pretty one?”

The voice cut through the afternoon air—heavy, edged with irony—shattering the carefree ease of the moment.

“Didn’t your mother warn you how dangerous it is to wander alone, far from home?”

It was the second voice—the high-pitched mockery—that made Selena freeze. That sneering tone carried a promise she didn’t want to decipher.

Covering the opening of her blouse with her hands, Selena spun to face them, her breath hitching as she realized—too late—there was no escape.

The two strangers stood beside the willow, watching. One rested his arms provocatively across his chest, his stance dripping with insolence. The other clutched a bundle of empty leather flasks, his grip firm, his eyes assessing.

A short distance up the road, two pack animals waited, tethered to the low shrubs. Travelers, no doubt—men who had run out of water and descended to the river to refill their supply.

And she, lost in the idle ease of the afternoon, had failed to notice them until now.

Despite the precarious situation she had stumbled into, Selena remained composed, studying the two men with quiet calculation. Their boots and clothes were finely made, adorned with elaborate embellishments—too extravagant for simple travelers. Even their hats spoke of wealth and status. One of them carried a dagger at his leather belt, its hilt polished, well-used. Were they merchants, perhaps? Men of trade and fortune?

Whatever they were, the look in their eyes promised nothing good.

“My good sirs,” Selena inclined her head in a faint imitation of a bow, masking her unease behind practiced grace. “My brother and his friends are nearby. You see, in these parts, gentlemen’s propriety forbids their presence while a maiden bathes. Surely, you would follow their fine example of decorum."

The men exchanged glances.

"This one has a sharp tongue," said the one with the dagger. "And she knows how to use it."

"For now, let's see what else she can do."

The other man tossed the leather flasks to the ground and waded into the pool, the water lapping at his knees. Without hesitation, he seized her, arms locking around her as he hauled her toward the bank. There, his companion moved swiftly to aid him, together pressing her down onto the wet grass, the earth cold against her skin—holding her still, holding her trapped.

A cry tore from Selena’s chest—raw, fierce, burning with anger and desperation. If she had the power, she would have struck them down, without hesitation, without remorse. But anguish was all she had. Through the haze of her fury, she saw his face—twisted in cruelty, bent over hers. His breath hit her like a wave of rot, rancid and suffocating. She gagged, wrenching her head away, only to hear the other's laughter—mocking, amused at her disgust.

She fought, thrashed, every fiber of her being screaming for escape—but it was useless. So anger became her weapon. She hurled curses at them, sharp as blades, her voice unyielding. And still, they answered her with laughter.

At that moment, a third voice—deep and thunderous—uttered words in a language unfamiliar to her, one Selena had never heard before in her life.

She barely had time to breathe before it happened. Her would-be rapist’s body flew, weightless for a heartbeat, then crashed down two meters away—motionless, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The other man dropped onto all fours, a strangled whimper breaking from his lips. His head tucked between his knees, shoulders shaking. The hardness, the bravado—gone without a trace.

Selena straightened, her breath slowing as if trapped in a dream. From the roadside above the riverbank, a stranger descended, each step deliberate, unhurried. Behind him, the setting sun bled across the sky, casting an eerie glow that framed his proud silhouette like fire licking at the edges of twilight.

He was tall, lean, yet powerfully built, each movement carrying an effortless command of his own strength. His raven-black hair stirred in the rising forest breeze, framing his masculine face like a dark halo, its strands shifting with the wind’s whispers. At his belt hung a long sword, sheathed in a deep crimson scabbard. With each stride, its rhythmic tapping against his thigh and boot punctuated his swift, unrelenting pace.

He stood before her like one of the ancient gods, his silhouette wrapped in the crimson haze of the waning sun. A single ray of light cascaded over the hilt of his sword, slipping through the massive, teardrop-shaped ruby embedded there—fire trapped within stone, pulsing with an untold promise.

With a brutal strike of his boot, the fallen man crumpled further, whimpering like a beaten dog. The brazen one lifted his gaze to his master, the silent exchange needing no words. The lord—there was no doubt he was one—stood unwavering. First, he pointed at the corpse. Then, at the river.

The servant rose, hunched over, and seized his dead companion by the feet, dragging the lifeless weight toward the riverbed. Before delivering him to his watery grave, he paused—eyes darting toward his master—then swiftly stripped the boots from the corpse, claiming them as his own with a thief’s efficiency. Then silently, he gathered the empty leather flasks and set about filling them.

The lord’s gaze found her, and a shiver unfurled at the base of Selena’s skull, trailing down her spine like a breath of ice. One eye gleamed, crystalline as the sky retreating into dusk—azure, piercing. The other burned, dark and volatile, a storm gathering on the horizon. Between his brows, fury took shape in a sharp crease, and at his temple, a blue vein pulsed, an unspoken warning.

“Get up, girl!”

His voice cut through the air—deep, commanding, leaving no room for hesitation. Selena scrambled to her feet, hands fumbling as she hastily adjusted her clothes.

“Did they harm you?”

She shook her head, stiff, mechanical, as if the movement itself was all she could manage. Words failed her—a rare betrayal. Fear and shame tightened in her chest, swallowing whatever reply might have formed.

“Go home. Now!”

Selena snatched up her discarded shoes, but there was no time to put them on. Barefoot, she ran, her breath tearing through her lungs, her heart pounding as if it might shatter from the effort.

She didn’t stop running until the house loomed before her, the kitchen light cutting through the evening gloom—Garrow had returned.

Selena paused, hands smoothing over her clothes, fingers threading through her hair as she drew deep, steadying breaths. There was no need for excuses. Inside, Garrow was waiting, smiling, his cheeks flushed, his gaze slightly unfocused from the beer he’d indulged in.

“Ah, Selena, there you are! Morn has a favor to ask.”

Garrow leaned back, rubbing a hand over his flushed cheek. “Tara’s come down with a fever, poor woman—she won’t be able to serve at the tavern tomorrow. He practically begged me to plead with you to step in.”

He paused, his expression shifting. “They’re expecting visitors, you know—some lord and his entourage. Traveling on the king’s business.”

Selena nodded in agreement and slipped into her room, pressing the door shut behind her. Her pulse still pounded, a restless rhythm beneath her skin.

She undressed and lay down early, closing her eyes, willing her body to shed its unease. Sleep would not come easily tonight—but that was nothing new. She had spent countless nights shaping the “other” life she longed to live, a world built from whispered wishes and imagined escape.

Tonight was the first time her dreams would welcome someone else.

.*.*.

The new day dawned just as clear, though the air carried a cooler bite. At first light, Selena set off toward the village, her steps brisk, purposeful.

By the time she reached the tavern, the scent of simmering broth and freshly baked bread greeted her. Inside, Morn bustled about in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, energy coursing through the small space.

“Ah, you’re here, Selena!” Morn’s voice rang with relief as soon as he spotted her. “I need all the help I can get—without Tara, it’s chaos!”

Without hesitation, he handed her his spot at the counter, then hefted a heavy jug, heading toward the well for fresh water.

“Times like these remind you that no one gets far alone,” he added with a knowing grin. “A good match—that’s what everyone needs” he added, giving her a meaningful wink.

“How is Tara today?” Selena asked, her voice laced with quiet concern.

Though quite a few years older, the tavern keeper’s wife was more than just an acquaintance—she was something between a mother and a sister, a steady presence in Selena’s life. Someone she could confide in. Tara often sent her on errands, offering her the chance to earn a few coins of her own—small freedoms, spent on fleeting luxuries or tucked away for something greater.

“My poor Tara,” Morn sighed, disappointment etched in his voice. “She burned with fever all night—there’s no chance she’ll make it to the tavern today.” He shook his head but then brightened slightly. “Gertrude came early this morning. Says it’s nothing more than a simple cold, so there’s no need to fret. She left a remedy by Tara’s bedside—it should bring the fever down in a few hours. But she still needs rest,” he added, his gaze flickering toward the door, as if weighing whether he should check on her himself.

“Tell me about the visitors,” Selena said, after wishing her friend a swift recovery and promising to stop by later when she had a moment to spare.

Morn paused at the kitchen’s back door, his silhouette framed by the open passage to the courtyard. The storerooms, the well, the quiet hum of morning—they remained unchanged. But his expression did not. His once-lively eyes darkened, and when he spoke, his voice had dipped—just enough for the weight of it to settle in the air.

“What can I tell you, girl… So far, I’ve only seen the servants.” Morn exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “They arrived late last night and drank into the early hours—arrogant, full of self-importance. The kind who walk as if each of them carried ten lords in their shadow.”

He scoffed. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough. But don’t let them unsettle you. I doubt they’ll bother stepping into my kitchen.”

His gaze steadied on her. “Besides, I’m here to watch over you.”

“And the lord?”

Morn shrugged, wiping his hands absently on his apron. “What can I tell you? They say he’s traveling on the king’s business.” His voice carried neither interest nor concern—just quiet resignation. “We haven’t seen him yet.”

Morn stepped outside to finish his work, leaving Selena alone with the quiet rhythm of the kitchen. She rolled up her sleeves, focusing on the cooking, the scent of simmering broth weaving into the air.

Yet, despite the warmth of the hearth, a familiar shiver traced down her spine—the same unsettling whisper of yesterday. She didn’t understand why. But she found herself wanting to see him again.

It seemed to her that nothing else had ever mattered—not as much as this. If only he would return—just once—and look at her as he had yesterday, she would ask for nothing more. The strange emptiness that had settled in her stomach refused to lift. Since the moment she had seen him, it had lingered, stealing away her appetite, leaving her hollow.

This restless anxiety was unlike anything she had ever known. It made her falter with each passing moment, her breath slipping from her lips in short, uneven gasps. Even the sighs that rose from her chest, deep and frequent, pressed against the sharp beating of her heart. One might think it was ready to take flight.

All of it—the trembling, the hollow ache, the breathless longing—felt like the symptoms of some unknown affliction. Was she ill, like Tara?

And yet, this suffering was sweet.

Since yesterday—since the moment she had first seen him—Selena had felt the world slipping away. The same vision returned to her, again and again, unbidden.

A crimson sun melting into the horizon. And him, walking toward her, draped in its scarlet glow. The air around him pulsed with quiet power, with unshaken authority. His dark hair framed the striking edges of his face, a silhouette carved from dusk and fire.

And those strange words he had spoken? He had to be more than a mere noble—perhaps a great sorcerer, a man of secrets and spells, carrying the king’s will like whispered incantations in the wind. An important man, without doubt.

Yet it was not only the impression he had left on her as a man. It was the world he inhabited, the one she had only ever known in dreams—a world where magic was real, where destiny shimmered just beyond reach.

Surely, he was greater than the wealthy merchants she had imagined before. They had gold, yes, but he carried something far rarer—power woven into his very existence.

Selena had to see him again. She would do anything—even for the briefest moment in his presence. To feel the weight of his gaze, fierce and unrelenting. To hear the steady command in his voice.

And to heed his call.

The meal was ready on time—just before noon—but only the lord’s servants took their places in the tavern’s common hall, served by Morn himself.

Unseen by the men, Selena moved quietly in the kitchen, plating dishes, filling beer jugs, keeping her hands busy—though her mind was elsewhere. Between tasks, she stole glances through the gap in the curtain separating the main hall from the kitchen, her gaze flitting toward the movement beyond, her breath catching each time the fabric shifted.

Waiting. Watching. Wondering.

He had not appeared yet! And with each passing moment, the anticipation swelled, her heart fluttering like a young swallow testing its wings against the open sky—unsteady, weightless, yearning for flight.

Not even the brief visit to Tara had calmed her—an unfamiliar sensation. For the first time, she felt no need to confide in her.

The tavern keeper’s wife was recovering, thanks to Gertrude’s remedies, though concern lingered in her eyes. Could Morn handle it all alone?

Selena reassured her, a soft squeeze of the hand, a quiet promise—then hurried back, slipping into the kitchen to prepare dinner. But the thought weighed heavily, pressing against her ribs. What if the lord arrived while she was away?

Dusk had begun its slow descent when he deigned to step over the threshold, shadowed by a single servant—a figure unseen until now.

Tonight, the people of Carvahall kept their distance—not out of fear, but out of certainty. Their wariness ran deep, ingrained through generations. Rulers from afar had never earned their trust, least of all their king. And lords? They were harbingers of trouble, nothing more.

Thus, with the hall empty, the lord had his choice of tables. Yet, he dismissed the grandest—the one prepared for him at the center—and instead claimed the shadowed corner. He settled with his back to the wall. His gaze never strayed from the entrance.

The servant accompanying him took charge of the supper, allowing Morn to remain occupied in the kitchen.

It was the servant who arranged the tableware, laid out the bread and beer, ensured every detail of his master’s meal was precise. A quiet, taciturn man, far older than Morn, he needed no words—only a single nod to understand the lord’s needs.

And with the guest absorbed in his meal, Morn seized his chance. He slipped away to check on Tara.

Once the lord was served and began his meal, his servant remained close—just a few steps away—watching, waiting, poised to respond to even the slightest movement.

Selena lingered at the edge of the curtain separating the kitchen from the hall. Through a small parting in the fabric, she began to watch.

The corner he had chosen lay shrouded in darkness. The dim glow of a single lamp reached him just enough to catch the sweep of his dark hair, the strong outline of his shoulders—but his features remained lost to the shadows.

Her mind raced—searching for an excuse, any excuse, to draw nearer. But the servant had already made it clear: his master wished to dine undisturbed.

Still, she watched as the lord’s glass emptied, only to be refilled, again and again. Surely, the beer must be dwindling by now. She reached for Morn’s finest barrel, poured a fresh pitcher—hands steady, heart anything but.

Clutching it tightly to her chest, she moved toward the curtain once more. A stolen glance through the narrow fold.

He sat motionless. No longer eating. No longer drinking.

And yet, watching.

It seemed to her that his gaze cut through the veil, that the curtain between them did not exist—that he could see straight into her, past skin and bone, past breath and pulse, past every secret she had ever held.

The thought made her still. Made her hold her breath.

With a single movement of his hand, the curtain parted. No hesitation. No flourish. Just quiet intent. And there she was. The woman who had lingered beyond the fabric, watching in secret.

He had felt her presence for some time now—sensed her curiosity like a whisper at the edge of his thoughts. And now, she stood before him. Unsettled. Caught. The full pitcher pressed against her chest, her fingers curling tight around the handle. A feeble shield. A flimsy excuse.

But none of it mattered. Because she wanted to meet him.

A single glance from the lord, a slight nod toward his servant—nothing more, yet it was enough. The man disappeared instantly, off to summon the others.

Selena saw his next gesture—silent, patient, meant for her alone. Slowly, she stepped forward. His glass stood empty once more, extended toward her without words. She met his gaze, a faint smile curving at the edge of her lips, and with practiced grace, poured the beer. Then, she remained there. Quiet. Watching.

Tonight, his dark hair was tied at the base of his neck, neatly gathered yet unrestrained. He wore leather garments embroidered with crimson braiding and silver thread, the intricate patterns catching the dim light. His bare arms bore silver armbands, inlaid with rubies, the deep-red stones glinting with each movement.

His demeanor remained proud, unyielding, as it had the night before—but his face was calm. He did not look old, though she had imagined him older. The men of her village bore the years too soon, their faces lined with hardship. But he? Thirty-seven, perhaps forty at most—yet untouched by time in a way she did not understand.

Then, her gaze fell upon the sword. It lay atop his legs, its ruby-adorned hilt gleaming, still encased in a red leather scabbard. The weapon was beautiful, indisputably valuable. It was no wonder he never parted with it—not even now, not even at supper.

The lord continued his meal, his movements slow, deliberate. Selena refilled his glass twice more, watching the way his fingers curled around the cup—steady, certain. Then, his gaze found her again.

“Do you live in the village of Carvahall?”

Her breath caught, just for a moment.

“Somewhat outside of it, my lord,” she answered, forcing her voice to remain even. “Our farm is near the river.”

At those words, warmth crept into her cheeks—a fleeting betrayal of memory.

The lord gave a small nod, draining his glass, then extended it toward her once more.

“Tell me about life in the village,” he requested.

The girl began narrating as he turned his attention back to the dishes, still half-full on the table before him. Her tone was pleasant enough that he remained silent, listening as her words breathed life into a simple story—just as life in the village unfolded.

Why, truly, had he been so furious the night before upon seeing his men drag her so roughly? Why had he felt compelled to help her—going so far as to kill a loyal servant for her sake?

Though, deep down, he understood the reason for his anger, he would never admit to such weakness. The scene he had witnessed that afternoon had, for a brief moment, pulled him back to Teirm—to the tormented years of his youth.

For a fleeting moment, he was once again the child playing by the seashore, tossing flat pebbles onto the waves—watching them skim across the surface of the blue waters and counting each rebound. Beside him, his mother laughed, sharing in his joy as she washed the family's humble utensils.

They hadn't noticed the two men who suddenly emerged from the dark corner where they had been lurking—where the walls ended and the rocky terrain began. They seized his mother, dragging her into the shack despite her protests. The boy fought in vain to save her, kicking, clawing, and biting. One of them grabbed him by the collar and hurled him violently outside before bolting the door from within.

He remained there until late, curled up on the doorstep, shivering from fear and cold, until sleep finally claimed him through his tears. Until the two men stepped over his small body as they left—when they were finished. Until his mother gathered him into her arms, holding him tightly through the rest of the night so he wouldn’t be afraid.

