Prologue: Edoc'sil

A/N: Hi everyone! Welcome to my new story! This is a full-scale expansion of the one-shot I wrote, "Brothers Under the Sun". There is a VERY long explanation in that story of what the AU here is composed of, but I'll stick to the basics here. Basically, this will be an abridged rewrite of the Inheritance Cycle, with one major difference; that major difference is explained here in this prologue. Hope you all enjoy!


Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the night sky in a stunning display of nature's raw, primal power. Upon the side of the mountain, two figures grappled with one another, each trying to gain the upper-hand. A blade the color of snow flared brightly under the lightning, held aloft in a striking position by a lithe man in tan robes. His long, silver hair flowed down his back, jerking with each movement of his sword.

Vrael came to this place to recover from the injury he'd sustained in Doru Araeba, but the young betrayer followed him all the way to Edoc'sil. How he found Vrael… that was another matter. It seemed nowhere in the whole of the kingdom was safe from those who would do him harm. As he battled with the young Rider, the wound in his side continued to steadily leak out a stream of blood, running down his breeches and into his boots. Every meeting of their swords, every dodge of an attack, a sharp burst of pain exploded along his ribs.

But the Last Rider would not be so easily beaten. His wards—far superior to that of the Oathbreaker—protected him from the traitor's magic. And both were fatigued from their previous battle. As far as Vrael knew, none of his comrades survived the holocaust on Vroengard. His pupil, Oromis, could not help him now. He and his dragon were safely hidden in Ellesméra, having been tortured by those they once considered brethren. Galbatorix's dragon—the one he had enslaved with dark magic—was killed on Doru Araeba. The only other dragons alive belonged to the accursed Forsworn, not to mention the countless Eldunarí they captured and subdued over their long campaign. Vrael wanted nothing more than to weep for such a monumental loss, but there was no time to dwell.

Sparks flew through the darkened sky when their blades met. Galbatorix's castle-forged steel paled in comparison to Vrael's Rider-sword, Islingr, but the elf's wounds made him weak and slow. Every movement sapped more and more of his strength. He would not last much longer; this had to end, and quickly.

The Oathbreaker parried his strike, fixing him with a frightful gaze and wicked grin. Vrael stumbled backward, taking care to stay away from the edge of the outcropping. He swiped at the traitor again, desperate to remain on the offensive. Vrael knew that the moment he was forced to defend himself, all would be lost.

"This is the end, old man," Galbatorix sneered. "Surrender while you still can, and I may yet spare your life!" This last statement was paired with a hasty cut at Vrael's middle, which, blessedly, missed him by a few inches.

"Don't insult me with your lies," Vrael grunted, shuffling away from his opponent and angling so his back faced the ruined outpost.

They'd been circling one another for too long; it was time for Vrael to gain the advantage, otherwise he was as good as dead. Galbatorix watched him as a snake observes its prey, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, backward and forward and back again. His swordpoint angled towards the leader of the Dragon Riders, poised to skewer him at the first opportunity. Vrael lowered Islingr ever-so-slightly, preparing for the inevitable strike. And when it finally came, Vrael was ready.

Galbatorix lunged at him, a wild, deranged look in his eye, aiming to stab his blade straight through the Elder Rider's stomach. But Vrael had just enough strength left. Summoning the very last vestiges of his power, he jumped to the side, agile as a cat, and watched as the blade sang past him. The traitor did not expect this, and Vrael saw he'd placed all of his weight behind the jab, sending him catapulting forward and stumbling over his feet.

This was Vrael's moment; he could not waste it again.

With a vicious slash, the Oathbreaker's hamstrings were sliced open, rendering him immobile. Galbatorix screamed in agony, falling to his stomach upon the dark rock. A steady gush of crimson blood came pouring out of the wounds, pooling underneath him. Vrael walked forward slowly, standing over him with Islingr positioned under his chin, pushing up so that he might look the traitor in the eye.

Black as pitch, without a trace of goodness, Galbatorix's eyes filled with hatred as he gazed up at the victor. Vrael kicked the paltry sword that lay at his feet, sending it flying across the outcropping and straight over the edge, tumbling down the mountainside.

"There is no word in the Ancient Language to describe the atrocities you have committed," Vrael intoned quietly, fighting to subdue his rage. So much loss... it was nearly unfathomable. He'd lived over a thousand years, and in all that time, never had he experienced such sorrow. As the dragons died, their voices had filled the skies, a haunting chorus that would forever be branded in his memories.

"History will name me a revolutionary!" Galbatorix spat, trying in vain to struggle to his feet. "Your order was corrupt, and now it is finished! I will be forever remembered!"

"No," the elf said coldly, setting his jaw. "Whether it be tomorrow, or a hundred years from now, I will scour your name from the memories of all who ever lived, and will ever live. My powers will return. But you... Tonight, you die."

Galbatorix opened his mouth to shout something further, but his breath was cut short as his head separated from his body. Vrael did not even flinch as the traitor's blood sprayed across his face and clothing. Mouth still opened wide, the decapitated head rolled away. When it finally stopped, those malevolent, black eyes stared at the sky, empty and cold. A crack of thunder shook the mountain as Vrael fell to his knees, sagging under the weight of what he'd just accomplished, under the weight of all he'd lost.

Alone.

The word rang through him like a death knell. He felt the emptiness, a hollow pit in his heart where once the energy of magic and life flowed. But as the Oathbreaker's life-force ebbed away into the void of death, the spell he himself cast only hours ago restored his memory. A cache of eggs and Eldunarí—including his own, beloved Umaroth—lay safely hidden back on Vroengard. The Riders were not yet finished; they would rise again, better than before. A small measure of hope swelled in the ancient elf's chest, and he was able to sit up a little straighter.

Thuviel's madness destroyed a large portion of Doru Araeba, but Vrael knew he could restore it, given some time to regain his strength. Until then, he would just have to trust that no one with any knowledge of the Vault survived. Or if they had, that they were not an enemy. And while he recovered from his injuries, he would lie in wait within the safety of Du Weldenvarden. It was too late for the other Riders, but not for the rest of the world.

Driving Islingr's point into the ground, Vrael braced against the sword and struggled to his feet. The wound in his side pained him greatly, but it was a wound of the flesh, and would heal, either by his hand or another's. The wounds of his heart... those would take longer to heal. The memories flashed through him then, of all the signs he'd missed, the choices he could have made that would have stopped Galbatorix before he ever began. Such promise...wasted...

No, there was naught to be done. The darkness within the Oathbreaker was there long before his dragon, Jarnunvösk, was killed. Vrael took consolation in the fact that the pitiable dragon the traitor forced to serve him was now dead, destroyed along with so many others after Thuviel's foolish suicide. How it angered him, thinking of the wild and bonded dragons that were killed in the blast. Good intentions nearly decimated their order in a single moment... But Thuviel was not to blame. In that moment, all hope seemed lost. Vrael could not blame anyone but the dead man at his feet.

It was an aberrant thought, to know that almost every member of his order was dead. The dragons would have gone extinct in one fell swoop, if not for the brave actions of a few Riders. What kind of monster tries to exterminate an entire race of creatures for his own pride?

Vrael looked once more at that monster, cleft in two pieces. His struggle was not over, though; not even remotely. Galbatorix's followers were powerful in their own right, and Morzan was more cunning than Galbatorix would ever be. They would have to be dealt with, and quickly.

For now, Vrael would leave this place, and attempt to gather up the scraps of what his life used to be. And Edoc'sil, along with Vrael himself, would remain as they always had been... Unconquerable.