Chapter 1: A Womb of Ashes

A/N: Hey everyone! Thank you to those of you that reviewed last chapter. Hope you enjoy this one as well! :D


Nearly a year passed before Vrael was strong enough to even contemplate returning to the island. Those in Ellesméra had begun to worry about him, and so he pushed himself to regain his strength, perhaps harder than he should have. But it was stifling, suffering their pitying gazes and pretending not to hear when they whispered.

That they whispered at all was a significant point of annoyance for him. Not too long ago, Vrael was met with deference and utmost respect wherever he went. As the Elder Rider, he was afforded equal parts of power and responsibility. The hatchlings and their soon-to-be Riders knew him as a figure not to be trifled with, but also as one who could be depended upon without question; the oldest, wisest, and strongest amongst them. But now... Now he felt like nothing more than a shadow of his former self.

The truth of it was, he did not rightly understand it, why it was taking so long to recover from the battle. The wound Galbatorix dealt him took nearly three months to heal completely, even under the constant care of some of the more gifted spellcasters. And his body was not the only thing to suffer the effects. His magic, as well, was weaker than before. To this day, it required a great deal of effort to communicate with Umaroth over the long distance separating them. Vrael thought that Thuviel's spell might have something to do with it, but he couldn't be sure.

Whatever the case, ten months later found him still straining to cast anything more than the most basic of spells. It was absolutely infuriating, being bound by some unknown and unseen force. And Oromis was in no better shape than himself. Those black-hearted traitors had done unspeakable, unforgivable things to him, and it altered his mind and abilities. No longer could he cast a spell requiring more than a very small amount of energy, having been isolated from the flow of earthly energy around him. And Glaedr had only recently healed from the blow Formora dealt him, separating his left foreleg and leaving a gnarled, white stump in its place.

But the one small joy Vrael held onto was that they were not the only ones to survive the Fall. Oromis's young pupil, Brom, managed to escape death on Doru Araeba. His dragon, however, had not been so lucky. Even now, so many months later, the boy could not bring himself to recount how it happened.

While he was certainly a strong magician, Brom was young, and brash from grief at losing his partner-of-heart-and-mind. Vrael knew the boy blamed himself for his dragon's death; they'd disobeyed Oromis, after all, and raced off to join their comrades in the defense of Vroengard. Admirable, to be sure, but foolhardy, and carrying terrible consequences. Vrael knew that his choices still haunted him. Sometimes, Brom fell into his own mind and no longer saw the world around him. In the dark depths of his melancholy, no one could reach the young Rider.

They'd discussed it at length over the last few months, what was to be done. Did they return to the island and try to salvage it? Or gather the last remaining eggs and Eldunarí and attempt to rebuild elsewhere; leave the island to rot as a morbid shrine to the glory of the Past Order? Oromis, for his part, felt it was too soon after the Fall to reveal themselves. But Brom... youth and bravado outweighed his sense in some matters.

"We cannot let them think we are defeated!" the young Rider argued, the same as every day before. Vrael watched him passively from his backless, curule chair. The seat had been held by his predecessors for thousands of years, yet for the first time in the entirety of his incumbency, Vrael felt very small ensconced in the diminutive wooden chair.

"Take care with your tone, Brom," Oromis sighed from his place across the circular room. The debilitating seizures Kialandí's black magic left him with made it difficult for the elf to properly function for very long. Vrael heard the tiredness in his voice now, though it was only late morning. Brom looked back to his teacher, chest heaving with his passion. But seeing his former master so diminished seemed to give him pause.

The young Rider looked back to Vrael and bowed at the waist, mumbling a quick apology. Vrael waved his hand dismissively, eyes cast at the floor. How could he blame the boy? Brom's feelings mirrored his own in a way, though Vrael's desolation more often presented itself in the form of melancholy and isolation than outright rage.

The Elder Rider released a pent up sigh, feeling his chest concave. He'd grown thinner these long months, finding no motivation to care for himself in the absence of duty. "Would that I possessed your fervor, young Rider," the ancient elf said quietly, closing his blue-gray eyes. "But the fact remains that we are defeated, however greatly we wish it were not so. We three are all that remains of the past. Umaroth is too far away to be of any help, Glaedr is not able to go on as before... And you are without your dragon, Brom-vodhr." Suddenly, Vrael found himself gripping the oak wood of his chair, harder than he'd intended. When he let go, angry red lines appeared on his hands.

"I may be without my dragon," Brom continued, losing none of his intensity, "but I am not without my abilities, or the training you have provided me." This last statement was aimed at Oromis, who remained staring steadfastly at the floor.