He emptied his cup and turned his mismatched eyes to the young woman standing beside the table, ready to serve him. She nodded, smiling sweetly as she refilled it once more from the pitcher. Again, he drained the cup. His gaze lingered on her, studying her closely, his eyes gleaming with the memory of her pale flesh—seen in the fading light of dusk, more exposed than propriety allowed. Though fury had gripped him at the time, the sight had stirred something far from indifference.

"What is your name, girl?"

The young woman bent her knee gracefully, her ever-pleasant smile unwavering. Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled, and the flush in her rosy cheeks deepened slightly.

"Selena, my lord."

Even that "my lord", spoken with more emphasis than he had expected, did not leave him indifferent.

He had long grown accustomed to servile politeness—from those who served him and the few nobles he engaged with. Yet behind every exchange, he always glimpsed fear—sometimes even terror—hidden in their gazes. He could smell it upon them, fused with their breath and the sweat of their bodies. And always, he discerned an unspoken resentment toward him, a subdued dislike they could never fully conceal behind forced smiles.

But this one was different. Her clear voice had rippled in his ears for some time now, like a steady stream. The warmth of her smile shone on her face, softening her delicate features, making them even sweeter. She was a fresh drop of youth—lively, unburdened—a welcome respite in his journey through the provinces.

He finished his meal, rinsed his fingers in the cup of water, and rose to leave.

The young woman's beautiful eyes remained fixed on him, full of expectation. "I never thanked you for… yesterday, my lord."

He acknowledged her words with a slight motion of his hand, a quiet dismissal of the need for gratitude.

Already, he was moving away from her, stepping over the threshold—leaving her life behind. Selena would never see him again.

She abandoned the nearly empty pitcher on the table and hurried after him, trailing his steps outside the tavern. "Will I see you again?"

Her voice trembled—a fragile mix of panic, longing, and a silent plea.

The lord paused, turning back to her, an odd light flickering in his blue eye. The black one remained as dark as the night’s deepest shadows.

"Tomorrow. Same place. Same time as yesterday."

.*.*.*.

For the second time, a crimson sun sank toward the horizon, painting the distant clouds in shades of blood. The man stood at the riverbank, watching the rushing waters carve their relentless path down from the mountain, bound for the northern sea. The dusk’s reflection on the river’s surface called to mind the blood that had once flowed, staining the land of Alagaësia. The distant red clouds, like the fires of dragons, burned once more in its skies tonight. And in his mind’s eye, the landscape was complete—the fallen lay across the land—humans, elves, and dragons alike—bodies torn apart by blade, claw, and fang.

He was no longer young, though to human eyes, he still appeared so. All his years had been spent in fury, vengeance, and death—dedicated to his king, to war, to the endless struggle for power. Now, he stood alone on the riverbank, waiting for something that had never been granted to him, never bought with wealth, nor conquered through strength or authority.

Turning his thoughts back, he realized he had never made time for such things. His days had slipped away in vain—marked by violence and terror, untouched by a woman's presence, though he had never felt its absence. And yet, here he stood, waiting alone for the Great Gift—the love of a woman.

"Miiiiine!"

Her hissing voice, thick with fury, echoed in his mind, leaving no room for illusion. He had belonged to her since the moment she chose him as a child, and he would remain hers for as long as fate allowed him to live. Bound to her forever, his body was an extension of her being, his heart entwined with her own—and the madness that bound them was woven into the spells of a shared destiny.

"I was yours. I am yours. I will always be yours. Nothing and no one can come between us. But what I am waiting for has nothing to do with us—it is something else entirely, something beyond what we share."

A howl of frustration echoed in his mind—her only reply. In recent years, their communication had changed. No longer words as before, but images and emotions, twisting too often into nightmares, into uncontrollable fits of rage and madness. And he understood all too well how far he could push his luck.

He heard the soft crunch of her footsteps on the earth as she approached from the dirt road. He listened—her heartbeat steady yet quickened, her breath uneven, laced with anticipation. He could sense her thoughts, even the ones she tried to hide—the way she longed for him.

Why should he resist? He was no longer the child, nor the young man who, despite the unyielding bond with his chosen companion, had once felt that lingering hollowness inside him. He had tasted raw power, primal vengeance, and the weight of absolute authority. What else was left to fill him?

"Never weak!" The voice of his chosen one thundered deep within his heart and mind. "Always fierce. Always mine!"

"Calm down. It is only for her that I matter. To me, she will be an advantage," he assured her.

He turned to the young woman, waiting, his gaze lingering on her graceful form as she moved—her feminine beauty swaying gently with each step. Selena stopped before him with a smile and gracefully bent her knee in an elegant bow.

"My lord!"

Without a word, he gestured for her to walk alongside him, following the river’s path. They moved in silence for a long while beneath the crimson dusk, its hues slowly deepening into violet.

The man could see clearly into the woman’s heart. With a gentle, imperceptible touch, he read her thoughts, her hidden desires—her soul lay bare before him. And everything he saw pleased him beyond measure. Her boundless admiration, her need to be near him, her hopes for a better life… Everything this young woman longed for, he could give her—and ten times more.

He liked the weakness she revealed so openly, found satisfaction in it—in the way she showed that she would do anything to follow him, to bind herself to his life.

Suddenly, he halted, turning sharply toward her, his gaze locking onto hers. His hand rested on her back in a familiar gesture, pulling her closer. Through his palm, he felt the rhythm of her heartbeat quicken, pounding stronger with each passing moment.

She met his gaze, her most radiant smile offered freely.

"Selena." His deep voice came out rough, gravelly. "You are not happy with your life."

It was the first time he had ever spoken her name. Her almond-shaped eyes widened in surprise, the weight of his words settling over her. Anxiety swelled within her at his declaration—unexpected, unsettling. Held so close to him, his scent wrapped around her, stirring a strange warmth deep inside.

His mismatched eyes remained locked onto hers, gleaming in the twilight with flickers of red. He waited.

"Will you leave far away, my lord?"

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never wavering from hers. From this woman, he had expected a direct answer. Instead, she gave him a question. Was her fear of losing him truly so great? He nearly smiled as he nodded.

"Tonight."

He let the silence stretch—two beats, no more—before asking his own profound question.

"What is it that you truly seek from me, Selena?"

Her name on his lips was a magnet, drawing her toward him. In that moment, the thought of his departure felt unbearable—if he left, she feared she would not survive. The look in her eyes softened into a silent plea, her sweet voice barely more than a whisper.

"I want… could you… I mean, if you wish… take me with you. Keep me close to you."

He released her waist and stepped back. His expression hardened, the shadow of the black eye swallowing the blue.

"I could take you with me, but my fate is not mine alone to decide," he said, his voice thoughtful.

For the first time, his words reached her as a whisper—soft, yet weighty—against her ear.

"I see," Selena murmured, biting her lip in hesitation. "You have your wife…"

A wave of disappointment crashed over her, pulling her under, drowning her.

"My… what?"

For the first time, a crooked smile tugged at the lord’s lips, one eyebrow rising in amusement.

"I have never been bound in such a way, if that is what you mean. But until now, I have shared my life entirely with someone far more important to me than any wife could ever be."

Selena looked at him questioningly, a shadow of confusion dimming her sorrowful, almond-shaped eyes. The man realized that the maiden had never heard a true description of his appearance—none in the village of Carvahall had recognized him. And yet, she had certainly heard his name.

For the first time, he wondered whether her warmth toward him, her desire to follow him, would remain unchanged after the great revelation.

"You can meet the companion of my life, if you wish," he said, his gaze lifting to the sky.

With closed eyes, he remained still for a few moments, caught in a strangely silent summons. Then, he turned back to the young woman.

"She is coming."

A powerful beating of wings shattered the air moments later, a crimson flash streaking past just overhead. To Selena, it was as if the setting sun itself—radiant, aflame—had suddenly veered from its descent, plunging into the riverbed of Anora.

She had never seen anything like it before. Her memories blurred into legend, yet the stories had reached her once.

The enormous red dragon plunged its snout into the water, drinking noisily—two, three deep gulps. Then, it lifted its fearsome head, turning toward her, its blazing crimson eyes locking onto her. Its sharp horns and lethal claws gleamed in the fading afternoon light. Its nostrils flared, releasing bursts of fire and smoke over bared fangs.

Terror seized the young woman. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the ground, powerless against the overwhelming presence before her.

The man bent over her, lifting her gently.

"I am Morzan," he whispered against the side of her neck. Those words alone were enough. No further introductions were needed—she understood.

Softly, he nudged her toward the dragon.

"Come. I wish for you to meet."

The young woman rose, trembling, struggling to find her balance. Emotions surged within her, twisting and churning in response to the massive creature before her.

And this lord—he was no ordinary man.

He was… Morzan.

Selena gathered the remnants of her dignity and dared to gamble her fate before the beast. She cast a bold glance at the dragon rider—for that was how she saw him now, because that was precisely what he was—one of the few who wielded power alongside their king.

She had heard much of his dark reputation, yet from the very first moment, he had treated her well.

She offered him her sweetest smile. Reputation was a poor measure upon which to judge a man. Selena chose to judge him solely by her own experience.

Regaining her composure, she stepped toward the riverbank where the beast awaited, bowing humbly before the dragon.

"Great dragon, never before have I encountered a creature as magnificent and fearsome as you. I offer you my sincere admiration—for your supreme grandeur and indescribable beauty."

In the old days, dragons were known for their vanity, and flattery never failed to stir them. But after the fall and the exile of the names, the red dragoness had come to suffer from the reactions her presence provoked in others. Stripped of her fearsome name, she relied on the terror she spread among her victims to be regarded as she once had been.

Yet, she was not blind to the fear and disgust with which she was met—emotions that had long replaced the reverence and honor once due to her kind.

This two-legs female, however—though a stranger to her—had spoken with proper admiration, with due respect.

The dragoness flicked out her thorned tongue toward the young woman, tasting her scent upon the air.

"This one speaks sweetly," she admitted to her rider. "I will allow you to keep her close to us for a while."

.*.*.*.*.

Before bringing Selena to his castle, Morzan led her on a journey through breathtaking landscapes and grand cities—Teirm, Dras-Leona, and others of splendor. There, he bestowed upon her countless gifts: rich garments, precious jewels, and rare luxuries fit for a woman of stature.

In his presence, she felt blissfully happy. The life he provided was as dazzling as the treasures he laid before her. Yet, she could not ignore one unsettling truth—he systematically avoided introducing her to the local nobles, no matter how often they came to pay tribute.

Nor could she overlook how, while he attended banquets and salons as an honored guest, she remained behind in his lavish quarters, waiting.

Adorned in the exquisite garments and jewels he had gifted her—treasures seen by no one but him and the silent servants—she lived in splendor yet solitude. And still, her thoughts lingered on her future by his side.

One morning, when Selena merely hinted at her desire to attend the salon of Duchess So-and-so or Countess Such-and-such, she quickly realized that the dragon rider was deeply displeased. His manner turned sharp, his tone abrupt, and soon, he unfairly took his frustration out on a servant.

She understood then that she must tread carefully around him—never tempting fate, lest her fortune shift. So, with sweet words and practiced smiles, she became pleasant to him once more. And that very night, he placed upon her finger a ring adorned with a ruby as large as a pigeon’s egg.

Morzan never left her alone for too long. He visited her in the mornings and afternoons, expecting her to speak, to amuse him with conversation. He dined with her, sharing meals, yet when dusk fell, he abandoned her, vanishing into the sky with his dragon.

Selena cherished the leisure and ease absent from her life on the farm, but she did not deceive herself—this was not the future she had envisioned by his side. Morzan was kind to her, even in moments when he seemed distant. Yet his kiss, his touch, remained unknown to her.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into a month. The dragon rider’s duties to his king had ended, and the time had come for him to return—to his beloved castle, to the life that awaited him.

As they prepared for departure, Morzan placed a golden necklace, adorned with glimmering diamonds, around Selena’s neck.

"This is no ordinary jewel," he told her. "Each stone holds enchantments, protections to shield you from curses. No one may enter my castle—nor leave it—unless I will it. Keep this adornment upon you always as you wander the halls, and no harm shall come to you."

He secured her legs with the saddle’s straps, and to Selena, it seemed as though his hand lingered on her calf. Then, he climbed up behind her, wrapping them both within his cloak, his arm tightening around her slender waist.

The dragon raged, snorting fire and smoke, making her flinch. She thought she heard it—the low, dishonorable chuckle slipping from the rider’s lips, his answer to the beast’s fury.

Selena understood. In a few hours, they would be at his castle—alone. Just the two of them.

The thought unsettled the dragon, yet it amused the rider. And for her—it sent her heart pounding.

The moment had come. Morzan would redeem all his offerings.

Selena leaned against him, trusting, willing herself to shake off the fear the dragon’s fury had instilled in her. The scent of the man behind her—woven into the fabric that enveloped her, laced with the warmth of his body—soon soothed her.

She closed her eyes and surrendered to his embrace. If the consummation of their bond would draw him closer—as she so yearned—if this relationship would grant her passage into the world of nobility, then this was truly what she sought.

Her hand slid over his arm, wrapped around her waist, pressing it encouragingly against her belly. The power he wielded, the authority that surrounded him, pulled her in, making her feel fortunate beyond measure.

In that moment, she believed herself to be the happiest woman in Alagaësia.

He carried Selena in his arms from the dragohold to the chamber, shutting his mind to the dragoness’s howling fury. The Red-Eyes thrashed, her claws scraping against stone, unleashing fiery breaths upon the surrounding walls.

The scent of the woman’s perfumed hair, the way her arms clung to his neck, her hidden face pressed against his chest—each ignited something raw within him.

He threw her onto his bed, extinguishing the faint candlelight with a sweep of his palm.

In the consuming darkness of the chamber, which hid the flush of her cheeks, he sought her cherry-red lips in a fierce, fervent kiss. His mouth traced a slow path down the soft curve of her neck, lingering over her shoulders.

He surrendered—utterly—to an embrace unlike any before.

Later, she slept, clinging to him, covered only by the cascade of her long, flowing hair. Her fragile body was a mere whisper of weight against his strength, and her absolute trust—utterly intoxicating.

He remained awake, listening to the soft rhythm of her breath, attuned to the quiet murmurs of the night.

The moon had been slow to rise, and now its silver rays spilled through the open window, casting light upon the tangle of her discarded white garments on the floor. The thirst for her lips, the fire within him—it had been slow to fade.

But now, at last, as his body lay relaxed, he reopened his mind, reaching for his chosen one.

The dragoness had not yet forgiven him for their earlier interruption, but he knew the way to draw her back to him.

Morzan and his Red-Eyes were one—one flesh, one mind, bound in this world or the next. Alike in madness and fire, equal in power and terror, united by their unyielding love for dominance and destruction.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Weeks turned into months, and Selena remained within the world of that enchanted castle—a place that, to a village girl, felt torn from the pages of a fairy tale.

The stone chambers, grand or modest, were adorned with heavy carpets draping both walls and floors, silver-threaded curtains, intricately carved hearths, and furnishings beyond price. Each treasure spoke of a history long before her time, and from the very first day, her curiosity had been stirred.

Morzan led her through the halls, showing her their splendor—sometimes even telling the tales behind them.

He commanded his servants to treat her as their lady, granting her every request without delay. At her wish, a pavilion was raised in the courtyard, where she could step outside and cool herself on warm days.

The flower beds flourished with her favorite roses, tended with careful hands at his order. To please her further, he summoned a gardener from the capital—a master of his craft—to design a secluded retreat in the garden, shaped precisely to her vision.

Hidden among the shrubs, adorned with a marble fountain and a stone basin, this secret haven became her joy. There, in quiet solitude, she spent much of her time.

Selena’s presence swiftly reshaped the world around him, and the castle—once a desolate fortress of dark stone—was steadily becoming the enchanted palace she had dreamed of.

Morzan observed her in silence as she wove herself into his life with youthful enthusiasm, laughter, and ideas. She had only to voice a wish, and with a mere nod from him, the servants ensured it was fulfilled.

Yet he remained ever silent, seemingly untouched by her joy. To others, he was always a fearsome presence—his blue eye glimmering strangely at her nearness, while the black remained perpetually shadowed, obscured by thoughts never spoken.

Selena found joy even in the wild lands surrounding the castle, their untamed beauty harmonizing with her own spirit. The dense forest, unyielding and ancient, and the rugged embrace of the Spine reminded her of the village where she had been born and raised.

By day, golden sunlight spilled across the landscape, and by night, silver beams bathed the tranquil waters of the distant lake in an ethereal glow.

For hours, she would gaze from the windows of her chamber, lost in thought, envisioning the moment when Morzan would present her to the court and his king. She was certain that one day, the moment would come, and it was a future she yearned for.

As she pleased him through the nights, her collection of treasures swelled with each passing morning—so many, so lavish, that their ability to astonish her had begun to fade.

She reveled in his overwhelming presence, his reckless passion, even the tempest of his moods. There was pleasure, too, in watching him impose his will upon others—sometimes with force—or in witnessing the boundless reach of his power.

Yet with her, he was different. Gentle. One might even say, at times… courteous.

Even when Morzan drank—and he drank often and heavily—it never affected him as it did ordinary men. If anything, to Selena, it only kept him content, subdued.

Yet there were days when the dragon’s fury thickened. Roars and howls echoed from the dragonhold, shaking the castle walls. At times, the beast would take flight, circling the battlements, spewing infernal fire, raking its claws against the ramparts.

