Chapter 4: Standing on the Precipice


A/N: Aaaand I'm back with the next chapter! There will be a time jump after this chapter, but I'll give you plenty of indication. Enjoy! :D

Aubeal: So happy to hear that you are enjoying the story! :D

Mad hatter: Thanks so much for your review! I'm happy to hear you are enjoying my changes. I have heard your request, and am happy to report that this story will, in fact, feature ExA :D It's true that I don't often feature them getting together, but I think this is due, in part, to the fact that my stories tend to focus on Murtagh, more so than Eragon. I will say, however, that due to the nature of this AU, the ExA dynamic will be vastly different than in the books. Hopefully, I can do a good job for you. :)


The trees Saphira showed him were long gone, having been destroyed by Thuviel's spell. But it appeared in her mind's eye the way it was when she was alive in her body. Lush, vibrant green leaves stretched from thick limbs and sturdy branches. A family of woodlarks made their home in a wide nest built from the smaller twigs of the tree. The air was fragrant with the scent of the tree's small, pink blossoms; little buds of pollen floated through the hazy spring air, dancing in the streams of sunlight piercing through the canopy.

As the memory faded away, Brom stood facing what was now a barren field, littered with a few charred stumps here and there. It was a place they'd once frequented, seeking solitude in the serenity of the forest. He remembered it well, and felt a hollow ache in his chest at the loss of such beauty. There had been numerous spots just like it all over the island, all lost to the inferno of desperation... But this spot was theirs, unknown to any others who inhabited the island.

Well, Saphira remarked dryly, looking through Brom's eyes at the devastation all around them. It certainly does look different. You'll find your surprise just there, where the grove used to be, though you may need to root amongst the ashes.

Something I'm sure I'll become very used to in the coming days, he replied with a small smile. Saphira's Eldunarí radiated warmth inside his pack, and her laughter echoed throughout his mind. It was the most beautiful thing he'd heard in a very long time.

Oh, Brom, she remarked with a note of fondness, I have missed your wit. The other Eldunarya are painfully dull; Umaroth is the worst of them. So dour... and humorless, much like his Rider.

Brom grit his teeth as he walked, eyes focused on a dark ring of ashes that stood out against the landscape. Believe me, Saphira, I am well acquainted with Umaroth's humorless Rider. Vrael-elda has only become more withdrawn since the Fall, I'm afraid. And Oromis-elda is not as you remember him either. The world is very much changed...

As I expected, she said, softer this time. A world without dragons sounds like a terrible place.

Aye, it is. There is much you have missed, Saphira; I have so much to tell you. The Forsworn, they

Brom! she shouted with a slight laugh. There will be plenty of time for all that later. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. She sent him an image of her wing folding over top of him and her tail snaking around them both; the equivalent of a dragon hug.

Very well, he conceded begrudgingly.

He stood in the middle of the phantom grove, looking in every direction as far as his eyes could see. Beneath his feet, a mountain of ashes and debris rose up off the soil, shifting with his every step like sand upon a beach.

Best get to it, Saphira chirped, nudging him with her mind.

He smiled at her joy and dropped to his knees, sending a cloud of dust into the air. As his hands dug through the detritus, Brom coughed away the silt that clogged his lungs and rubbed his eyes against his sleeves. The first step in rebuilding this island, he thought to himself, will be to get rid of all this damn soot!

Careful, Brom, Saphira replied darkly, rumbling. This 'soot', as you call it, is all that remains of my brothers and sisters... and yours, for that matter. Do not be so callous.

Sighing, Brom sat back on his heels and stared up at the sky. Forgive me, Saphira, he said quietly, I did not... His head fell and Brom tucked his chin into his chest. I will admit, I have grown callous without you. You are my heart; the one who reminds me of the good in this world, and focuses my gaze on what's right. In your absence, I allowed my lust for vengeance to consume my every thought, until it was the only identity I had left. No longer Brom Holcombsson; not a Rider... I was nothing.

That will never be true, she chided, not unkindly. It grieves me to think of how you suffered alone, Brom. But that's all done now. We are together once more, and whatever is to come, we will face it as one.

Brom basked in the overwhelming feelings of love she showered on him, pressing a fist against his chest as the hole there began to fill with her tenderness. His eyes opened, ringed with tears that blurred his vision. But the glint of sunlight against metal and gemstone was unmistakable. Hastily, Brom wiped away the tears and cleared away a bit more of the ash encrusting the object. As his hands moved, the beating of his heart rapidly increased.

"This cannot be," he mumbled aloud to himself, wrapping his hand around the hilt of the blade and pulling it up out of its forgotten grave. The aquamarine brightsteel blade shimmered in the afternoon sun, sending ripples of light over his face and onto the ground. The gemstone set into the pommel mimicked the color of the sky, sparkling with flares of light as the sun refracted off its many facets.

Undbitr, restored to its former master, as it should be, Saphira said in a grandiose tone.

How did you know where to find it? Brom asked incredulously, running his palm along the flat of the blade and clearing away the last of the ash clinging to the brightsteel.

Well, I had a lot of time to kill while I waited for you to return... Brom smiled at the cheek in her voice and continued inspecting his long-lost blade. There is quite a large store of energy still in that gem, she continued. It was only a matter of time before I detected it and recognized exactly what it was.

Thank you for leading me to it, Saphira, he said softly, tracing the dark rune at the base of the blade, spelling out the sword's name in the Ancient Language. To have you restored to me, as well as my blade, I am beginning to feel like my old self once more.

Well, you'll need to have a new sheath made, but I do what I can.