Indiscretion may yet be our downfall, young one. Glaedr's deep, warm voice filled the room. Though the golden dragon could not fit inside the chamber, he'd been listening outside all the same. As the last living dragon that still owned his soul, his opinion realistically held more weight than any of theirs did. The survival of his species was at stake; that was not something Vrael was willing to risk.

I mean no disrespect— Brom began. But he was cut off abruptly by a deep, rumbling growl.

Then hold your tongue, Glaedr snapped back. Vrael watched as the young Rider's shoulders slumped, and some of his passion dimmed. As it stands right now, the golden dragon continued, I am the last of my kind. The eggs and the Eldunarí hidden on Vroengard are the future of my race, and the future of our very order. Without them, we are well and truly lost. This is not something we can risk by acting without thought or prudence.

What would you have us do? This time, it was Oromis who spoke.

Glaedr was silent for what seemed a very long time. When he did finally speak, the weight of his words settled over all of them like a mantle. We must wait, he intoned somberly. The Fall is still too fresh; they will look for survivors to return to the island first, before searching anywhere else. If we act too quickly, it may carry terrible ramifications. Cuaroc and the other Eldunarí will protect the eggs, if anyone happens upon them. But that is not likely. Until the threat of discovery is diminished, we cannot risk it.

If we wait, Brom replied, hands clenched at his sides, then that only serves to give the Forsworn more time to hunt down any other survivors. We still don't know if they're out there, and the longer we wait, the more we leave to die.

There are no survivors... Vrael said, fighting against the tightening in his chest as they looked at him, faces still. It was a fact he only recently came to terms with himself, but it was still difficult to stomach their shock.

How can you be so sure? Oromis asked. He shifted slightly in his seat, wincing from some unseen pain.

An emptiness, deep within my heart, the elf explained slowly, trying to work out the best way to say it, so they would understand. It was an ability that only the Elder Rider possessed; a burden he or she alone had to carry. I have always been able to sense the Riders, wherever they were and whatever they were doing, be they newly initiated or ancient and established. It became another piece of myself, in a way. The Riders and their dragons... Their energies were always there. I do not know how to explain it, but where their life-force once dwelled, there is only darkness now... A hollow aching I carry with me every day.

"That cannot be!" Brom cried aloud, fists now shaking with how tightly he gripped them. "There must be someone... Anyone!"

"There is not," Vrael said with a sense of finality. Did the boy not understand? For months now, he'd lain awake every night and struggled against his own limitations to search for them. Though his powers had weakened since the battle upon the mountain, this was something innate to his position. Yet every night, his search had been fruitless, and his sorrow only deepened.

"If there truly is no one left," Oromis began slowly, his voice strained, "then we are resigning ourselves to leave the people defenseless against the Wyrdfell that remain. With their leader slain by your own hand, we cannot know their plan, nor which of them is at the helm now. Vrael-elda... it is our sworn duty as Dragon Riders to protect the peoples of—"

"Do not speak to me of our duty, Oromis," Vrael snapped, throwing the former Council member an icy glare. "We have already failed on that front; there is nothing left of our commission to honor. The best we can hope for now is to salvage what has been left behind in the wake of destruction, and forge ahead. Whatever obligations we once held, we must forget them now. The world has changed, so we must change with it."

"Then they've already won." Brom took a few slow steps towards the Elder Rider. "We have given them their victory!"

"And so we have," Vrael replied, unperturbed. "The Wyrdfell and their mindless beasts will rule the land from here on out... for as long as we allow it."

"What do you mean?" Oromis questioned.

I believe I understand, Vrael-elda, Glaedr chimed in. We will let them grow fat and lazy on the thermals of their victory. Wings shuffled and the ground shook as he moved outside the room.

"Precisely." Struggling, Vrael stood from his chair and clasped his long-fingered hands at his waist. The two other Riders watched him expectantly. "In our current state, we can do nothing to combat the Wyrdfell and their treachery," he continued quietly. But his voice did not waver; a little of the Elder Rider that once was showed himself, in the straightness of his spine and the hard set to his jaw. "It would be a grievous folly to attempt any retribution at the present moment. So we will lie in wait, until the time is right, and anticipate that they will eventually reveal their hand. While they rest on their supposed laurels, we will eventually return to Vroengard, and strengthen our Order once again. This is the only way."

Silence reigned for several tense moments after Vrael finished. Oromis, for his part, looked resigned. But the fire in Brom's eyes... Vrael knew their disagreement would not see an end any time soon.

Brom opened his mouth to speak—presumably to present one such disagreement—but was swiftly silenced when the door to their chamber was flung open, slamming against the curved wall. The three Riders shifted their attention to the intrusion, Brom having already drawn his steel sword. But the elf who stood before them presented no threat; he wore the livery of the queen's household.