Then, the rider would vanish for hours. He spent his time with the dragon or alone, locked within his personal sanctum—where, on occasion, Selena heard him screaming words in an unknown tongue, shattering objects with his blade.

The servants trembled. They withdrew into the shadows, disappearing from sight.

Yet Selena had never feared him.

What had she to fear from the man who held her in his arms at night?

That afternoon, Selena settled into her sitting room, a book from the castle’s vast library lying open upon her lap. The text should have captivated her, yet her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

The night before, as her lord shared her bed, she had subtly asked him to take her with him to the capital. He had left soon after—vanishing into the dragonhold with his beast.

Morning arrived, but for the first time, he did not sit with her at the table. Nor did he appear for the midday meal. Yet he had not gone. Selena learned he remained within the castle, though he had requested nothing from the servants.

By the time evening arrived, he had finally deigned to join her once more—but from the moment he entered the room, his mood was unmistakably heavy. He cast her an indifferent glance and began pacing, deep in thought, as though weighed down by something unseen. He would pause, murmuring words she could not understand, only to resume his restless stride moments later.

At last, he stood before the window, motionless, silent. His gaze lingered over the vast landscape stretching from the castle’s foundation to the distant lake. Perhaps he was communing with the red dragon.

Selena had seen him like this before—silent, seeming lost beyond the present moment. Yet she knew the truth. His mind was always weaving plans upon plans, sharing them with the beast. That, she decided, was the preferable case.

Hopefully, he wasn’t contemplating anything else. Anything unpleasant for her.

She pursed her lips at the thought, then remembered the book resting in her hands. It was time to turn the page. She made sure the motion was loud enough—an audible reminder to Morzan that someone else was present behind him.

Then, his voice thundered through the chamber.

"Come here, Selena!"

She abandoned the book she had only pretended to read, rising hesitantly before taking slow, measured steps toward her lord, every sense sharpened to its limits.

Since the moment she had chosen to follow Morzan into his life, she had never seen him so displeased with her. The realization unsettled her. She had no idea what his next reaction might be.

As soon as he felt her beside him, he seized one of her hands without turning, pulling her against him before guiding her to stand in front of him—so that she, too, could see outside. With his other arm pressed firmly against her chest, he tightened his hold, drawing her closer against his body.

A sharp scent of male sweat, laced with the musk of the dragon, struck Selena’s senses—the unmistakable scent of him. She would recognize it anywhere, even blindfolded, even in the dark, among a thousand other men.

Never, in all the times he had drawn close, had that scent been unpleasant to her. On the contrary, it was as intoxicating now as it had been the night she abandoned her home and her brother to follow him.

Morzan released her wrist, his hand cutting through the air in a sweeping motion, encompassing the forest, the lake, the distant hills.

"Look closely, woman," he commanded. "Look, and tell me what you see!"

Selena bit her lip, forcing her mind to work—and fast. What was this? Morzan was not a man given to idle admiration of the view. Nor was he pointing out something of his own dominion, for beyond the castle, neither the forest nor the lake belonged to him. There was something hidden in his thoughts—something unsettling—and she had to tread carefully.

Her gaze swept over the silver waters beyond the horizon, where the last light of the sun shimmered upon the surface. She traced the darkening hues of the forest trees, the distant hills to the right.

Nothing appeared different from all the other times she had stood at this window. Nor could she begin to fathom what Morzan had set his mind upon now—what he saw that made him demand her answer.

With her heart tightening, she tried to steal a glance upward—hoping to catch the expression on his face, the direction of his gaze. But his grip only tightened, pressing her more insistently against his chest—a clear sign that his patience was running thin.

Selena braced herself for one last attempt.

"I see…" she began cautiously, "the world as seen by a mighty lord…"

"Hm…"

Morzan tightened his grip, the motion carrying a hint of displeasure—an unmistakable sign that he had expected a different answer.

Selena realized how much this response mattered to him. It felt as though everything between them—their bond, their passion—hung in the balance, teetering on the edge of an ending, should she fail to find the right reply. But she held herself proud.

She had left her village, her home, for him. Never had she intended for this adventure to end so soon, or so ingloriously. So she focused.

And then, in the next moment, clarity struck.

It was no coincidence that her fellow villagers had always praised her intelligence. She herself might call it foresight. What the dragon rider sought had always been there—right in front of her eyes, just beyond the castle, at the foot of the wild mountain.

Selena smiled, now certain of herself.

Many times, lost in thought, she had pondered it herself.

Now, she knew the answer.

"I see, my lord, a hill—standing alone among all others."

The pressure against her chest eased, allowing her breath to flow freely.

"And?"

"Upon the hill stands a monument…"

The shift in his demeanor told her she had grasped the right thread.

"Well?"

She held his gaze.

"A grave!"

Selena recalled seeing him once, soaring toward that hill upon the back of his red dragon. What else could it be if not something of great significance to him?

She decided to push her luck to its limits.

"The grave of a woman!"

"A woman?" Morzan spun her around abruptly, his grip firm upon her shoulders, his gaze locking onto hers.

"The grave of a lady!" Selena’s voice found new strength. "Someone very important to my lord."

The man abruptly released her, turning back toward the window with his hands clasped behind him as he gazed at the distant hill. His expression revealed neither satisfaction nor displeasure, his thoughts unreadable.

For a long moment, he remained motionless. Then, without warning, he turned to her once more.

"Gather your things, Selena," he said simply. "We are leaving together for Urû’baen—to the king’s palace."

************************

A/N : When Murtagh speaks to Eragon about his parents, he claims that Selena fell in love with Morzan, but that Morzan merely exploited her love—taking pleasure in tormenting and using her.

I do not deny that such things happened later. However, I must point out that during the few times Murtagh lived with his parents, he was only three—at most, four—years old. What child at that age could truly comprehend the intimate nature of their mother and father's relationship? Especially one that existed before they were even born?

I believe Murtagh’s opinion is simply the perspective of an abused child—one whose scar speaks louder than his voice. It is his disappointment in a father who mistreated him, or perhaps his fragmented memories of witnessing his father torment his mother in fits of madness. Murtagh speaks as someone who believed Morzan was the reason his mother was taken from him—someone who, as is natural at that age, longed for her, cherished her.

I believe that just as Selena felt both attraction and vulnerability toward Morzan—using him, in a way, to elevate herself—Morzan, in turn, felt attraction to her and, perhaps, a certain weakness as well. He simply expressed it in the possessive manner he knew best.

Ultimately, the nature of Morzan and Selena’s relationship—at least in its beginnings—is left more to imagination than to direct depiction in the books.

Angela tells Eragon that Brom loved only one woman in his life—and that his love destroyed her. Given this, I considered the possibility that Selena might have been Morzan’s first relationship, as nothing in the text contradicts this idea.Considering the possessive nature of the red dragoness, it seems likely that Morzan had never been involved with another woman before Selena.

Furthermore, the notion that two former friends—who became the bitterest of enemies—shared the favor of only one woman in their lives, the same woman, intrigues me greatly.

Chapter Text

Selena leaned curiously against the stone balcony railing, her gaze drifting over the paved courtyard below, where the king’s men sparred in pairs, honing their swordsmanship.

They had begun to gather before the sun had even peeked over the distant, forested hills, preparing to bathe the dark stone in its morning light—the same stone that echoed beneath their booted feet and absorbed the sweat dripping from their leather-clad chests. The towering walls enclosing the inner courtyard magnified the noise, so that the clash of weapons already reverberated through most of the citadel.

Weapons training drew the attention of both the king’s officers and soldiers, who had left the barracks early to stake their claim in the challenge. Even the nobles and their pampered ladies, unfortunate enough to occupy apartments within the inner wings of the castle, were roused from their morning slumber by the clamor.

Selena watched as Morzan himself took the center of the inner courtyard, surrounded by half a dozen sparring partners who attacked him simultaneously. Many of the officers and soldiers participating in the morning drills, along with some of the servant aides, had drifted to the courtyard’s edges, observing the dragon rider as he countered their strikes—some in admiration, others critiquing his technique, and a few even attempting to mimic his movements and style.

Selena’s ears caught exclamations of admiration, murmurs of approval, and words of encouragement exchanged among comrades—along with a few ambitious wagers on the slim chance of victory. But she knew from experience that Morzan’s opponents stood no chance. The dragon rider, forged by years of relentless sword training and strengthened by his extraordinary bond with the dragon, always prevailed.

She had often watched Morzan train in the courtyard of his own castle—a routine he maintained rigorously to keep himself in peak condition. Though she knew the training blades were dulled by magic, his strikes remained powerful enough to break bones. More than a few of his servants had been left incapacitated after sparring with him.

The wagers would have been better placed on whether his opponents would walk away unscathed.

Selena noticed that while Morzan’s attacks remained as skillful as ever, they were deliberately restrained—he tempered the force of his strikes to avoid causing serious injury. After all, the dragon rider was in his king’s palace, and these swordsmen belonged to Galbatorix. Still, by day’s end, every one of them would be nursing a collection of bruises and cuts across their battered bodies.

Selena smirked with satisfaction, thinking that the real wager should be on who would emerge from Morzan’s blade with the fewest injuries.

She felt the first rays of morning sunlight spill onto the balcony, pleasantly warming her bare arms and making the fine down on her skin glisten.

Years of working outdoors on the farm had accustomed her to the sun, setting her apart from the delicate noblewomen of the court, who shied away from its light, their skin as pale as a fish’s flesh. She took pride in the healthy, golden hue of her complexion—reminiscent of sunlit fields of unharvested wheat basking in the gentle warmth of a spring afternoon.

She rested her chin on her crossed hands, lingering in admiration as she watched her lord effortlessly overpower his opponents.

Had she been free to do so, Selena would have already called out in support, tossing her silk-scented scarf into the courtyard for him—just as she had done countless times before in the courtyard of his own castle. She would have watched him pick it up and, with an unmistakable look of satisfaction, tie it proudly around his arm.

But that morning, she had to remain hidden on the balcony—for she had disobeyed his orders.

As the morning sunlight warmed her skin, her thoughts drifted to another time—the first time they had landed at the king’s palace. She remembered how, before their arrival, Morzan had flown her in a sweeping arc over the city, skimming low atop his red dragon’s back, proudly pointing out every sight worth seeing from above.

On their way to the capital, he had reached out to his trusted servant, who had long resided in Urû’baen. So by the time they arrived, the dragon rider’s quarters were fully prepared, and a dozen servants and attendants—assigned exclusively to his needs—stood in formation, awaiting his orders.

Selena was captivated by the sheer luxury and spaciousness of the chambers, as well as the many conveniences they offered. Morzan’s castle had its share of comforts and treasures, but it paled in comparison to the opulence of the capital’s palace. Even the servants’ liveries rivaled the splendor of their masters’ attire.

The private dinner that followed with the king—where Morzan introduced her to his lord and master—left Selena with the strongest impressions.

Galbatorix bore no resemblance to the figure she had imagined while living in the village—the image of a reclusive and fearsome ruler. Nor did he match the terrifying tales whispered among the villagers of Carvahall.

He was an imposing man, appearing slightly older than one who had just reached forty. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with only a hint of gray at his temples and skin the color of burnished copper, he exuded both commanding strength and undeniable grandeur. Yet, at the same time, he inspired admiration for his intellect and refinement.

Selena remained bowed deeply at his feet as Morzan spoke in that unfamiliar language he sometimes used.

Then, the king addressed her, granting permission to rise. He welcomed her to his residence and, with a few simple words, bestowed his blessing upon her union with his friend and most trusted right hand.

The dinner that followed was nothing short of a dream, exceeding even Selena’s highest expectations.

It wasn’t the lavish dishes or the magnificent table decorations—she had seen such splendor before in grand cities and within Morzan’s castle. What truly captivated her was the effortless eloquence flowing from the king’s lips, stirring admiration greater than anything she had ever felt for the reserved and rigid Morzan.

If Morzan could command her with his dynamic presence and masculinity—his rough, unrefined allure—the king was just as capable of leaving an indelible mark, perhaps even more so. He wielded his noble grace like a weapon, his honeyed speech laced with effortless charm, and his vast knowledge offered generously to his guests, drawing them in with the sheer force of his intellect.

And yet, the clever and ever-witty village girl from Carvahall had seamlessly embraced the role of a courtly lady. Her graceful, refined gestures, almond-shaped, innocent eyes, and sweet smiles—paired with her simple yet astute remarks—captivated the monarch, earning his admiration and praise.

Inspired by her presence, Galbatorix unfurled before his two guests a vision of a magical world—Alagaësia as he dreamed it for the future. The sheer power of his words and the force of his persuasion wove an irresistible tapestry of possibility, and by night’s end, Selena had become his most devoted subject.

That same night, swayed by her allure, elated by his master’s approval of their union, and intoxicated by the euphoria of the palace’s finest wine, Morzan claimed her with relentless fervor and untamed passion. He remained by her side until dawn, and for the first time, they shared breakfast together in bed—allowing Selena to bask in the depths of absolute happiness.

That first impression of her arrival at the palace soon gave way to disappointment.

Despite the king’s warm welcome, Selena quickly realized that the noble court remained—and would always remain—off-limits to her.

Morzan assured her it was for their own protection. His enemies lurked in the shadows, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And wasn’t weak, vulnerable Selena the ideal target to wound the powerful lord indirectly? Wouldn’t her mere presence by his side—the knowledge that she shared her life with him—be enough to place her in danger?

When she protested that at least a dozen servants had seen them arrive together, sharing the same chambers—and even the same bed—Morzan reassured her. His servants were bound by unwavering loyalty, sworn to secrecy in all matters concerning their master. Not one of them would whisper a word of her existence.

Selena had nothing to fear from them—so long as she remained within his quarters at all times. Above all, she was never to roam the castle alone; she was permitted only under his presence and supervision. As for stepping beyond its walls into the city—that was utterly out of the question.

The woman had long since mastered the art of concealing her pouts and fleeting displeasures. She feigned obedience and joy—especially when Morzan, eager to please her, presented a gift of exquisite beauty.

A gleaming gemstone set in a gold chain, meant to rest against her skin at all times whenever he was not by her side. According to his words, the enchantments woven into the stone would shield her from any would-be assassin who might slip past the protective spells securing his chambers—or elude the skill of his most formidable warriors.

That was why Selena had to remain unseen by her lord. His displeasure would be great if he discovered that, while he was occupied elsewhere, she had dared to step onto the balcony. And though his frustration might not be directed at her personally, she understood all too well the precarious position of his servants.

Still, Selena was certain that fear of punishment would keep all mouths sealed about her brief act of defiance. Besides, it was early morning—far too soon for any unexpected encounters with nobles, who were known to rise late.

Not only had she donned the protective pendant Morzan had gifted her, but she soon noticed one of his young servants—an exceptional swordsman, entrusted with her safety—shadowing her discreetly as she stepped onto the balcony.

Tornac, as she had heard the others call him, remained hidden within the alcove formed by two ornately carved pillars, his unwavering gaze fixed on her. His hand rested firmly on the hilt of his longsword, always ready at his side.

Selena exhaled, allowing herself to relax. The voices of the men in the courtyard pulled her from her memories, drawing her attention back to the scene below. By now, nearly all the swordsmen had abandoned their sparring, their focus locked on the dragon rider’s central group.

The original six opponents—visibly weary from their efforts—had just been joined by four more, each among the most skilled.

With a swift motion—one that reminded Selena of the speed and grace of a wildcat—Morzan struck again. He had kept the men outside the sweeping arc of his blade, but now, with this attack, he shattered their unified front, slipping skillfully beyond their encirclement.

"Isn't he remarkable, with such power and skill?"

Selena jolted, a shiver racing down her spine as the unexpected voice reached her ears. She turned, only to find the king himself standing right behind her, his presence commanding yet eerily quiet. His guards followed at a short distance, their imposing forms silhouetted against the morning light.

The clashing of weapons and the shouts from the courtyard had masked the sound of Galbatorix’s armored knights as they marched through the castle corridors in perfect military rhythm—a warning, usually unmistakable, of his impending arrival.

Selena bowed deeply, pressing one hand to her chest while holding the other slightly away from her body in a graceful display of deference. Her gaze remained lowered before the imposing presence of the monarch.

Galbatorix extended his gloved hand before her face, silently inviting her to rise. She touched the tips of her right fingers lightly to his index finger as she lifted herself with practiced grace.

Guiding her back to the balcony, he positioned her openly at his side, his dark eyes fixed on the display unfolding in the courtyard below. The sight of his warriors showcasing their prowess seemed to satisfy him immensely—enough that a restrained chuckle of approval escaped his lips.

"Selena!"

Without so much as a glance in her direction, he remained seemingly focused on the heart of the courtyard, his gloved fingers drumming a steady rhythm—an unconscious mimicry of the swordsmen’s footwork—against the stone balcony.

"Are you loyal to your lord? Are you loyal to your king?"

"Your Majesty," she responded, turning toward the one who had addressed her, her gaze settling for the first time on the striking contours of his profile. "I would give even my life for my beloved lord and my king."

Selena's cheeks flushed as she recalled her night with the dragon rider—his passionate kisses had kept her awake well past midnight. What she had spoken just now—she believed it, and she meant it.

"Hm…"

Galbatorix still had not turned toward her, his attention fixed on the failed assault of the ten against Morzan.

After a few moments of silence—during which Morzan once again repelled all his opponents and Selena mulled over the significance of both his question and her own answer—the king continued.

