Time for another update! Even if you already read chapter one, I suggest you do it again. I've added ALOT! Huge thanks to eragon0123! His very detailed review helped me see what was missing, as well as tell me it was still wayy too short lol. So, I think this will be the last major update to chapter one, as long as no one else sees anything wrong with it. I'm gonna do an ugrade like this for chapter two as well, then hopefully I can finish working on chapter three.

Chapter 1:

The Journey so Far

Screams. Oh, Gods, the screams. They came from everywhere and nowhere, filling the air with the agony of a thousand souls. And the cold. Bone-numbing cold. He shivered in the cool, damp air. He recognized this place. He'd been here every night. He gazed upon the familiar stone walls, the dimming torches that lit the walls, casting ominous shadows over every crack and bump in the aging floor. He waited for his tormentor to arrive, as he did every night. The iron door swung open, and the startling white flowed into the room. The smoky mist seeped through the ridges in the ground, snaking its way around the room. This was it. The figure floated toward him, where he hung from his chains on the wall. The man drew a dagger, and even though he knew it wasn't real, the pain he felt as the blade sank into his heart was.

Fenrir woke with a pain-induced scream and found he was drenched in sweat.

Same dream again, he thought to himself.

He swung his legs over the side of his small cot, collecting his breath. His heart was racing. He began his breathing excercises. His friend Draj had shown him how to do this a few years ago. Fenrir had been having these dreams for most of his life, and they'd plagued his nights so he hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in years. The figure had plunged his blade into his heart so many times, Fenrir had scars on his chest where he had been clawing at the pain. He calmed his mind and let his heartbeat take the tempo of his thoughts. The fear and anxiety of the night melted away, leaving his thoughts clear and placid. He missed Draj. They had gotten into every spot of trouble in town. The bakery down the street from Fenrir's house had always been Draj's favorite spot. Fenrir didn't approve of petty thievery, but Draj was his friend, and it was fun.

Plus, those muffins are to die for Fenrir chuckled to himself. He wondered what Draj was doing right now.

I wonder if he misses me at all. Fenrir shook the doubt out of his mind. Of course he does, we are the best of friends.

Once he had control of himself again, he stood. He had to stoop to avoid the roof of the small tent. He walked out into the clearing in which he had made his camp. The towering trees meshed together so that only thin rays of sunlight came through, tinted green from the vibrant leaves of the forest. By his reckoning, he was somewhere in the woods just north of Gil'ead. He took a deep breath of the cool air, missing the warm sea mist of Teirm, the bustling seaside town he had grown up in. He began to gather his things, untying the ropes that held his tent in place. He had a good knowledge of a wide range of knots and their uses. He'd sometimes worked on the docks in Teirm to bring in a little extra income. The sailors of Teirm were a hardy bunch. When not shouting at each other in port, they could usually be found in one of the local taverns. The Blue Rider was one of his personal favorites.

It was named after The Hero of The Great Rebellion, Eragon Shadeslayer, and many of the Varden soldiers that served in the war spent their time there. Fenrir had spent hours just sitting among them and listening to their tales of bravery. While there were some who boasted about their own achievements, most spoke about Eragon. They told of the times when all would seem lost, and then Saphira would swoop down and fry the enemy to a crisp. They told of how they'd gathered round, as Eragon bested the Elves in furious swordplay. Some even said that Eragon had a romance with the Queen of the Elves, Arya Shadeslayer, but Fenrir knew a fierce Rider like Eragon would never allow himself to be tied down to a woman, and dismissed these as the ramblings of drunken old men. Fenrir had come to see Eragon as a role model. He had practiced magic whenever he could, flourished a blade whenever possible. But try as he might, Fenrir knew he could never possess the skill of a Rider.

Fenrir caught himself being distracted, and returned to packing his things.

I've been in one spot for too long as it is, it's a wonder they haven't found me he thought.

The work passed by quickly as he went over his journey so far. He had fled from Teirm on horseback along the Toark River. After resting for a day on the shores of Woadark Lake, he had continued east until he was out of The Spine, the massive mountain chain that split the land. He had made the decision to go to New Carvahall, hoping someone there could help him. Carvahall had been destroyed in the Great Rebellion, but rebuilt afterwards. Lord Roran Stronghammer had been given the land by Queen Nasuada at the end of the war, and he had overseen the rebuilding of his hometown. Fenrir traveled along the edge of the mountains for days, until he arrived in Lord Roran Stronghammer's small town.

He had tried desperately to gain an audience with Stronghammer, but to no avail. After a week of living on the outskirts of the town, they found him. Du Hvitr Istalri Dominia, the White Fire Dominion. What started out as Queen Nasuada's sentries of magic had grown into a powerful organization. Their original purpose was to keep the mages of Alagaesia under control, but over time they acquired so much power that no one dared go against their word. They started prosecuting all mages, whether they used their powers for selfish reasons or not.