"Forgive the interruption, Vrael-elda," the elf said quickly, bowing and showing due respect to the Riders. "I bring an urgent message from Queen Islanzadí."

Vrael inclined his head, and said, "Speak quickly then."

The elf looked at the three Riders in turn. "She bids you all attend her at once. A message has just arrived from Ilirea." Vrael's heartbeat quickened in his chest. They had not heard from the last bastion of elves stationed in Ilirea for months now, and they feared the worst.

"What message?" Oromis asked, laboring to his feet and leaning heavily on the arm of his chair.

"It's the Wyrdfell, Shur'tugal," the messenger continued darkly. "They have overrun the city and killed the human king. Ilirea is lost."

Vrael fought the urge to fall back into his seat. It seemed they would not have to wait long for the Forsworn to reveal their hand after all.


The world is on fire...

Morzan braced against a window ledge as the southern quarter of the city burned, consumed by dragonfire. Screams echoed off the buildings and cobblestone streets, ringing in his ears as a beautiful chorus of chaos. Flaming debris fell from the windows of the taller buildings, and from the homes... He watched in manic glee as desperate people flung themselves to a swift death. Smoke and ash choked the sky, veiling the world in a blanket of darkness. Billowing clouds reflected the reds and oranges of the conflagration below, making it look like the sky burned too.

A beautiful sight, he thought to himself, allowing a smile to come to his face. From where he stood in the citadel's tallest tower, he could survey half of the entire city. Soldiers—conscripted into his service under threat of mutilation and death—patrolled the streets, corralling those who fled the inferno. But there was no escape now. If they did not find their death on the ground, it would certainly find them from the sky.

As if on cue, a horrible screeching filled the air, and the stones beneath his feet shuddered. A great buffet of wind swept over him, and a massive shadow fell across the citadel. Red scales flashed brightly against the fire, and Morzan watched as his dragon circled lazily over the western quarter of the city, spitting out flames almost disinterestedly.

For what felt like the thousandth time, Morzan attempted to reach the dragon with his mind. A spike of rage stabbed through his chest as that now-familiar fog entered his head. There was nothing there, as there had been before Galbatorix's rise to power. Whatever those accursed dragons did before their deaths, it handicapped him and the others... Not to mention their dragons. He could not even recall their names...

Where once there was a vibrant connection of energy, their dragons were nothing more than soulless beasts, possessing magic without knowing how to use it. This sometimes resulted in massive displays of raw, untamed power from the dragons. Morzan could admit that these occurrences were certainly useful. But unpredictable power was dangerous, and he found himself having to keep a close eye on the beasts. His own dragon already nearly killed two of the others, on several occasions.

But the dragons cooperated this time, and it only took Ilirea less than a week to fall under the vicious assault of the Forsworn. The pitiful forces that remained were no match for the twelve of them; although their dragons had been reduced to little more than mindless animals, fire could yet kill. The people that only yesterday lived under the peaceful banner of the Broddring Kingdom were learning that lesson all too well now.

His gaze traveled far below him, to the gates of the citadel. One side lay partially collapsed, scorched and smoking. The stone that stood guard for a thousand years was now charred black from dragonfire, barely standing upright. And on the battlements, impaled upon a pike, sat the head of King Angrenost, dipped in pitch to preserve it from decay. Morzan could still hear his pitiful whimpering as he begged for his life and the life of his family. A weak man, incapable of protecting himself or his people. How the citizens of his kingdom suffered so long under such cowardice, Morzan would never understand.

But now... Now they would know what true power and prosperity felt like. It would take time, and healthy doses of fear to recondition them, but Morzan was confident that he could manage the task. Galbatorix's vision had been limited, his imagination lacking a certain vividness and tenacity to make his glorious dreams become reality. The others followed him after he made pretty speeches and convinced them that they'd all been wronged in some way by the Old Order. A few of them, Morzan included, allowed their greed to overtake their honor; he was not too proud to admit it, even to himself. He'd had little in the way of honor to begin with.

After Galbatorix's shameful defeat at the hands of Vrael, it took an enormous effort by Morzan to convince them to carry on. Each of them resigned to go their separate ways when they learned the news. Only Morzan believed they could finish the plan, reach the ultimate goal. And now, here they were. On top of the world, with no one strong or able enough to stand in their way. The power alone was enough to make him drunk.

But he could not get carried away. If this plan of his was to work, he'd have to be smart about it. Galbatorix allowed his madness to outweigh his sense, and in some small way, Morzan let the bastard destroy himself. It was foolish to go up against Vrael alone; even wounded, the old man was ancient and powerful beyond all reckoning. In the end, Galbatorix only had himself to blame.