"Lord Morzan has many enemies—an inevitable consequence of his worth and his position at my side. The wretched ones, my dear, when they cannot—or will not—serve their king with the same unwavering loyalty as his true followers, turn instead against those useful to him and those he entrusts with his confidence.

Lord Morzan, as you likely know, is my most trusted confidant. For many years, he has been my only true friend. That, more than anything, is the reason his life is constantly in peril."

Selena waited in silence, hanging onto the king’s unfinished thoughts—his confession. Why had Galbatorix suddenly chosen to speak to her about this? About his personal bond with Morzan and the enemies that surrounded them? Was he trying to frighten her? To warn her? Or was this some veiled attempt to push her away?

Unease coiled in her chest. Until now, every encounter she’d had with the king—always in Morzan’s presence—had been nothing short of cordial. Never once had he shown displeasure toward her. Quite the opposite, in fact.

She bit the side of her tongue, steeling herself. No matter what was about to unfold, she would remain silent and composed.

One by one, the swordsmen in the courtyard yielded to her lord, sinking to their knees in recognition of his supreme skill. Cheers erupted from the spectators, exalting both him and his dragon.

Selena weighed her options. Now would be the perfect moment to slip away—back to Morzan’s chambers—if the king did not still command her attention.

"My dear child, allow me to escort you back to your chambers."

With a faint smile lingering on his lips, Galbatorix extended his arm, offering it with effortless grace.

Selena sensed—rather than truly knew—that the king was well aware of the secret thoughts and fears swirling in her mind. The realization unsettled her, stirring both irritation and unease—emotions she effortlessly concealed behind a sweet, practiced smile.

Lightly, she placed her hand on his sleeve and followed the monarch’s measured steps. His four armored guards advanced ahead, while the other four trailed a few paces behind.

The procession had yet to pass the two carved columns that cloaked the young servant in their shadows when, suddenly, steel flashed in Galbatorix’s hand—a dagger aimed straight at Selena’s throat.

Like an arrow loosed from a bow, Tornac sprang from his hiding place, his figure rising as a living shield between her and the royal blade. He did not hesitate, did not even consider drawing his sword against his king. Instead, he offered his own neck to the dagger’s edge—prepared to fall first, as the one sworn to her protection. And then, his fair lady.

The king let out a sinister laugh as he slid the dagger back into its sheath, the gleam in his eyes flickering with something unreadable. With a single, effortless gesture, he commanded the servant to step aside—clearing the way to once again offer his arm to Selena, who had gone pale with terror.

"You see, my dear, danger lurks around every turn in life, striking when and where we least expect it. That is why we must always be prepared."

He did not so much as spare the servant a glance, despite the man’s refusal to retreat fully. Tornac still stood at Selena’s side—unyielding, unmoved.

"Lord Morzan has wisely ensured your protection by placing a capable guardian at your side," Galbatorix mused, his voice deceptively smooth. "But as you yourself have seen, that alone is not enough. A loyal servant may be able to shield you—depending on who your enemy is."

With a sudden sweep of his hand, Galbatorix sent his four armored knights flying—the very ones who had been leading the way ahead of him and Selena. Armor clattered against the stone floor of the dim corridor, and pained groans echoed from the fallen men.

"This makes me wonder—am I sufficiently protected?" His voice, smooth yet edged with disdain, lingered in the air. "These four must be punished as an example. A mere servant stood in their king’s path, and they passed him by without so much as a second glance."

"Your Majesty," Selena bowed humbly once more, her voice unnervingly calm despite the fear she had just endured. "The faithful servant of my lord—and yours—has remained discreetly in place, watching over me all this time. I am certain your guards knew, long before now, that he posed no threat to you. I beg your magnanimity and mercy on their behalf."

Galbatorix lifted her once more, his gloved hand placing her delicate fingers back onto his arm with deliberate care. Light, reassuring taps against her wrist signaled his silent command, and together, they moved forward—passing the fallen guards without a glance.

The four who remained standing split apart: two advancing ahead, while the other two fell into step behind.

Without hesitation, Tornac stepped forward, slipping into place between the trailing guards, his stance firm, his presence unyielding.

"Dear Selena," the king's voice came slowly, drawn out—his tone advisory, almost paternal. He spoke as if addressing a wayward child, one whose misstep warranted guidance rather than punishment. His words were deliberate, his intent measured.

"I have always known that I am in no danger from that particular servant," he said. "But tell me—what better lesson could you have had to comprehend the threats you and your lord face than the one you have just witnessed?

Lord Morzan understands well that neither you nor he are endangered by me. However, he must prepare you properly—so that you may learn to defend yourself. You must be ready to serve him against his enemies and, by extension, serve me—his king.

And, my dear child, he must also teach you that any mercy shown to your enemy is nothing more than sustenance—nourishment that strengthens them, making them bold enough to strike when the moment is right.

So I ask you again, Selena—are you faithful to your lord? Are you faithful to your king?"

Galbatorix stood outside the entrance to Morzan’s chambers, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a haughty intensity.

"Are you worthy, Selena, to live at the side of the strongest lord in all of Alagaësia?"

She met her king’s gaze without hesitation, the fear that had gripped her earlier now entirely quelled.

"My answer is, and always will be, the same, Your Majesty. I would give even my life to serve my lord and my king. I would do anything to protect them against their enemies."

Galbatorix smiled at her, his expression laced with encouragement—yet beneath it lay a quiet challenge.

"Then, dear Selena, that remains to be proven. Those who serve me faithfully are rewarded beyond imagination.

Your lord will receive my direct orders regarding your preparation and training. If you succeed in your mission, know that your place in my court will be unrivaled—the most powerful position ever held by a woman.

The nobles of Alagaësia will bow to you with reverence, and the mighty of this world will envy your strength."

Selena’s eyes shone with exhilaration. A place in the king’s court—this was what she had long dreamed of, what she had craved. Without hesitation, she would swear loyalty to Galbatorix and his cause. She would embrace any mission assigned to her. She would undergo any training required to become formidable enough to protect herself.

Her mind brimmed with the promise of glory, with visions of the power the king had unfolded before her.

She watched as his armored knights withdrew down the corridor, escorting him until their forms faded into the shadows. A satisfied smile graced her lips as she stepped past the servant—her silent shadow since morning—and entered Morzan’s chambers.

She was about to order her attendants to prepare the bath—for herself and her lord, who would soon return from his morning training in the courtyard—when an unfamiliar voice disrupted her focus.

"My lady…"

Selena turned sharply. Before her, the young sword-bearing guard knelt on one knee, his head bowed in quiet shame. The sight unsettled her. He had spoken without being addressed first—a breach of decorum. As far as she could recall, no one had ever dared to do so.

"What is it?" she demanded, her tone cold and precise. Morzan would arrive at any moment. The presence of this young man was nothing more than an unwelcome interruption.

Without lifting his gaze, Tornac spoke again.

"I have failed, my lady, to protect you—and for that failure, I must be punished."

Selena stood tall and unwavering among her attendants.

For a brief moment, she imagined Morzan’s fury—if the dragon rider learned that she had disregarded his orders, wandering the castle alone and even daring to appear on the balcony above the training courtyard…

She knew she could expect his wrath, a storm of anger that, if not unleashed upon her, would surely fall upon the young man. And that, brave Tornac did not deserve.

Selena straightened, adopting the commanding air she had so often seen Morzan wield when addressing those beneath him.

"You protected me well," she declared. "You became the shield between me and the dagger that sought my life—despite knowing you could not raise a weapon against your king."

Tornac’s eyes remained fixed on the floor as he knelt before her—a silent indication that he did not grant himself the absolution she had offered.

Selena’s ears caught a sound echoing from deep within the corridor. If it was Morzan and his attendants approaching…

She stepped closer, her fingertips grazing Tornac’s shoulder with a quiet urgency.

"Listen carefully! Your lord must not know that I was on the balcony this morning. Perhaps he will hear it from the king himself, but certainly not from you. Obey me—keep my secret, and let this matter be settled.

Now go! Disappear at once!"

Without another word, Tornac bowed lower, his fingers grazing the hem of her long gown before lifting it to his lips in silent devotion. Then, with swift, deliberate steps, he withdrew from the room, slipping into the adjacent chamber to await his lord’s arrival—just as he had been commanded.

.*.

Thus, the beautiful Selena was bound to Morzan and his king, pledged to serve them wherever and however they saw fit. The price of her loyalty? A coveted place in the royal court—the dream of an ambitious village girl—along with the promise of power that would set her apart from all others in Galbatorix’s domain.

Selena would no longer be the weak village girl—the one whom two strangers had once forced down onto the wet grass of the Anora Riverbank, and who, if not for her lord’s timely intervention...

Now, her power would be absolute at the side of the man she had chosen to follow. Her glory would be radiant, rivaling even his own.

What splendid dreams carried her mind after that secret meeting with the king, high above the training courtyard of Urû’baen’s castle!

Selena—radiant with glory—standing to the left of his throne as nobles and their ladies bowed humbly before her. She envisioned a freedom she had never known with Morzan, a life unbound by restraint. She saw reverent bows from commoners as her adorned carriage rolled through the city streets, through their villages, leaving whispers of her name in its wake.

Even now, she could see the admiration in their eyes, the unspoken devotion that followed her every step. She rejoiced in advance at the name that would spread on every tongue—the name that would reach the farthest corners of Alagaësia.

A few days after that unexpected meeting on the balcony, the dragon rider presented Selena with a finely crafted light sword—perfectly balanced for a woman's hand. Alongside it, he bestowed a dagger with a silver hilt, intricately carved and adorned with shimmering gemstones.

The precious weapons were accompanied by an elegant leather ensemble tailored to her form—slim trousers, tall boots, and a protective chest vest. A matching leather belt and a sheath completed the set, designed for both function and beauty.

Though the clothing itself was practical, the belt and sheath bore exquisite embellishments. Ivy tendrils, so finely etched they seemed almost alive, curled along the dark leather, intertwined with delicate rosebuds that bloomed within the intricate patterns.

Selena feigned surprise at his gifts—unlike anything her lord had ever offered. That was what she told him, only to receive nothing in return but an unreadable glance from his shadowed eyes.

No explanation followed. Yet the next day, Morzan assigned Tornac to instruct her in the basics of swordplay. He oversaw the lessons himself, ensuring they took place in an isolated chamber deep within the palace—hidden from all prying eyes.

Beyond the blade, he took it upon himself to teach her the rudiments of magic, lessons designed for secrecy. She would learn to extract truths without detection, evade pursuit when needed, and defend herself against malevolent spells.

Selena learned to detect and neutralize poison in her food and drink. She mastered the art of shielding her mind against the assaults of malevolent sorcerers and persuading the ignorant and gullible to serve her cause.

Yet whether Morzan approved of her training or not, she never knew.

The dragon rider kept his thoughts guarded, offering no indication of how he viewed the skills she had acquired—the abilities of the woman who shared his bed and a part of his life. If he was pleased or disappointed, he gave no sign. Not even when the first mission orders arrived from his king did he betray a flicker of emotion—neither satisfaction nor displeasure.

Morzan had brought Selena to Urû’baen, presented her before Galbatorix, accepted his commands—and there was no turning back.

Even when Selena was away for long stretches to complete her mission, the dragon rider betrayed no sign that her absence had left any void in his life. He frequented the dragonhold as often as before, seeking the company of the one who, to him, was a second body and soul.

The dragoness rejoiced. For as long as the woman was gone, she never felt her rider sealing their bond one-sidedly, never sensed the weight of divided devotion.

If only the two-legs female remained away. The farther she was from her chosen one, the better.

Better still, if she never returned.

When Selena returned, her heart swelled with longing for her lord. And with her mission successfully completed, the dragon rider sought her out that very night.

For a moment—for both of them—it seemed as though nothing had changed.

But little by little, her missions grew more frequent—more demanding. Cold and merciless, time conspired to part them, pulling them apart again and again. Selena had secured the position she had always coveted within the royal court. As Morzan’s spy—his king’s most trusted operative—she had become their Right Hand.

Yet the first lie she uttered soon spiraled into deception and fraud. Deception bred intrigue, and intrigue fed murder.

As the shadows deepened, so too did her standing in the court—and with it, the stain upon her name. A name so infamous, so reviled, that it became synonymous with evil itself.

They now called her the Black Hand, for her beauty no longer beguiled—it had become nothing more than a vessel for cruelty.

Her weapons were the sweet, innocent smiles and the almond-shaped eyes that concealed poison and murder, the dagger she wielded in deceit.

And all who knew of her came to loathe her—until their hatred for her was complete.

The first intoxication Morzan had felt for her—the first spark—had long since dimmed. The presence of the spy—and murderer—who had been absent for months now felt more like an obligation than a necessity. He wielded her as a weapon against his enemies, no longer drawn to her in the quiet hours of the night as he once had.

The fine wine of the cellars, once a source of warmth and solace, had turned against him. What once soothed his soul now only corroded it. The quantities he drank grew ever larger, and with them, his dragon’s fits of madness became more frequent. Three years had passed with the woman by his side, yet they had not left him unchanged. He was no longer as he had been—but worse than when their acquaintance had first begun.

Rivers of red blood—once staining the blade of his sword—he now saw filling his goblet, replacing the crimson wine. Small, slaughtered bodies surfaced from the depths, rising each time he brought the cup to his lips, forcing him to drain it swiftly—to rid himself of the phantom vision.

And so it repeated, again and again, until dawn—until rivers of blood pooled at his feet, creeping toward him like a living tide. Until the bodies of the slain swelled in number, tumbling from the walls, crashing upon him, threatening to consume him whole.

Then he screamed incantations, his voice frayed with desperation, clawing at unseen forces to shield himself. His hand flew to the sword ever at his side—to strike, to carve through the ghosts that had come to haunt him.

At the same time, the dragon raged, thrashing against the stone floor, its fury shaking the chamber as smoke and fire roared in its wake. Woe to the unfortunate soul who stood in their path—for nothing could halt the storm they had become.

.*.*.

The night lay cold, wrapped in impenetrable darkness. The winter solstice had passed—celebrated in the homes of common folk—when the murderess returned once more to Urû’baen’s castle. Her beautiful lips curled into a satisfied smile, and her hands, hastily washed of the blood spilled in crime, bore faint traces of her deeds. She met her king, poised and unshaken, ready to report the success of her mission.

Satisfied with his approval, she withdrew from the throne room, paying no mind to the revulsion—or the fear—etched into the faces of nobles and servants alike. With steady steps, she made her way toward the chambers where she lived with her lord.

She found Morzan sprawled on the sofa in her sitting room, a goblet in hand, half the pitcher of wine already drained.

To Selena, he seemed slightly dazed. A vivid gleam shone in his blue eye, while the black remained strangely clouded. His boots—discarded by his own hand—lay scattered across the floor alongside his jacket and vest. Even his shirt hung loose at the chest, its laces undone, as if restraint had abandoned him altogether. Yet, for all his carelessness, one thing remained untouched—his sword, its sheath placed neatly at his side, ever within reach.

Selena cast him a glance before disappearing into the adjoining room—her bath chamber. He had known she would arrive at the palace, yet the dragon rider had made no effort to greet her in the courtyard. Nor had he waited in the royal chambers.

"Where are my women to prepare my bath?" She found only a few buckets of cold water beside her, the basin left empty.

"I sent them all away," came his heavy reply.

The woman undressed deliberately before him, stepping into her bath with quiet murmurs, leaving the door intentionally ajar. Even if Morzan was trapped in one of his dark moods tonight, she would not forgo the chance to rid herself of the grime of the road—cold water or not.

She emptied the buckets herself, pouring the chilled liquid into the basin, then whispered two magical words, willing the water to warm. All she managed, however, was a wave of dizziness—a consequence of both the drain of magic and the exhaustion etched into her bones.

She leaned over the edge of the bath, splashing water onto her face in a desperate attempt to steady herself—when behind her, his mocking laughter rang out. Before she could turn, his fingers tightened like a steel band around her forehead, and his will—sharp as a piercing spike—drove into her mind.

"My lord!"

Powerless against his strength, Selena yielded to hands she had known so well—yet now, they felt like the talons of a predator, sinking deep into her thoughts.

"The only thing I care to learn from you is whether you still remain faithful to me—or if you've given your lips to another." His voice was mercilessly harsh, his resolve unyielding as he sought the truth he demanded.

Selena relaxed further, yielding to his search, allowing him—of her own free will—to delve into the deepest recesses of her mind. She let him read even the most secret corners of her thoughts, certain that whatever he found would bring him satisfaction.

"You know well that many have been deceived— believing they had the right to drink from the cup that Morzan himself drinks from. But that delusion became their ruin. Yes, my lord, not only am I still faithful to you, but for as long as Selena lives, she will remain faithful to Morzan—forever."

He released her forehead, turning her abruptly, his mismatched gaze sinking deep into the eyes of the woman before him. He felt her naked flesh tremble from the cold, fragile within his embrace. Her unbound hair tangled in his long fingers, while her lips—just as they had been before, just as they had always been— remained two juicy cherries, waiting for him to harvest them.

He lifted her into his arms, murmuring a single word, and at once, the cold water warmed. Selena’s body sank gently into the heated liquid, her muscles loosening as the rising steam curled around her, drawing her deeper into quiet surrender.

She traveled once more within his embrace, as she had before—a far-reaching journey, soaring toward the heavens. And only his wild kisses could bring her back to the earth.