King Orrin probably wouldn't have let us be controlled by these fiends Fenrir growled to himself as he remembered his run-in with the White Fire soldiers.

They had caught him while he slept. Fenrir instinctively flinched as he saw the image of the poisoned blade whipping toward him. He had just barely managed to roll out of the way, the blade coming so close it sliced a shallow cut in his abdomen, which left a nasty infection for the next few days.

He had tried to set his attacker aflame, shouting "Brisingr", the Ancient word for fire.

The assailant's wards stopped his spell. He tried a different spell, something less direct. After a few long seconds of thought as he dodged the attacker's sword, he devised a spell that may be strange enough to evade his wards.

Fenrir had gathered his strength and shouted "Blod Letta!" hoping to make his victim's blood stop.

At first nothing happened, but soon the soldier's breathing became frantic as he tried to get oxygen to his body. After a few seconds, he had passed out. Fenrir had tried to evade the other soldiers, but they caught him and pinned him to the ground.

As they attempted to bind his hands and mouth, he let loose one last spell.

He hoped their wards wouldn't protect them as he yelled "Vaetna Aptr".

His spell, which had been literally "scatter backward", had thrown them all off him. They landed a few yards away, dazed from the impact. He ran as fast as he could, putting as much distance as he could between him and the White Fire soldiers. He followed the Anora River out of the mountains and ran to the woods, where he had rested until now.

Fenrir allowed the memories to fade and drew back to the present. His things were packed and bundled together in a backpack that his father, Garven, had given him on his 16th birthday. It was a sturdy leather pack, with plenty of pouches to hold anything he needed. It was dirty after its recent use, and had a small rip in one pouch. Fenrir had hated himself for letting that happen. He remembered his dad's warm smile as he showed it to him.

"You're a man now, soon you'll be heading out on your own" his father had said, and Fenrir saw a lone tear escape from the old man's eye. Fenrir had watched the tear trail down his father's cheek as it followed the light wrinkles of his aging face. His father had been a mage in the Varden army during the Great Rebellion. After the war was won, he had retired and settled in Teirm, hoping to make a living working the docks. It seems the other retired soldiers had the same idea though, and he couldn't find a lasting job in port. So he went to the far outskirts of town and got a job as a miner in The Spine. It was dangerous work, but a wealthy family had just struck a gold deposit and was hiring miners for good coin. Two years later, Fenrir and his sister Evalette's mother had given them to Garven to live with him. Fenrir was one year old and Evalette was just a few months old at the time. Their mother never returned for them.

He shook off the memory, wiping a tear that had flowed down his own face. I can't go back now; I'd only be bringing them more trouble.

He missed his father, but he also missed his sister Evalette. She was a year younger than Fenrir. He missed the glow of her eyes when she tagged along with him and Draj, helping them plan the latest heist. Sometimes having three people almost got them caught, but she was fast. Gods, was she fast. Not just in physical speed, but in her mind too. She could devise new strategies so fast, it made her unpredictable. As kids they'd duel each other with broken practice swords that the Royal Army discarded. While Fenrir overpowered her in pure strength by a long shot, he couldn't keep up with her swift flourishes. He could've sworn she was part elf.

He had asked his father if any of their ancestors were elven. He never got an answer, but he thought they must. Even his name was elven. His father had told him that his mother chose the name. Fenrir and Evalette couldn't remember their mother. Garven only said she left shortly after they were born. While it was painful to leave Evalette behind, she had never shown any signs of an affinity for magic, so he hoped she would be left alone. It had been two weeks since he fled Teirm and left them behind.

He continued walking through the outskirts of the forest. He had no idea where he was going, east he hoped, though he wasn't sure. He stomped his way through the tall fields of grass that stretched over the plains of Alagaesia. They were shorter here at the edge of the woods but still reached to his waist. Sometimes he would stop to rest for a few minutes and just gaze out at the rolling hills of green. The blanket of fresh spring grass waved over the land like a huge green ocean. He would sometimes fall asleep for half an hour, then continue on his way. Fenrir continued traveling well past nightfall, until he couldn't stay on his feet any longer. He pitched his tent, making sure to cover it so no one would notice him. he gathered fallen branches off the forest floor and laid them over his tent. Then he covered it in leaves. The cover was so thick, it kept in heat and protected him from the cool winds that flowed over the land at night. It also kept the light from his lantern hidden. As he did every night, he went over his limited knowledge of the ancient language. He didn't know many words, but he recited them nonetheless. He went over all the spells and combinations he could think of, practicing the pronunciation of each very carefully. His father had told him that the Ancient Language was difficult to master, and easy to accidently use the wrong spell. Fenrir had no problem saying the strange sounds of the elves, and memorized new words fairly quickly, but he did as father said. After all, Fenrir had much less experience than him. Once he was content with his practice, he extinguished his lantern and lay down for the night, awaiting the pain of his nightmares.