"It's a beautiful thought, isn't it?" he mused to himself, still gazing out over the city. "The world is burning, and from the ashes, a new world shall be born." He thought of the three eggs he now held in his possession, the last dragon eggs in existence. The elves were fools to leave them here, thinking they'd be safe. No matter what it took, Morzan would find the Riders destined for these eggs, and forge an army no man could ever hope to defeat.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. Someone entered the room—he believed it was Angrenost's study at one time—quiet as a cat. Without turning, Morzan knew who it was that joined him in the tower. His fist ground against the stone of the window sill, and his teeth clenched painfully.

"Why do you bother me so soon after our victory?" he spat venomously, feeling his brow furrow. "Have the pit vipers already gathered?"

"Kialandí wishes to know what you want done with the courtiers," the silken voice responded. Against his better judgment, that voice sent a shiver down Morzan's spine.

"Then why does he not ask me so himself? Are you now his dog as well as his whore?" Morzan turned to face the elf woman, staring her down with his cutting gaze. But his intimidation never seemed to have any effect on Formora. Perhaps it was because she was an elf, a being superior to a human in most ways. Or perhaps, because she was as ruthless as the rumors said.

She sniffed at him slightly, showing no indication that his words bothered her. "His wounds still trouble him," she replied, hooking her thumb through the leather belt she always wore. A collection of dragonbone-hilt knives shone dully in the dim light of the room, secured to the belt with brass buckles.

Morzan chuckled. "Bested by a cripple... how pathetic..."

"The cripple's dragon was not nearly as crippled as his Rider," she bit back harshly. " I remedied that situation quickly, if you'll recall."

"Would that you finished the job." That seemed to shake her very slightly. Her eyes widened infinitesimally, but it was enough to satisfy him. Morzan felt his ire rise from deep within his chest, and it was a struggle to keep it stamped down. He would not allow himself to fall victim to Formora's trap. "Where are they now?" he continued. "My old teachers... With any luck, they're dead in some field, nothing more than bones bleached by the sun."

Formora hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it did not escape Morzan's notice. "We have not been able to locate them," she replied sullenly.

A deathly hush fell over the room as Morzan stalked across the floor so that they stood mere inches apart. All he heard was the steadiness of his own breath, and the heartbeat in his chest. His fingers found her throat as a cat finds a mouse, digging into the supple flesh until his nails drew blood. Formora at least did him the honor of looking a little frightened now, instead of wearing her usual, cold exterior. Eyes like jewels of amber stared up at him, wide with fear. Her hands gripped his wrist, trying in vain to pull him away.

"How easy it would be," he mused quietly, inspecting her face as one might inspect a work of art; intensely focused, but with an air of detachment. "To crush your throat would be nothing. Even now, I can feel your wards slipping. You are tired from the battle, Formora. Rest awhile... When you've recovered your strength, take that beast of yours and find them. Do you understand me?"

She knew better than to continue struggling against him, and so she nodded slightly, gasping a little as his grip continued to tighten. There was a certain thrill he got from seeing her like this, powerless and trembling beneath him. But he needed her to remain loyal. He released her, quickly healing the cuts and the bruises already forming. She took a few steps back, holding her own hand to her throat and glaring at him.

Morzan could practically see her pride as she swallowed it and bowed. "It shall be done," she muttered darkly. When she straightened up and fixed her gaze back on him, Morzan recognized the fury brewing there. It was a mirror of his own, as enticing as it was enraging.

"Take Enduriel and Savrai with you," he added as she turned away. Formora halted mid-step and half-turned back toward him, dark hair curtaining part of her angular face.

"I don't need their help," she hissed.

Morzan allowed himself a small smirk. "When you let Glaedr and Oromis escape," he explained simply, "you lost my trust. If you wish to gain it back, Formora, you'll do as I say. Take them with you; find the traitors. It's a simple enough task. As for the courtiers, tell Kialandí to gather them in the Great Hall. I'll be down shortly."

The force of her gaze would have caused a lesser man to wither. But Morzan was not such a man, and he returned her gaze with equal strength. After a few moments of terse silence, she nodded and stalked from the room without another word, slamming the door as she went.

Morzan stood in the middle of the empty room, staring at the blank space where she'd stood. Though he remained motionless, his mind raced. There were many things to be done, each task more intricate than the last. It would require absolute, unquestioning loyalty from each of Galbatorix's disciples; Forsworn they were called. Of all the others—the twelve of them that remained, anyways—Formora was likely to give him the most trouble. But she would bow to him eventually... one way, or another.


Thanks for reading! Please review and let me know what you think!

P.S. (Quick content note: Morzan is a real bad dude intentionally. Whenever he pops up and it's required, I'll give a discretionary warning.)