The longest night of the year held them within its depths, wrapping them in darkness until dawn. The dragoness had gone hunting in the northern forests, showing no sign of returning soon.

And as the first light of the new day emerged, Selena felt, with quiet certainty, that for them, a new life was about to begin.

.*.*.*.

Eight weeks had passed—perhaps fewer—since that night with Morzan when Selena first sensed the shift within her body. At first, she waited, certain that time would dismiss the fleeting notion. Yet instead of fading, the impression only strengthened, growing undeniable with each passing day. With astonishment, she recognized the truth—what had never happened in the three and a half years by his side was happening now.

Joy followed surprise. Yet lately, her bond with the great lord had felt fragile, stretched thin by distance and silence. She spent her days consumed by missions, leaving often—only to return and find him buried in his wine cellar, his gaze clouded as he looked at her, sometimes without truly seeing. From her servants, she heard whispers of his violent fits of rage, the dragon’s wild fury that shook the palace to its core.

And then, he too left her behind—often choosing absence during the very days Selena remained in Urû’baen. For weeks, he would vanish, soaring away with the red beast, never offering a word of where he went, what he did, or when he would return.

For weeks now, the stagnant past had begun to unravel, taking a different course. How often had she felt everything shift—ever drawn back to its original state Now, brimming with joy, Selena resolved to share the great news with Morzan—the light that would illuminate their bond and their life ahead.

It happened on a golden afternoon in her sitting room —when the first timid stirrings of an early spring brushed against the tree branches in the flower garden, their pale sunlight pleading for the budding to begin. All warmth, all radiance—her joy drawn from the new life blossoming within—Selena revealed to Morzan that by summer’s end, his child would be born.

He stood stunned as the unexpected news struck him.

His blue eye clouded with fury, while the black blazed—flashing and thundering with rage. More enraged at himself than at her—for allowing this to happen, for failing to see the treachery weaving itself at his feet, for not recognizing, at once, the bond that could make him a captive to his enemies—he paced the sitting room like a cornered beast. Foreign words spilled from his lips, his clenched fists slashing through the air, as small objects shattered against the walls.

Selena froze—first in shock, then in fear.

In all the years she had stood by his side, shared his life, she had never seen his fury burn so fiercely against her. And she understood all too well—the news she had just spoken was, unmistakably, the spark that had ignited his boundless rage.

She saw him pause, his hand raised—ready to unleash words, his silvered palm already gleaming with hidden magic.

"No! My lord, wait!"

The woman fell to her knees before him, clutching her belly, her breath unsteady.

"Wait, my lord… wait, my dearest… my beloved…"

Morzan’s eyes blazed. He had raised his hand abruptly, poised to unleash the magical curses that would snuff out the life within her womb—forcing it from existence. And the woman had understood his intent.

She crawled across the floor before him, sobbing, begging, stripped of all pride. Reaching him, she wrapped her arms around his legs, mourning, her bitter tears soaking his boots. She kissed his knees, pleading—not as the proud woman he had long known, nor as the lover who had shared his bed for years, but as a mother. A mother who would do anything to save her child.

A mother…

Morzan lowered his hand—the same hand he had so easily raised in rage, poised to reap with death the life he had sown.

The woman’s words dissolved into incoherent ramblings as she clung desperately to his legs, her body wracked with sobs. Yet one phrase remained, cutting through the chaos, whispered over and over—

"...I beg you..."

Morzan bent down to lift her by the arms. He had to convince her that whatever was to happen would be for their own good. But the woman clung to him, burying her face against his chest. Her words and pleas were swallowed by silence. He saw only the frail tremor of her shoulders as she wept.

Morzan remained unmoved. His rage may have settled somewhat, but the anger still smoldered within him. With his silvered palm, he searched harshly over her belly, seeking the right point, feeling her shudder with fear.

Paying her no mind, Morzan focused…

…yes, he felt it stir—just as its mother did… and it was already formed… a tiny human figure, moving its arms and legs… opening and closing its mouth, as if it, too, were pleading for its life… and it was… male…

Morzan yanked his hand away from the woman's belly just as abruptly, placing her at the edge of the armchair. His relentless pacing resumed within the chamber.

Within Selena, his son was growing—and now, he had to put an end to this life, this binding circumstance that shackled him more than anything. The woman would have to accept it, whether she liked it or not. He couldn't allow her to become a mother.

A mother?

The memory surfaced, unbidden…

Morzan had spent no more than four years in his bleak life in Teirm when the belly of the forsaken servant swelled once more—this time, the cause was one of the many lovers who frequented the shack at nights.

His mother had kept her pregnancy a secret from him. At his young age, he wouldn’t have understood even if she had tried to explain. Lately, he had merely found the growing swell of her belly peculiar—but as a child, it had never occurred to him to ask.

One night, however, he awoke to the sound of muffled cries and groans of pain coming from his mother’s bed. And that was when she finally revealed her secret—soon, a new baby would arrive in their small shack.

Morzan felt neither joy nor sorrow—only puzzlement. He sat in a corner, waiting for this unexpected, long-delayed arrival. The night passed, and dawn revealed a scene of quiet terror—his mother lay still, the sheets beneath her soaked in blood. She no longer groaned or wept, only cradled a small bundle at her side.

The little boy rose from his corner and approached hesitantly.

"Has the baby come, mother?" he whispered, believing she was asleep and wouldn’t hear him. But the woman sighed and nodded—it had arrived. Morzan climbed onto the bed, carefully avoiding the blood, his gaze locked on the bundle. "What will we name our baby, mother?" he asked.

"We won’t need to name it, my little one." His mother’s voice, thick with sorrow, startled him—was her pain from the blood she had lost, soaking her long shirt and the bed? "Our baby has already left us… and now it journeys beyond."

"But…" The boy placed his tiny hand upon the blood-soaked bundle beside his mother’s pillow. "Shouldn’t our baby have a name—even if it journeys far away from us?"

His mother paused, silently swallowing her grief in a breathless sob—but he had already sensed the depth of her sorrow, even as she tried to hide it from him.

"We can… Yes, why not? We can give this baby the name your father bore. He, too, was a sailor— always traveling far from us." At last, his mother spoke, her voice unsteady as she prepared to utter a name she had never confessed before.

The little boy stared at her, puzzled, waiting. He nudged the tiny bundle with his small finger—but it did not stir.

“Murtagh,” his mother finally whispered. “That is the name we will give our baby. We shall call it together this one last time—and then, we shall forget it forever… yes?"

"Murtagh!"

Morzan turned to Selena, his mismatched eyes blazing—not with fury at her, but at the weakness that had overtaken him, dragging him back into memories he had long sought to bury.

The woman sat in silence, her eyes brimming with tears, drops falling onto her bare hands, woven together over her belly. She waited, desperate, for the terrible lord’s decision.

Morzan bit his lip in frustration. What a gift this was to his enemies—to know his greatest weakness! Something they could so easily turn against him and…

The thought of his enemies clouded his mind once more with rage, strengthening the idea his mother’s memory had planted within him.

Within this woman's womb, something of his own grew—his flesh, his blood. And would he truly allow his enemies to force him to spill his own blood, to end the life of his own son?

No. He would grant them no such favor!

This child was his—his blood, his flesh, a part of his very being. No. He would not grant his enemies that satisfaction, would not wound his own flesh by his own hand.

At that moment, the dreadful lord made his decision—the boy would be born, alive and strong.

But not by this woman’s foolish means. She never should have spoken of her secret within the walls of Urû’baen’s castle. Without a doubt, before she had even uttered the truth, Galbatorix—who let nothing escape him—had already learned of it.

Yes, the child would be born! But within his own castle, hidden from all, its very existence sealed away forever. Kept secret from everyone—as it should be.

Everyone, except now, their king.

"Murtagh!"

Selena's eyes lifted to her master. His terrible gaze sent ice through her heart, the blue vein at his temple pulsing once more. His expression spoke of something dreadful in the making—her pleas had not moved him. His lips curled into a fearsome smile.

Was this her punishment? Retribution for the blood she had spilled—or for the blood spilled because of her? But it was the servants of his enemies who had perished… Was this how he would repay her loyalty and service? By killing their own child?

She steeled herself, ready to face whatever was to come. Desperate, she braced for the fatal curse to spill from his lips. Her hands clenched instinctively, pressing firmly against her belly—such a fragile shield for her child, for the hope of a future at his side.

And at that moment, for the first time in her life, she wished for death to take her too.

But… instead of what she had expected, she watched as—little by little—the lord’s gaze softened. The grim twist of his lips faded, and his face, once more, became beautiful yet terrifying, just as it had been the first day she laid eyes on him.

To Selena, it seemed he was looking at her now with that same gaze from long ago.

She held her breath, thinking her heart might burst.

"Murtagh," the lord repeated. "His name will be Murtagh!"

***********************

A/N: The chapter title "New Life" refers to both the new life Selena begins within the king’s castle—her career as the Black Hand—and the new life growing within her.

Galbatorix presents Selena with the same magical world he will later unveil to her son—the "gilded lies" Murtagh will one day speak of.

I found it fitting to introduce the young Tornac. If he is now around twenty years old, then by the time of his death—when he escapes with Murtagh—he will be close to forty. I always found it striking that Murtagh initially refers to him as a "servant" when speaking to Eragon. Through this perspective—given that Tornac was a skilled swordsman in Morzan’s service—he truly was a servant.

I believe Morzan already had complete control over Selena. I don’t think he needed Murtagh to strengthen that hold. If he kept him alive—when it would have been so easy to dispose of him before birth or immediately after—it was because he truly wanted him.

Chapter Text

A/N: I’ve decided to merge the two chapters of Arya’s story into this chapter of Inheritance, adding more about Brom as well.

************************

Deep within the heart of the Elven Forest, where the elusive borders of Ellesméra dissolve into winding alleyways, flourishing gardens, and sky-kissed treehouses, a hidden spring whispered its eternal song. Cold, crystalline water spilled from timeworn rocks, pooling in a natural basin until it formed a mirror-like pond—its surface undisturbed but for the gentle caress of the breeze. The ancient trees, their branches heavy with the wisdom of ages, leaned over the glassy water, their reflections flickering like specters of forgotten days. Birds and wild creatures arrived in silent procession, dipping their wings and lips into the silver depths, the hush of their presence blending seamlessly with the forest’s hushed breath.

Hidden away from prying eyes, veiled beneath a canopy of whispering ferns and dense, sheltering shrubs, lay the sanctuary of the young elf maiden. Towering trunks, wrapped in lush climbing vines, stood as silent sentinels, guarding the sacred solitude of that secluded grove. Those who wandered the solitary path stretching from the city to the Crags of Tel'naeír, winding its way through the ancient forest, might—if they peered carefully through the emerald tangle—glimpse the fleeting figure within, a quiet presence woven into the very fabric of the woodland’s breath.

Resting against the fallen trunk of an ancient plane tree, her jet-black hair tumbled in loose waves over delicate shoulders, catching the golden light that filtered through the canopy above. Her long legs were drawn close to her chest, bare feet whispering against the rough bark, heedless of its rugged touch. Time slipped through her fingers as she drifted into reverie, emerald eyes—feline and luminous—locked upon some distant, unseen world, immersed in silent contemplation.

Whenever she could steal away from the endless duties and expectations woven around her by the elves—for she was no mere maiden, but their princess—she would flee to this hidden haven, slipping behind the sheltering shrubs as if vanishing from the world itself.

Here, the untouched spring welcomed her, its waters cool against her bare feet and proud brow, a whisper of solace amidst the weight of responsibility. Long hours drifted by in hushed reverie, the rustling leaves her only companion as she lost herself in thought or traced the delicate ink of an ancient manuscript—a stolen treasure from the depths of the library. Through its fragile pages, she sifted remnants of a forgotten past, piecing together fragments of wisdom from those who had once walked beside her father, the king.

For the young elf maiden did not remember him.

She had entered the world but a year before Galbatorix and his Forsworn cast their shadows over Vroengard—born a mere sixteen moons before the battle of Ilirea stole her father’s life and shattered the world she might have known. And yet, despite the veil of time, despite the absence that stretched like an ocean between them, Arya—such was her name—had learned to love him, not from memory, but from the whispers of those who had once stood at his side.

She had been taught to cherish the great absent figure in her life for his virtues—the very same virtues still whispered among the people of Ellesméra, as though time itself had preserved his legacy in reverence. Alone or guided by her tutors, she had spent countless hours in the library, tracing ink-stained pages filled with the chronicles of his reign, piecing together fragments of a history that had once belonged to him.

And in her possession lay a singular portrait—delicately rendered by her mother, the queen, in the fleeting days that followed her birth. A face she had never truly known, yet one that lingered in the echoes of her earliest days.

Islanzadí, the queen whom the elves had chosen to succeed her fallen husband, bore her sorrow in silence, weaving it into the fabric of her duties, allowing no crack for grief to spill through. Yet the enchanted portrait, a relic of gentler days, remained—a reminder too vivid to endure. Unable to gaze upon its likeness without awakening ghosts of the past, she surrendered it, placing it in the hands of her only daughter, a quiet offering of memory and love.

She placed the portrait in her chamber, positioning it across from her bed, where his gaze would forever meet hers. For hours, she stood before it, tracing each delicate contour—the solemn curve of his brow, the quiet strength in his features, the fine embroidery of his royal garment. And his hair—long, silver as starlight, so strikingly different from her own—became etched in her mind, a whispered inheritance from a man she had loved without ever knowing.

She would gaze at him, absentmindedly murmuring the words etched into the ancient scrolls, reciting all that had been written of his life and deeds—all that had been sung in halls or whispered in remembrance.

In time, Arya came to revere this king, this distant father whose presence lived only in ink and melody. Yet from within the frame, he watched her—motionless eyes, lips curved into a smile that had never been meant for her. A smile caught between past and present, frozen in time.

The queen mother was unsettled when she uncovered the depth of her daughter's growing fixation.

The elves of the ancient woodland—eternal kin to trees that whispered through centuries—were bound to death no more than the towering mountains and solid cliffs—enduring, unyielding, requiring countless cycles of winter before they would crumble into dust. And so, they cherished life beyond all else, weaving their sorrow into the melody of the forest, burying wounds beneath the hush of leaves and birdsong, never speaking of what was lost.

The queen mother counseled her daughter, reminding her that a princess belonged not to herself, but to her people. She wove lessons into each day, binding Arya’s time with history and duty, speaking of their kind’s struggle for survival amid the trials of an uncertain age. She was fifteen now—mourning beneath the weight of sorrow was neither healthy nor useful. There was too much left to do, too many expectations to meet. She ought to look forward, not back, to channel her devotion into the living rather than dwell before the still gaze of a dead king, a lost father. The elven celebrations—where voices rose in song, honoring those forever gone—should suffice.

The same conversations, woven into countless days, began to press heavily upon the daughter’s heart, each word carving unseen fractures into the bond between her and the queen mother. What had once been quiet distance turned to cold silence, an unspoken struggle brewing in the spaces between their words. A rift, hidden beneath the surface, smoldering like embers beneath ash. One day, the embers would burst into flame, and no one could ignore the blaze.

Emotions such as these had no place in the world of the elven forest, where the eternal ones wove their bonds through quiet grace and formal ritual. Their relationships, sculpted by centuries of tradition, allowed no space for open discord, no room for reckless sentiment. And so, the young elf maiden—lesser in years, bound by status—learned to yield, to swallow her anger whole, letting it slip through her fingers like mist before the dawn.

Burdened by the quiet restraint of a distant mother, and forever holding in her mind the solemn features of the man in the portrait, she found solace in the hidden embrace of the secluded spring. There, where the world softened into stillness—alone and unseen, or so she believed—she allowed the words from ancient manuscripts to unfurl in her thoughts like whispers of forgotten days. In them, she sought traces of the one lost too soon, too irreversibly. The one for whom she believed she would always grieve. Her father.

Melancholy and estranged from the many, she sought solace in the cold waters, in the ancient trees, in the deserted pathways she wandered alone.

Yet the forest never truly kept secrets, and silence was never truly empty.

Beyond the birds and wild creatures that frequented the spring, there were two figures whose presence the young elf maiden had come to notice—a silent thread woven into the solitude of her sanctuary. One was an elf, dwelling in a solitary treehouse nestled among the thick foliage, concealed by the embrace of the leaves yet near enough to remain a quiet presence; the other, a sorrowful human, his existence etched into the shadows, lingering in the embrace of the woodland that had sheltered him for years.

The first figure, a young elf wrapped in silence, spent his days and nights alone. His treehouse—woven into existence far from the others—stood as a quiet testament to his longing for solitude. Perched upon a branch, he would sit motionless for hours, whispering to the birds, tracing the patterns of the leaves as they swayed in the breeze. And sometimes, his voice—soft, melodic—rose from the depths of his solitude, carried by the wind through the foliage, reaching the pond with a longing that remained unspoken.

Did his gaze linger upon her from afar, unseen yet certain? Had her early beauty stirred something within his heart, something fragile and undefined? Or was it their shared yearning for quiet places, for the comfort of solitude, that bound their souls like kin?

The other, the sorrowful human, often walked the path that wound its way from Ellesméra, threading through the vast woodland toward the distant cliffs—the crags of Tel’naeír, where silence itself bore witness to ancient grief. There, beneath the watchful sky, dwelled the Mourning Sage—the elder keeper of lamentations—and his lifelong companion, broken yet whole in the quiet way of those who have endured too much. In solitude they had chosen to remain—the one whose body had betrayed him, and the creature who had bound its very soul to his.

Oromis the Wise, last of the Dragon Riders, and his golden dragon, Glaedr—the only ones who had escaped the massacres, though not unscathed. Both wounded, both broken, concealed within the forest’s embrace by elven magic, their existence a whispered secret to the world beyond.

It was there that the human’s slow steps led him—the one whom the elves had long called "Brom with the sorrowful eyes," for he and his lost dragon had once walked among them as students.

He passed in silence, shoulders bowed beneath unseen burdens, gaze trapped in the ever-receding visions of the past, feet heavy upon the earth as though reluctant to carry him forward. And at times—especially on his return—he would pause upon the far bank of the pond, lean over its still waters, and quench his thirst not with cupped hands, but by pressing his scarf to the surface, letting the cold seep into its fibers before drawing it back to his lips.

At times, the elf would approach as well, stroking the wild creatures that emerged at dusk to quench their thirst—his fingers gliding over fur and feather as if weaving silent verses into their untamed forms, tracing the hidden rhythms of their existence. He counted the ferns as if they held secrets only he could decipher, as though each delicate frond whispered a truth beyond words.

And the others spoke of him—without malice, without certainty—whispering his name as though it were prophecy. Fäolin, forever drifting through worlds unseen.

If the young elf maiden were to choose companions within the forest, they would not be those who stood beside her in the throne hall or lingered in the corridors of the elven palace. She would not seek the company of those who trained at her side in the fields of weaponry, nor those who read with quiet diligence at the long, narrow table in the libraries. Instead, she would turn to the ones who lingered at the edges of solitude—the silent figures whose presence wove into her lonely hours, with whom only a handful of words had ever passed between them.

And so, the springs unfurled their blossoms around the young elf maiden, weaving petals into passing time, until the fifteen-year-old grew into the grace and beauty of a young elven woman.

.*.

The elven forest had become his refuge, a realm untouched by the cruelty of men. Its ancient boughs whispered secrets older than time, while the gentle hands of its people had healed his body. Yet the ache within—deep and unrelenting—was beyond their power. It was a wound of the soul, etched by betrayal, by longing, by love never truly lost but forever out of reach.

She was the light that once guided him, the melody that had shaped his years. In the quiet moments, when the wind carried soft echoes of laughter through the trees, he could almost feel her presence. And each time, his heart stirred, aching anew, for she was his eternity, his dream—and yet, in the cruel twist of fate, she was also the void he could never fill.

Her absence had unraveled him, pulling at the very fabric of his soul, leaving only threads of longing and sorrow. The forest, with all its ancient magic, could not soothe the wound that fate had carved so cruelly into his being. No whisper among the leaves, no murmuring stream, could summon her back. He was adrift—caught between the world of the living and the endless echoes of the past.

Each night he reached for her in his dreams, hoping to find her in the silver mist that danced along the forest floor. He spoke her name in the stillness, yet it was only the wind that answered, carrying his desperate plea through the branches like a lament. And still, he searched—through memories too painful to bear, through half-forgotten laughter that lingered like ghosts—always chasing the impossible, the lost, the forever gone.

His mind had shattered like glass, splintering into fragments that refused to fit together again. The moment she was lost, the world unraveled beneath him, and the weight of sorrow threatened to drown him entirely. Madness became his refuge—a dark cocoon that shielded him from the unbearable truth. It wrapped him in shadows, muffled his anguish, turned his grief into an endless blur where time had no meaning.

And yet, the elves refused to let him slip away completely. They became his tether to the world he no longer wished to inhabit. Their voices were constant, gentle waves lapping against the storm-torn shores of his mind. They spoke to him of the stars, of the whispers carried on the wind, of the life that still remained—if only he could grasp it. Their songs wove through the tangled corridors of his thoughts, threads of light piercing the suffocating dark.

It was not an easy battle, nor a swift one. The equilibrium they sought to restore was fragile at best, a wavering balance between despair and survival. And yet, somehow, against the cruel decree of fate, they succeeded. He emerged from the abyss—not whole, never whole again—but pieced together just enough to walk forward, even with the weight of loss pressing on his soul.

The forest had nurtured him, the elves had mended him, and time had done its slow, relentless work—but some wounds were beyond even the reach of centuries. Brom had emerged from the depths of his broken mind, forged anew, yet altered forever. His body carried the strength of survival, his thoughts no longer drifted into the abyss, but his heart… his heart remained a battlefield.

The elves saw the truth in him, the darkness that smoldered beneath the surface. They did not judge him for it; they merely understood. For wisdom was not granted to those who clung to sorrow, and peace was lost to those whose souls had been burned by hatred’s cruel fire. Brom no longer wandered blindly through madness, but neither did he walk freely in the realm of light. He was something in between—a man hardened by loss, shaped by grief, bound by fury that had taken root so deeply, no force in existence could pry it loose.

Morzan’s mercy was no mercy at all—it was punishment in its most insidious form. Had he delivered the killing blow, Brom's agony would have ended in that instant. But instead, Morzan had chosen to leave him breathing, knowing full well that life without Saphira was no life at all. It was existence stripped of meaning, a hollow endurance, a suffering that would stretch across years with no reprieve.

Brom had come to understand this bitter truth: his enemy had not spared him out of kindness, but out of cruelty. Morzan had ensured that Brom would live on as a fractured man, his wounds never able to close, his rage never able to burn out. Each sunrise was a mockery, each breath a reminder that he had been condemned to witness a world that no longer contained his heart’s treasure.

And so, hatred became the one thing he could claim as his own. It was his fuel, his fire, the unrelenting force that kept him moving forward. If he was doomed to exist, then he would shape that existence into something sharp, something resolute—he would become the reckoning that Morzan had not foreseen. Let him choke on his own pity. Brom had no use for it.

In the desolation of Tel’naeír’s crags, where the wind whispered the language of ancient times, stood a solitary cabin—a refuge, simple yet sacred. Here, the wise had once found solace, and it was within these walls that Oromis chose to dwell, far from the chaos of the world, accompanied by his dragon, Glaedr. This place had been crafted for peace, for contemplation. But for Brom, it was something more—it was the only place where he could seek comfort, though that comfort came at a cost.

Sometimes, his footsteps led him there, as if the wisdom housed within the wooden walls called to him, the knowledge embedded in its silent embrace drawing him closer. Yet each time his gaze met the dragon’s, his wounds reopened, as if they had been etched too deeply within him, impervious to time’s passage.

Oromis, the mentor who had once guided him with patience and truth, saw the agony in his former pupil’s eyes. He did not attempt to force peace upon him—he knew this was a battle Brom had to fight alone, and perhaps one he would never win. Still, he spoke, he soothed, weaving fleeting moments of tranquility into the tempest of Brom’s soul.

And Oromis himself… was not untouched by time, nor by suffering’s weight. Perhaps that was why he understood so well. For he bore his own scars—scars unseen, but just as deep as the sorrow he witnessed before him.

The cabin called to him, an unseen force pulling Brom through the dense woodland, compelling him forward even when his mind rebelled against its summons. There was something in its quiet solitude, something tethered to his fate—a reason he could not grasp, yet one that refused to release him.

Each time, he arrived with heavy steps, his soul burdened with the weight of grief that had never faded. And each time, regret gnawed at him the moment the cabin came into view. Madness whispered at the edges of his thoughts, curling through the raw wounds of his heart, blurring the fragile line between memory and reality.

Oromis would be there, waiting, his presence steady as the wooden walls surrounding him. But Brom could not bear it. Not the dragon’s gaze, not his master’s unwavering patience, not the questions that pressed against the silence. He would hesitate, one foot caught between staying and fleeing—before retreat overtook him, driving him back the way he had come. Always drawn, always escaping.

As his weary steps led him back toward Ellesméra, he would pause by the hidden pond, its waters cool and silent beneath the embrace of ancient trees. He knelt, letting the liquid soothe his parched throat, though it could do nothing for the fire that smoldered in his chest.

And then—he would see the elven girl.

She was seated at a distance, a quiet presence against the backdrop of shifting light, watching him. Not with idle curiosity, not with hesitation or fear, but with something far more piercing—understanding. Her emerald gaze settled upon him like a whisper through the leaves, unspoken yet undeniable, reaching places within him he had long kept guarded. There was no question in her stare, no inquiry—only knowledge, as if she saw what lay beneath the surface, as if she traced the jagged edges of his pain without need for words.

It unnerved him. It unsettled him. He had grown accustomed to sidelong glances, to whispers in the trees, to the way others looked upon him with pity or unease. But this—this was different. This was something that felt like truth, unspoken yet impossible to ignore.

Brom understood pain—not the fleeting sting of a wound that fades with time, but the kind that carves itself into the very essence of a soul, never truly healing. And in the quiet presence of the elven girl, he recognized that same unhealed sorrow. It was not visible in her stance, nor written upon her face, but woven into the depths of her gaze—an ache that set her apart from the serene grace of her kin.

He did not need words to know. He did not need stories to understand. Some wounds did not require explanation.

So he did the only thing he could do—he bowed, a silent gesture of respect, an acknowledgment of the suffering they both carried. And then, without a word, without a lingering glance, he turned away, moving swiftly down the path, careful not to disturb the fragile sanctuary of her grief.

The years had not dulled his rage—they had sharpened it. Like steel tempered in fire, his hatred had become something precise, something unyielding, honed by the relentless weight of memory. Time had steadied his mind, but it had done nothing to soothe the fury that burned within him. If anything, it had fanned the flames.

Vengeance became his sustenance, the only purpose left in the hollow wreckage of his existence. He had lost too much—his love, his place in the world, his identity as a Dragon Rider. But what had been stolen could not be reclaimed. Only vengeance remained, cold and unwavering, the singular goal that kept his body moving, his heart beating. And among Galbatorix’s Forsworn, one name stood above all the rest, a name that filled him with rage so consuming it threatened to eclipse even his grief.

…Morzan…

For too long, Brom had been the one left behind, condemned to bear the weight of a world forever lost. But vengeance would change that—it would shift the balance, rewrite the past in blood. And when the day came, when at last he faced the man who had torn his life asunder, Brom would ensure that Morzan’s fate was carved in the very suffering he had inflicted.

Not even the melodies woven by elven voices, rich with wisdom and sorrow, nor the verses inked onto the delicate pages of ancient poetry could ease the restlessness that gripped him. Not even Oromis, with his measured words and knowing gaze, could steady the storm that raged within him.

The need to leave had become insatiable—a force beyond reason, beyond control. It was no longer a mere thought but a living hunger, clawing at his soul, demanding escape. To linger was to suffocate beneath the weight of everything lost. To stay was to drown in memories that refused to fade.

And so, it surged—wild, untamed—like a river breaking its banks, like flames consuming a dry forest. No gentle hand could restrain it. No wisdom could quell it. Nothing could hold it back any longer.

His visits to the windswept crags of Tel’naeír had become more than habit—they were compulsion, necessity. Each time, he stood before his masters, the weight of his fury pressing against his ribs, the fire in his heart growing wilder, unchecked. He no longer approached as a pupil seeking guidance but as a man hardened by grief, his resolve set in stone.

And as he gazed upon them—the limping golden one and the last Rider, draped in robes of white—did he finally see what had been there all along? Did he notice, at last, the stillness of their wings, the way the sky no longer cradled them in flight? The realization flickered at the edge of his thoughts, but it did not deter him. It only steeled his resolve.

Oromis, the mourning Sage, had tried—patiently, unwaveringly—to dissuade him, to remind him of gentler paths. But Brom’s heart no longer beat in rhythm with the wisdom of the elves. His fate had been carved in loss, in fury, in the singular drive that had consumed him.

The decision was made. There was no turning back. The serenity of the enchanted forest, the quiet wisdom of its people, the whispering leaves—they were not meant for him. He would step into the world of men, into the realm of hardship and bloodshed. Into the fires of vengeance, where death walked with steady feet.

Brom stood beneath the towering trees of Ellesméra, the weight of parting pressing against his chest. These were the ones who had sheltered him through the storm of his grief, who had guided him when his mind teetered on the brink of madness. To leave them now felt like severing the last threads that tethered him to the life he had once known.

But he had made his choice.

With solemn resolve, he spoke his farewell, not as one abandoning his home, but as one promising to return. He swore that he would reclaim his honor, that he would carve his path through the world beyond, not for himself alone, but for the memory of all that had been lost.

And when he did return—when the road had been walked and the battle fought—he would bring news of resistance. He would remind them all that tyranny was a cage, that it could never birth true loyalty, nor inspire love for those who wielded its chains. The world had suffered long enough beneath Galbatorix’s rule, and Brom would ensure that suffering did not go unanswered.

Brom had returned one last time—to the pond, to the quiet sanctuary where the elven maiden had watched him from the shadows of the forest, always silent, always knowing. But this time, he did not remain distant. He stepped forward, bridging the space between them, and with deliberate reverence, he offered her the formal greeting of the elves—the gesture of respect, of farewell, of acknowledgment.

Arya rose, moving with the measured grace of her people, yet her gaze did not waver. She regarded him closely, her emerald eyes sharp, unfaltering, filled not with mere recognition, but with understanding. Time had begun to carve its mark upon Brom, etching lines of grief and resolve into his once-youthful face. The absence of his dragon, the years spent battling against himself, had hollowed him—his sunken eyes carrying shadows that never truly faded, his dark hair streaked with the white of time’s quiet erosion.

She had once seen him as a friend, had first looked upon him when she was merely fifteen. And now, years later, she met his gaze again, standing at the threshold of thirty, the weight of her own experiences shaping the quiet depths of her eyes.

She had listened to the whispers, the quiet truths carried through the forest—Brom was no longer whole. His loss had not merely scarred him; it had severed him, left him adrift in a world where half of his soul had been torn away. Even his mastery over magic bore its wounds, marked by his dragon’s absence, incomplete in ways no study or discipline could ever mend.

Arya understood this in a way few others could. She had known loss, too—the death of a father and a king whose face she had never seen, whose voice had never shaped her childhood. But hers had been the mercy of a distant grief, a wound left unclaimed by memory. His, however, was devastation of another kind—of losing not a figure in the distance, but a part of oneself, the very core of one’s existence. What suffering could outweigh that?

She had heard of his departure, of his quiet farewell to the world he had called home for so many years. And so, as he stood before her, preparing to step into a realm far harsher than the one he left behind, she did something she had never done for another.

She extended her hand to him.

It was not a gesture of mere courtesy or tradition—it was something deeper, something unspoken. An acknowledgment. A rare offering from one who understood that some wounds would never heal, but that, for a moment, they could be recognized. And honored.

"May the stars light your path on the difficult road you have chosen, Shur’tugal," she said, the ancient title breaking the silence like a long-lost truth. It had remained unspoken for years, but to Arya, it had never faded. Brom had once been chosen by a dragon, and though his bonded soul had been torn from him, he would remain a Rider in her eyes until the very end of his days.

"I wish you to find and unite the bravest of men."

Her words carried more than mere well-wishes. They were an invocation, a charge—one that Brom accepted with quiet solemnity. He did not answer, for some truths needed no words. He simply inclined his head, acknowledging the honor she bestowed upon him. He would return one day; this he knew. The resistance of men could not stand alone, not against the darkness that gripped their world. They would need allies, and he would ensure they found them.

As he turned to leave, stepping beyond the sacred bounds of the forest, a song rose—a soft lament, drifting among the ferns and trees. The song of Fäolin, whispered by unseen voices, carried through the air like a farewell from a soul lost beyond the veil of worlds. A song of departure. A song of paths unknown.

.*.*.

"How will you leave, my daughter? How will you forsake us?"

The luminous queen leaned forward, bowing ever so slightly from her throne as she closed the distance between them. Her words came as a near-whisper, delicate yet impossible to hide. Soft enough to evade eager ears, yet in truth, never concealed. She knew well the sharp senses of the elven lords surrounding them—no secret could truly linger unspoken in their presence. And she knew, too, that for a queen, whispering in secrecy was no more than an illusion.

Arya’s request had struck the gathered lords into silence. Since the return of the human—Brom, the former Dragon Rider—to their shadowed forests, and the moment Gilderien the Wise had granted him passage into Ellesméra, the elven lords had grown unaccustomed to surprises. News, no matter how grave, seldom unsettled them anymore.

Time wandered through their forests as softly as the wind, and so did their lives—unfolding in quiet, measured rhythms, woven with study and song, contemplation, dance, and poetry. Their world was seldom stirred, its peace broken only by the grand yearly festivals—brief interludes of revelry when voices rose in joyous tribute to blooming flowers and the union of wild creatures. Midsummer carried its own enchantment—the leaping of fires, the exchange of gifts, the momentary surrender to freedom.

But now, in the span of mere days, the stillness had fractured.

Brom returned after two long years, once more having dwelled among humans. A shadow moving through their cities, he sought out those who defied Galbatorix’s reign—unearthing exiles and fugitives, finding the persecuted, and, against all odds, slipping past iron gates to free prisoners from their cells.

In secret, he bound them—each sworn to the cause with solemn oaths.

In secret, he led them—guiding exiles to havens beyond the empire’s reach.

In secret, he let them train—honing their skill in weapons and war, the war that, in mere years, would break upon them all.

"The time has come," the old Dragon Rider declared, his voice charged with unyielding fervor. "The age of tyranny has reached its end. The blood spilled cries for vengeance, and with every passing day, more rise to heed its call."

Even the dwarven lords had pledged their aid and protection. And now, with the Varden—the rebels—secured beneath the command of a leader worthy in both honor and battle, Brom returned to the elven forest. He came to reignite old friendships, to stir the embers of long-standing alliances, to awaken once more the flame of resistance in elven hearts.

If humans—fleeting, fragile, untouched by magic—could rise with such unwavering resolve, then the elven lords, bound by honor, could do no less. They were sworn to stand at the forefront.

This was the very argument the elven lords had wielded against Brom’s cause. Humans lived brief, transient lives, lacking true wisdom. Reckless in their folly, indifferent to peril, they flung themselves into battles already lost. And what, after all, did they truly stand to lose? The fleeting decades granted them? Their meager existence beneath the sun—tilling the earth, braving the sea, breaking stone? The creatures they raised in filth, only to consume in hunger? Or the trade they clung to, deceiving one another, bartering in silver and gold for what should have been given freely—or never owned at all?

Thus spoke the elven lords as they implored their queen to deny any aid. Had they not dwelled in the safety of their forests for thirty long years? Was the blood their kin had spilled—offered upon the altar of human madness—not still fresh upon their enemies' hands? Had their queen, perhaps, allowed time to dull the weight of her own great loss?

But the princess saw the world through different eyes.

"Mother, I implore you—by the blood spilled from my father’s veins, by his precious life that was lost—hear me."

Arya stood tall before the gathered lords, her voice steady, unwavering with pride.

"If humans—so fleeting, so fragile—are willing to fight, do not abandon them. Do not let, sweet mother, their hope wither into nothing. The ancient tree begins as a tender sapling. The vast lakes and our silver rivers are born from countless droplets. And the greatest fire—the one that will rage, the one that will consume—starts from the smallest spark."

She breathed in, the silence around her deepening.

"If the time has not yet come to send an army, if you cannot find the strength to stand openly beside those who defy the traitor—then send me. Let me be your envoy, your eyes and ears in the world of men. Let me be the symbol of your faith in their struggle."

The queen was shaken as her daughter’s words settled upon the throne hall. Yet what unsettled her most was not the plea itself, nor the defiance in Arya’s voice—it was the quiet, unwavering resolve she glimpsed in those green eyes.

No promise, no reasoning could turn the princess from her path. She was decided.

Often, Arya’s gaze flickered toward the man beside her—Brom, the former Dragon Rider—studying the satisfaction that lingered in the depths of his face. Proud and unyielding, he stood as if carved from stone, bearing upon his shoulders the weight of years, the scars of hardship. And in that moment, he embodied an undeniable truth:

That humans—despite being dismissed, despite being looked down upon by the elves—held an unwavering power.

And the queen understood—the spark had been struck in the vast lands of Alagaësia. Her daughter was right. Though it smoldered now, one day it would rise, fierce and unrelenting—a fire great enough to consume the tyrants in its wake.

As a queen and a ruler, the fair Islanzadi had nothing to lose in taking this risk—nothing, save perhaps, her own daughter.

She bestowed upon Brom a gift—a gemstone, set within a ring, inscribed with the sigil of friendship. With it, she declared that the elves would stand as allies to humankind. And should the winds of fate demand it, they would rise, offering their aid and protection.

The princess readied herself to leave, tracing Brom’s footsteps into the world of men. But before she stepped beyond the borders of the elven forest, carrying her mother’s blessing like a whispered vow, she returned to her sanctuary—one final time.

She sat, as she had so many times before, beside the tranquil pond, watching droplets spill from the rock where the fresh spring flowed—an endless rhythm, unbroken through the years. She buried her bare feet in the thick grass, its blades whispering against her skin, leaning into the same plane tree whose roots had cradled her as a child. Closing her eyes, she let her green gaze fade into the quiet pull of memory—into a fleeting dream.

It was the breath of Fäolin’s song that pulled her gently from slumber. And there he stood, bathed in the hush of morning, cradling in his palms a flower—one of the Ipomoea vines that draped the roof of his tree-home. Most called it morning glory, for with each dawn, it unfurled its petals, opening in quiet reverence to the light of the new day.

Arya gazed at the little flower, startled—not by its shape, not by its delicate form, but by its color. It was black.

"I sang it alone, princess—only for you," the elf confessed, his voice like the hush before dawn. "Black, deep black, like the nightwoven strands of your hair. And forever shall it bloom, holding fast to the morning’s breath, untouched by time."

Arya took the flower in silence, its delicate form resting in her palms as if it were something sacred. Fäolin sat beside her, his voice weaving through the hush of the forest—singing for her alone, offering, one by one, his songs of the fern.

Only when Arya rose to leave did she press a soft, soundless kiss to his cheek—a vow unspoken, yet unbreakable. One day, she would return.

*************************

A/N: Brom bore three wounds—one to his spirit, one to his reason, and one to his very being. His body had healed, the madness of his mind had subsided and hidden behind the fury of vengeance, yet the pain in his heart remained, forever reminding him of the loss of the beautiful Saphira.

The enchanted forest of the elves shaped the way I wrote this chapter. Within me, it revealed a romantic perspective I never knew I possessed.

Chapter Text

Morzan soared through the sky, seated in a saddle securely fastened to the back of the crimson dragon. Around him, light shifted rapidly as the first rays of the brilliant sun illuminated the treetops, slowly overtaking the lingering shadows of the retreating night.

A comforting warmth spread over his bare arms and face, reaching deep into his heart as the dragon rider savored something he had long missed—the peaceful embrace of flight with his dragon. With a graceful, sidelong turn, Red-Eyes adjusted course, gliding toward the solitary hill where the monument to the mother stood.

Since the previous evening, Red-Eyes had been in an unusually good mood—a rare occurrence that inevitably influenced her rider as well. They had spent the night together in the dragonhold and shared a morning flight, gliding low over the treetops of the forest and the serene waters of the lake.

Each time the membranes of the dragoness’s wings followed the downward motion of her powerful shoulders, their tips skimmed the cool surface, tracing her passage as ripples expanded in concentric circles, fading into the distance and the morning mist rising from the lake. At last, they found themselves soaring between the rugged cliffs of the winding gorge of the Spine, behind the castle.

Morzan watched as the hill loomed nearer, the dragon’s powerful wings rapidly closing the remaining distance. The first rays of sunlight had already kissed the white stone, sending shimmering reflections dancing across the precious gems adorning its surface.

"Someone is on the summit!" Red-Eyes’ voice rang through the rider’s mind, jolting his half-dormant consciousness awake. He had been basking in the carefree flight, unburdened by the lingering fear that enemies might lurk nearby, ready to strike—something that had not happened in years.

"Impossible! The only way to reach it is by flying..."

Morzan raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and peered closer, realizing that Red-Eyes was right. Someone was indeed sitting cross-legged atop the flat stone slab of the monument at the hill’s summit. The dragon rider’s brows furrowed in displeasure as he strained to make out more details across the distance separating them from the monument.

"Whoever they are, they don’t seem eager to leave," Red-Eyes remarked, beating her wings faster, mirroring her rider’s displeasure at the intruder. "We’ll catch the trespasser in no time," she added with malicious glee, "and they’ll pay for their audacity."

The dragoness’s earlier ease evaporated. Her instinctive rage resurfaced swiftly, threatening to shatter the serenity of the morning flight.

Red-Eyes reached the hill and flared her wings, hovering above the summit, keeping her distance from the ground, her formidable claws poised to strike.

"A child?"

Indeed, a small boy—no more than two and a half, perhaps three years old—crouched atop the monument’s stone slab. In his tiny hands, he clutched one of the gemstones adorning the grave, turning it over in rapt fascination, utterly enchanted by his precious prize.

The boy’s shoulders, his dark hair, and his thick, unruly locks reminded Morzan of himself. Wasn’t that how he used to play on the shores of Teirm, inspecting pebbles and collecting the most unusual ones? Whenever he found something truly unique, he would burst into laughter and sprint off to show his mother.

The eerie sensation of looking down at himself lasted only a few moments. The sound of the dragon’s wings pulled the boy’s gaze from his glittering prize, and he tilted his face skyward. The impression that Morzan was staring at his younger self faded as he studied the child’s features. They were familiar, yet unmistakably not his own. Nor did the boy have Morzan’s mismatched eyes.

"Hey, you!" Morzan shouted sharply from above, intending to startle him. "What are you doing there?"

The boy lifted his hand high, presenting the gemstone, his eyes wide with awe as sunlight passed through its facets, scattering multicolored glimmers across the monument’s stone slab. Unfazed by the harsh voice or the dragon’s looming presence, he burst into a crystalline, cackling laugh before returning, carefree, to his game.

"Well, this is unexpected..." Morzan muttered, instructing Red-Eyes to land a short distance away while scanning the surroundings for any traces of dark magic—signs that would reveal his enemies lurking nearby, ready to strike.

He dismounted from the saddle and unsheathed Zar’roc with slow, deliberate movements. His command of magic initially reassured him that he was not in immediate danger, but one could never predict when a far more powerful enemy might strike from the shadows.

The only one Morzan acknowledged as stronger than himself was Galbatorix. But… could it truly be the king who stood against him? More likely, it was Enduriel or one of his agents.

The accursed elf had entrenched himself within his spell-protected fortress for years, and nothing could drag him or his dragon out—not even a direct order from his king. Yet, Enduriel had trained agents, his own loyal followers. He employed powerful sorcerers, masters of the arcane, to execute his dirtiest work.

Morzan knew exactly where the true danger lay, and for a long time, he had planned to strike first. If only that foolish woman hadn’t complicated matters—just when he was ready to send her to finish the job, she had ensured she got herself pregnant at the worst possible time.

Morzan took slow, measured breaths, carefully suppressing the fury that flared within him. When anger consumed him, his mind lost its clarity. And if he now faced an unexpected attack, he would need every ounce of his mental sharpness to counter it.

Red-Eyes snorted in agreement, sharing his unease, and released a small cloud of smoke that coiled menacingly around them.

With his blade raised, Morzan advanced toward the boy with slow, deliberate steps. The child's gaze was fixed on a dark ruby, its hue resembling blood. He had discarded the gemstone he’d held moments ago and was now determined to pry loose the ruby from the monument’s flat stone slab. Morzan stepped closer, poised to strike.

"I didn’t expect this from you, pride of my heart."

The woman’s voice rang out behind him—vibrant, crystalline—with a hint of irony subtly woven within it. Just like back then, when she had wanted to scold him for some serious mischief but could never bring herself to be truly harsh, for she loved him too much. Even then, her reprimands had carried that same sweet irony, always calling him "pride of my heart".

"Mother?"

Morzan spun around abruptly—his hands still raised, sword poised—only to see her standing a short distance away.

She was young, just as he remembered her from Teirm, when he had been about the same age as the boy before him.

It was as if he were seeing her again, standing at the threshold of their shack, her thick braid coiled atop her head. Her long washerwoman’s apron was damp, bundled tightly around her waist to keep her skirts dry. Her fists were clenched at her hips, and her head tilted slightly—ready to scold him.

Morzan, stunned, lowered his blade.

"Mother!"

What kind of sorcery was this? His eagle-sharp gaze flickered from the woman’s figure to the boy—who remained wholly absorbed in his mischief, stubbornly prying at the ruby without sparing so much as a glance at him or the dragon—before snapping back to the woman once more.

Red-Eyes let her burred tongue hang out, her nostrils twitching as she sniffed the air in the woman’s direction. When her keen instincts detected no danger, she settled onto her legs, folding her wings neatly against her sides and letting the fearsome tip of her tail rest in plain view.

Unable to comprehend what was unfolding, Morzan stepped toward the woman, keeping Zar’roc steady in his grip.

"Mother?"

The woman relaxed. Her fists unclenched at her waist, and with a calming, dismissive gesture, she reassured him.

"Calm yourself, my boy. Do you really think you're in danger so close to your own castle? Stop seeing enemies everywhere."

A satisfied giggle echoed from the boy’s direction. After much effort, he had finally pried the ruby free and was now striking it forcefully against the tombstone, producing a sharp, rattling sound.

Morzan recalled himself as a child, pounding jagged pebbles against larger stones by the sea—thrilling at the sharp crack whenever they split, beaming with pride at his accomplishment.

The woman gestured toward the boy with a nod.

"You’ve done wonderfully, my son," she said with pride, her earlier inclination to scold him already forgotten. "No mother could be prouder of her child than I am of you. If only your father had lived to see you grow..."

His mother wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand, the emotion too strong to contain.

"Though I am but an unlettered woman, my son, I see that you have done well in life—for someone once without a name. You have learned, prospered, earned honor from all, and now you stand as a great and mighty lord. It fills my heart with joy to see you completing your own cycle—with your son. For what is a son to his father, my boy, if not the continuation of his very self?"

Morzan swallowed hard at her words, finally releasing the breath he had held trapped in his chest. He longed to ask how she had come to stand before him, alive and whole—but instead, he chose to answer her question.

"Mother, I am a Dragon Rider. The dragon has made me immortal," he murmured, struggling to believe he was speaking to a mere specter. "As an immortal, I have no need for a son to carry on my legacy."

The woman laughed, wagging her finger at him in feigned reproach.

"You speak foolishly, my child—you, so learned… Never forget, my son, that no one lives forever. Take care of this boy, for he is you."

At that moment, the boy’s delighted giggle rang out once more. He held a gemstone in each hand—the same ones he had been playing with earlier—and gleefully clashed their facets together. As the stones met with a sharp crack, a rosy light flared, illuminating the stark white gravestone. Within the radiant frame, the image of a gray warhorse emerged, trotting across a lush, green field.

The boy gasped in awe and stretched his hand toward the horse in the image, but it vanished swiftly, giving way to two dragonlings darting playfully among the trees. Eagerly, the child began rubbing the gemstones' facets together once more, determined to summon another vision.

"This hatchling harbors extraordinary powers," the red dragoness admitted, speaking directly into the mind of her chosen rider, her full attention fixed on the boy and his actions.

Morzan, stunned, parted his lips to speak, but the woman silenced him with a swift flick of her hand.

"Listen carefully now, my boy, for I have little time left."

His mother’s eyes darkened suddenly, weighted with the same grave expression she had worn in those long-ago days—when she had to explain, time and again, why unknown men crossed their threshold at night; why he had to sleep outside on the street until she came to gather him; why, despite his pleading for things to change, they had to endure it all.

Because if they didn’t, then come morning, there would be no bread on the table.

Morzan shuddered at the memory. His palm instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword—lowered but not yet sheathed. Zar’roc’s tip clattered against the rock, sending red sparks scattering around his boots.

His mother gestured toward the sword.

"Be mindful, my boy—you don’t want to wound yourself. Take care not to cut your own flesh."

The woman’s gaze flickered between the sword and the boy, still playing carefree atop the grave.

"Do not let your king enslave your child, nor torment him, my son," she said, her eyes brimming with tenderness as they shifted between Morzan and the boy.

A bittersweet smile formed on her lips—fleeting yet genuine—before she continued.

"If only the past could be undone, my child… But let go of what time has taken—what cannot be reclaimed. Care for what is yet to come."

His mother barely had time to finish her words before a crimson lightning bolt tore through the ether, striking forcefully nearby.

Suddenly, to Morzan, it seemed as if the very sun had dimmed. Above their heads, the sky rapidly shed its tranquil blue, swallowed by dense, pitch-black storm clouds heavy with rain. Far off on the horizon, the storm had already broken. Lightning crashed in relentless fury, while a thick curtain of rain advanced swiftly from the lake, rolling toward them. It had already engulfed the castle, turning its dark stone into an indistinct blur within the growing cloud that crept ever closer to the hill.

Then, a second bolt struck beside him—shattering chunks of rock and sending a river of red blood streaming between the fractured stone.

Morzan raised his sword in alarm, bracing himself against the raging elements. The suspicion that this was some enemy sorcery surged back, stronger than before. Ah, why had his mother’s presence distracted him? Why had he allowed himself to be lulled into ease?

His mother shrieked in horror and disbelief, pointing once more at the boy.

"He is you—your blood—your very flesh!" she cried out one last time before her form began to dissolve into the storm’s thickening cloud.

"How could you, my son—how?"

Morzan spun around abruptly, his grip tightening around Zar’roc’s hilt—only to find its blade drenched in blood. Rain poured from the heavens like a waterfall, washing away the crimson stain, yet the sight remained seared into his mind.

The boy lay lifeless upon the marble of the grave, facedown, his upper body cleaved diagonally into two pieces. His blood poured like a river over the rocks, welling up from the stone and flooding the hilltop. Thinned by the rain, it spread across the summit, turning it into a crimson lake that rose around Morzan’s knees.

Though shaken by the looming threat, the Dragon Rider felt sorrow for the child. He struggled to tell his mother that, despite the bloodied sword in his grasp, he was not the cause of this slaughter. Little by little, the small body sank into the lake of blood—until only a tiny hand remained, clutching the gleaming gemstone in a desperate grip.

"Heal him… heal him…" his mother’s voice shrieked.

Morzan struggled forward—tried to obey her desperate plea—but the blood swallowed him, dragging him under. His chest ached with anguish, his breath rasping through clenched teeth. Desperate, he turned to his dragon for aid, but the beast watched in silence, indifferent to the boy’s fate. Then, Red-Eyes stretched her long neck, offering him something to grasp.

"It is too late, Mother…" Morzan murmured, his voice heavy with regret as he searched for her within the shifting shadows—finding nothing. "Far too late for me to do anything now…"

"Heal him…" her voice echoed one last time through the lightning, fading into the storm’s racing clouds. "He is your blood… your flesh… your very self…"

"Morzan…" The Red-Eyes' muzzle nudged his cheek, halting his breathless anguish. "Morzan, wake up!"

He turned sharply onto his side, only to find himself inside the dragonhold, lying atop thick straw that blanketed the floor. The Red-Eyes' slender wing arched over him like a protective dome, shielding him from the world beyond.

"You were having a nightmare," his chosen one murmured, her breath dampening his tangled hair, stray strands clinging to his face. "I should have woken you sooner."

Morzan jolted upright, his hand instinctively reaching for Zar’roc at his side.

"It is over now," Red-Eyes whispered gently. "All is well within the castle."

.*.

Leaving the dragonhold behind, Morzan strode swiftly through the castle’s deserted corridors. The night lay thick with darkness, and a cold pre-dawn breeze carried the scents of the forest, making the torches' flames shudder as he passed.

The Dragon Rider’s unrest from that vivid nightmare had yet to settle. His mother’s presence lingered—was she there to warn him or condemn him? And her specter, just as he had seen it standing before him atop the hill, seemed to shadow his every step.

This nightmare—this vision—was no coincidence. Deep in his heart, Morzan knew his mother’s presence held meaning, something vital, just as her words did. And the looming danger that had pervaded the dream? The small boy—was it himself, or the son growing within his woman’s womb? No, this dream was no accident. The child atop the grave… his mother’s warnings… the lightning, the storm… the blood upon his sword… the death… None of it was random. These thoughts churned within his mind, convincing him that this dream, above all others, was one he must unravel.

Still unsettled, Morzan eased open the door to the chamber where the woman slept and stepped inside.

The dim glow of the candle she kept lit through the nights bathed her peaceful face in soft light, casting delicate shadows over her features. The gentle curves of her body emerged beneath the covers, and the swell of her belly stood out clearly, distorting her delicate silhouette.

For many weeks now, Morzan had not lain beside her. Summer’s end was drawing near.

The Dragon Rider moved soundlessly through the chamber, careful not to wake her. He leaned over her sleeping face, studying the delicate arch of her eyebrows, the sculpted line of her nose, the cherry-hued, half-parted lips, and the gentle curve of her chest, peeking from the opening of her nightgown.

He reached out, intending to touch her swollen belly—to feel if the child stirred within her, to reassure himself that it was strong. But his pride held him back. He couldn’t bear for her to sense him, to see him in his weakness—not now.

Turning sharply, he came to stand before the open window. The hill, crowned by his mother’s monument, stood stark beneath the lingering moonlight. What was she trying to tell him? Why had her specter visited him in the night? Was the child in danger? Was he himself at risk? Had some enemy, despite all his precautions, uncovered his greatest secret—the woman’s pregnancy, his deepest weakness?

Zar’roc’s blade—the sword of sorrow—had been bloodied in the dream. Did that mean he would be the one to kill his own child? And the king—what role did he play? His mother had called him the tyrant of his son.

He turned, this time with his back to the window, leaning against the stone sill, his gaze once more tracing the wide bed. In the stillness of the night, he could hear the woman’s steady breathing and the rhythmic beating of her heart. A fainter sound—the pulse of a second heart—confirmed that, despite the dream, the child within her was alive and well.

Morzan clenched his teeth. This woman had brought him nothing but trouble, yet as he watched her sleep so peacefully, his desire for her flared once more. The long months spent together, confined within the castle, reminded him of the early days—when he had first brought her here, indulging her every whim. She had responded playfully then, yielding to his every want and desire. But now, she cared more for her growing belly than for him.

A sting of jealousy tore through Morzan’s heart at the thought that he was already sharing the woman with someone else—someone yet unborn, but just as powerful a claimant.

His Red-Eyes had been right when, years ago, she warned him—entangling himself with females of his own kind would make him weak. And now—here it was. It had happened. At the thought of his dragon, a dark impulse clouded his mind. The urge struck—to draw his sword… to sever this double weakness once and for all… to feel free again, as he once had.

…"Watch what you do with your sword, my boy—you don’t want to wound yourself. Be careful not to cut your own flesh.''…

His mother’s words from the dream pulled him back to himself, halting the hand that had already begun the terrible motion. The decision for the child to live had been made long ago, and in his dream, his mother had agreed—even praised him for it. Yet the fear of looming danger would always remain, a shadow tormenting his mind.

Morzan needed to steady himself—he couldn’t afford to linger uselessly in the woman’s chamber. He had to think, to unravel this dream… his mother’s prophetic words… the child’s strange deeds…

His grip tightened around Zar’roc’s hilt. Cold sweat pooled in his palm, trickling between his fingers, sliding over the silver wire wrapped around the protective crossguard. His nails scraped against the crimson ruby, and a sliver of stored energy seeped into his body, making the dragon-mark on his hand flare to life.

At that moment, Selena sighed and shifted in bed, resting peacefully in the safety of her sleep—for herself and the child she carried. Within the enchanted castle, inside the warded chamber, what harm could possibly reach them? Yet, deep in her tranquil slumber, she remained unaware of how close danger truly lay beside her.

Morzan’s hand lingered a moment longer on Zar’roc’s hilt, absently tracing the ruby. If only, months ago, he had chosen differently…

But the choices had been made, and as his mother had said in the dream, what was done could not be undone. Nor could the things time had taken ever return. He had to focus on what lay ahead.

Just as silently as he had entered, he slipped away, striding swiftly down the long corridor that stretched from the masters’ chambers to the stone steps—leading either up to the dragonhold or down to the lower floor, and from there, out into the courtyard. With quick steps, he descended, passing shadowed rooms. Emerging onto the dark slabs of the courtyard, he hastened across the empty space. He climbed the outer stairs of the square guard tower and began pacing along the battlements.

The castle loomed in complete darkness from the outside. The only light came from above, flickering faintly from the sentry’s watchtower perched high on the lookout. The enchantments guarding the fortress required no watchmen at night.

And yet… the dream…

Morzan made a mental note to issue the order first thing tomorrow—this would change. Guard posts would be stationed at closer intervals along the walls, frequent patrols enforced, and lights extinguished. No one could predict where the enemy might strike.

The lord of the castle stood motionless, listening to the silence of the night. With his senses sharpened by magic, he knew that everyone slept—only the watchman in the high lookout remained awake. Dawn was still far off, with summer nearing its end and the nights growing longer. Beyond the horizon, not even the faintest glimmer of the eastern sky had begun to brighten, and above, the stars gleamed like radiant gemstones.

…Gemstones…

That single word dragged the Dragon Rider back into the dream he had lived that night. The meaning of the gemstones the child had held was surely significant. And all the other visions—each one carried something deep, something hidden. The dream demanded interpretation. He had to untangle not only his mother’s words but every sign. Time was slipping away. He had to begin at once.

He clenched his fists in anger and turned his back on the lake’s horizon, his gaze sweeping swiftly over the castle. From above, the dragonhold echoed with a piercing cry as the dragon sent a stream of fire roaring into the sky. She emerged from the mouth of the cavernous hall, poised for flight. Unfurling her majestic wings, she gleamed in the darkness—her formidable horns catching the last light of the fading moon. Like a shadow, she launched into the air, soaring past the walls, skimming just above him.

Miiiiiiiine!"

"I am yours, as I always was and forever shall be," Morzan agreed.

The dragoness was right—his life had grown far more complicated of late. Once, things had been simpler. The woman had stirred great turmoil in both his mind and heart, disrupting the steady certainty of the lone master. But time had its turns. As the years passed and faded, all intruders would disappear, one by one. In the end, it would be only him and the dragoness, dwelling within the gray walls.

.*.*.

With great care and love, Selena folded each infant tunic, placing them one by one atop the stack of linen wrappings. Two baby coifs and feeding cloths followed, carefully nestled into the ornate chest of carved cinnamon wood.

For a week now, this precious acquisition had rested within the castle, specially brought from the markets of Dras Leona and ordered from the exotic bazaars of the southern cities. The fragrant wood would imbue the baby garments with a gentle aroma, keeping the tiny clothes fresh and ready for their first use.

A few infant breeches followed, along with a cloth-stuffed toy. But no swaddling bands—certainly not something like that. Selena was a woman of the North, where mothers raised their infants freely in the cradle, allowing them to move their hands and feet as they pleased from the very first day. That is why the northerners of the Palancar Valley grew into fiercely independent spirits, placing their freedom above all else.

With a decisive motion, the woman abruptly shut the lid, forbidding her attendants from adding the long swaddling bands. Her child would be raised as a true northerner—free, unbound, and untouched by restrictions on movement during early life.

As she sat alone in the chamber, Selena let her fingers gently trace the intricate carvings on the chest’s lid, her lungs drawing in the soft fragrance that would soon infuse her child’s garments. With her other hand, she caressed her belly—its sudden rise shifting to one side before slipping lively to the other, kicking twice within her depths before settling once more.

Once, she had yearned for life in the palace, had fought desperately to claim her place within its walls. But since conceiving, everything had changed. She no longer thought of it, nor did she miss it. Over the past months, she had steeled herself for the years ahead—embracing quiet solitude within this castle, devoted to tending and raising her child.

As the child’s lively movements quieted, Selena carefully rose, supporting her lower back. With slow steps, she approached the window overlooking the garden. The breeze carried the scent of damp earth and honeysuckle from the trellis, the supple, blossoming branches of the wicker shrub, and her beloved rosebushes—already beginning to wither. Soon, the night-flowering jasmine would bloom, releasing its heavy, sweet fragrance into the air.

She made a mental note to ask Morzan to have the neglected garden tended.

She could see it now—the seasons unfolding, each one a quiet chapter in their shared life. Beneath golden autumn vines, laughter would weave through the crisp air. Winter’s pale sun would cradle them as they rested on warm stone benches, pressed close in tender embrace.

And when spring stirred the earth awake, her child would stretch tiny fingers toward the sky, crawling through lush grass, eyes wide with bright curiosity, discovering the world one touch at a time.

By summer, nearly a year old, it would take its first uneven steps among the flowers, weaving through hidden corners, disappearing for mere moments—only to be found again. Her heart would leap, their game renewed, a dance of love and delight beneath the endless blue.

The door swung open abruptly, revealing her lord in the entrance. His expression was grim, his dark eye shadowed by unexpected concern, and his right hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. His pressed lips and severe demeanor sharpened his features, the furrow in his brow a silent warning—nothing good would come of this.

The woman’s heart fluttered at the sudden shock, the abrupt shift in her emotions rippling swiftly to her child—who rewarded her with a sharp knee to her lower ribs.

For days, Selena had watched Morzan grow distant. He withdrew from her company, isolating himself in the dragonhold with his beast or retreating into his private sanctum—an unbreachable place where no one was ever permitted entry. When she questioned the servants, she learned he neither ate nor drank, as was his troubling custom.

“My lord!” Gathering the loose edges of her vest, the woman offered him her most carefully measured smile, gesturing for him to take the comfortable armchair she had occupied moments before—beside the small table with the ornately carved chest, where her baby's garments lay safely stored.

Selena clapped her hands, summoning her attendants to serve him, ensuring they provided whatever he required, just as they had on so many other evenings spent in her company. But his sudden, curt gesture halted her gracious motion before it could be completed.

Morzan took half a step into the chamber, deliberately maintaining the distance between them.

“Selena, when I first brought you to the king, what gift did I give you—and demand that you wear at all times?”

His gaze darkened further, his black eye swallowed by shadow, while the blue one took on the turbulent hue of a storm-tossed sea.

“A golden chain, my lord,” Selena answered slowly. “And at its center hung a white gemstone, large as a newborn’s clenched fist.”

The memory of the castle’s dreadful enchantments sent a shiver through her. In those early days, Morzan had insisted she remain unseen within his chambers—rooms sealed with countless spells. Even then, she had been required to wear the stone around her neck whenever she was alone.

“I want it back!” The master’s thunderous voice rang out. “Give it to me. Now!”

Selena bowed her head in silence, hurrying as best she could despite the heaviness of her body to obey his command.

All of his gifts were tucked away in a wooden cabinet, secured with a lock—the key hidden within the folds of her belt. She did not search for long. The gemstone stood apart from the others, its distinct radiance and size setting it apart. For as long as she had worn it, its touch against her skin had carried a revitalizing energy—not merely the enchantments woven into its facets to ward off harm, but something deeper. A constant reassurance. An unshakable sense of safety. As though a life force pulsed within, nourishing her with health, optimism, and quiet joy.

Some nights, when she was left alone, Selena would take it from its cabinet and, before sleep claimed her, lay it gently upon her bare belly. And then—almost as if by magic—all fears and worries, all burdens and anxieties, would fade away.

There were moments when its presence felt not merely comforting, but essential—a deep need she could not deny. Morzan had gifted her many enchanted artifacts over time, each woven with protections and spells, but none had ever been like this one.

With sorrow in her heart, she placed the gemstone in her lord’s hand.

His once-harsh expression shifted swiftly as he reclaimed it, but he spoke no word. Without hesitation, he turned his back to her and left the chamber just as abruptly as he had entered.

Selena’s sorrow was fleeting. For a moment, she wondered why her lord had reclaimed his most precious gift—something he had never done before—but soon, clarity settled over her thoughts. Her earlier joy and tranquility kept dark suspicions at bay. Surely, her master intended to enchant the gemstone once more, weaving fresh spells into its luminous facets. New protections for the life soon to be born within his castle. No doubt he would renew its enchantments before placing the talisman above the cradle where his son would soon sleep.

Selena eased back into her armchair, resting her feet upon the low stool. No worry could dim the peaceful afternoon or the quiet anticipation of a joyful life—a future full of promise.

.*.*.*.

A strangely enigmatic smile hovered on his lips as Morzan recognized the gemstone—identical to the one from his prophetic dream. Everything within his power had been set into motion in the past few days, ever since he had unraveled the dream’s meaning.

Loyal servants had arrived—sworn twice over to silence and devotion, prepared to tend to the child's every need. Wet nurses and caretakers to provide nourishment, and a masterful healer—renowned for his skill, drawn from Dras-Leona by a generous fortune, now bound to the castle in permanent residence.

Everything he would leave behind was prepared—just as the journey back to his king was. He and the woman would return to Urû’baen without delay, departing immediately after the birth. The king needed reassurance of their unwavering loyalty and obedience—lest troublesome doubts begin to take root in his mind.

Morzan knew the woman would not take kindly to such a decision. Selena would undoubtedly loathe the thought of leaving her newborn in unfamiliar hands. She might even come to hate him for forcing her to return to Urû’baen—to the palace, to the life she had thought left behind.

So be it—no matter how much she resented it, this was for their safety. For the safety of the child soon to be born from their union. Selena had to understand.

As long as Morzan kept his distance, the boy would remain safe—unlike in his prophetic dream. As long as his parents stood unwavering beside their king, no dangerous thoughts would take root in Galbatorix’s mind, no reason to eliminate the child as a means of reclaiming them to his service once more.

After that, the woman would be permitted to visit the castle from time to time to see her son—and that would have to be enough.

Clutching the gemstone tightly, Morzan quickened his pace toward the dragonhold. His mother had warned him in the dream—there was no room for negligence now. He had set his life in order according to her warnings, as was his duty.

Much remained to be done with the dragon’s aid—decisions to make, spells to weave, knowledge to embed within the gemstone’s gleaming facets. Knowledge that would serve as a legacy for the future—the Dragon Rider Morzan’s gift to his unborn son.

.*.*.*.*.

The dragoness caught the scent of the men patrolling the battlements, certain that her vast, unfurled wings blended seamlessly into the night’s darkness, imperceptible among shifting silhouettes. For a brief moment, she hovered above the castle, eclipsing the stars—then soared toward the stillness of the forest.

The completeness she shared in that fleeting instant with the rider—the chosen of her heart—was immense, as vast as their shared triumph.

Morzan clenched the radiant gemstone in his hand—a prize forged through their combined magic, claimed in the past when they had utterly vanquished their enemies. Those who had dared to harm them. Those long dead.

Upon her back, he shared his boundless satisfaction with her. Together, they had labored for days and nights, preparing this treasure—one that, from this moment forward, would be safeguarded in a place beyond the reach of all.

Their destination that night was the hill with the monument of the mother. Upon its stone, hidden from all, they would place the precious gemstone—where it would rest among the other jewels, secured for years to come. Perhaps forever.

There it would wait, for the one now designated as its rightful and official owner, untouched by any hand but his.

There, steeped in countless enchantments, it would safeguard within its depths the knowledge meant to pass from father to son.

There the gemstone would remain for as long as necessary—exposed to common sight, yet in truth, untouchable by all except for the chosen one. Its master.

Morzan placed the gemstone upon the flat stone slab of the monument. The dragoness touched it gently with her muzzle, embedding it into the rock with the magic of her breath.

For a moment, they remained still—silent admirers of their own creation—before taking flight once more, returning to the castle.

As they departed the hill, the Dragon Rider turned back, his gaze searching for a faint shimmer of light in the darkness.

Thus, the gemstone would remain—a silent summons placed by his own hand—waiting for the time and circumstances that would bring it into the possession of his unborn child.

That enchanted gemstone—the one that had once been the heart of an unborn dragon.