Brom stood out of the ash and undid his belt, tying a portion of it around the handle of his blade, and buckling it once more. He hoped he would not have need of it just yet on this desolate island, but his dagger was close at hand if he needed to free the blade quickly. A sheath is of little consequence in comparison to a Rider's sword, Brom replied, shouldering his pack and heading back in the direction of the Bay of Anurin. If you can believe it, Rhunön swore never to make another Rider's sword again after the Fall. I begged her to forge me another, but she refused.

A sentiment I can understand, Saphira remarked. Such destruction wrought with weapons of her own making... A feeling akin to a shudder coursed down Brom's spine, disorienting him slightly and making him stumble.

The killing was not the weapon's doing, Brom continued once he'd recovered. The monsters that wield the blades, that is another matter.


Glittering jewels of every shade shimmered under the white werelight, casting beams of light against the stone walls of the vault. There had to be hundreds of them, all placed intentionally in horizontal stands set into the walls, which reached fifty feet into the air. Down the middle of the room was a long stretch of stone shaped into a perfect rectangle, dark in color and polished until it gleamed. Atop the stone were three stands set apart, all of them empty.

Morzan did not know which Rider's swords were intended to be put on display here, nor did he care. This entire room reeked of Galbatorix's vanity; a shrine to his achievements as a madman. And what had those achievements won him in the end? Nothing but a tarnished name and a severed head.

Every blade here once belonged to a Rider slain either by Galbatorix's own hand, or by his will. Several of them, Morzan ended himself. But he took no joy in surveying the spoils of his victories; all he saw before him was a waste of good brightsteel. Without Riders to wield them, what good were they anyways?

He stood in the hall just outside the vault, gripping the pommel of Zar'roc where it hung at his hip. The vaults were his least favorite place to come. They were dirty and dark, and the only people who came down here were trying to hide something. His Master of Shadows was the one who reported on all those within the citadel, telling him of their comings and goings and the deepest secrets they wished to keep hidden. Morzan wanted no part of it, and took no pleasure inhabiting this shadowy place.

A cord seemed to snap in his mind, setting his awareness on edge. The shadows pressed all around him, edging closer with greedy fingers. A strange hissing noise filled the air, overwhelming his senses. The hairs at the back of his neck stood straight up, keenly aware of his surroundings. A growl bubbled up in his chest. He rolled his eyes, releasing that growl like some forest beast.

"Call off your dogs," he seethed, speaking into the emptiness. Laughter like a delicate bell echoed ominously from the shadowy corners of the corridor. As the laughter died, the shadows slowly receded and the hissing quieted.

"What are you doing sulking down here?" The voice belonging to the laugh came from behind, setting his spine straight as a board. It seemed to caress the air around him, smooth as silk and echoing with warmth. It was not difficult to guess at who had snuck up on him; only one of his Forsworn preferred to spend most of their time in the dank underbelly of the citadel. Morzan's most glittering servant spent all of her time wreathed in darkness. How ironic...

"Not sulking," he breathed, trying to maintain his calm. It was not every day that he was caught unawares, and he especially hated to be caught by her. "Contemplating. What are you doing following me?"

Aelia materialized out of the shadows, shimmering as she appeared in front of him with her signature simper plastered on her unnaturally pretty face. Morzan relied on the fact that she was especially gifted at shadow-magic—it was part of the reason he'd recruited her to join the Forsworn in the first place—and wagered that her otherworldly attractiveness was due, in part, to some glamour. But he would credit her this: it was an effective way of disarming men.

Just not him.

"Not following," she quipped back playfully, clasping her hands behind her and stepping around him in a lazy circle. Her full mouth drew upwards into a smirk. "Did you know the shadows down here have many secrets to tell? They like to whisper to me. Gives them something to do."

Eyes like liquid silver flashed under the werelight, giving her a ghostly appearance. But that was the only thing about her that was phantom-like. Her hair was a lustrous shade of chestnut brown—shot through with tendrils of red and gold that shimmered like strands of fire—reaching past her waist in a tumble of soft waves. Her form was lithe, but curved in a way that drew the eye exactly where she wanted it to; petite, yet somehow strong. A mouth like a rosebud, in both shape and color, curled into an amused smile as he watched her, reveling in the attention.

"Do they tell you anything interesting?" he finally asked, following her movement with his eyes until she was out of his sight. He would not deign to turn for her. Morzan felt her behind him, stepping slowly on bare feet that padded quietly against the stone floor. She seemed to him like a wild cat, stalking its prey and determining how best to pounce. It was a game she liked to play; pushing him as far as she dared to get a reaction out of him.

When he could once again see her out of the corner of his eye, she finally answered him. "Oh, they mostly speak of secrets belonging to men and women long-dead. But, once in a long while, they do report on some rather... interesting comings and goings."

Morzan pulled his mouth into a sneer, turning his head only slightly to look at her. "I care not for the clandestine trysts of the others," he scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "They are free to do as they wish, so long as it does not impede their ability to follow orders."

"They know that," she said with a slight smirk, fingering a silver medallion she wore about her neck. The pendant was set with a black gemstone of some kind, encircled by smaller stones of the same color. "The shadows were quite surprised to see you down here today, my lord. Hence, why I came to see what all the fuss was about."

She finally stopped directly in front of him, seeming to balance on the tips of her toes as she gazed up at his face. He tossed a lock of his dark hair out of his eyes, aiming for flippancy. The look she gave him indicated he failed in some way; those eyes pierced through him like a dagger, laying bare everything he kept locked inside. She was the most unsettling woman he'd ever known... It was unfathomable to think she was a human.

Or rather, she had been, at one time. Whether it be from the magic of becoming a Rider, or some other unholy means, the creature that stood before him now had long since shed her humanity. Beneath that glittering exterior lurked a heart of darkness, one that Morzan made constant note to keep an eye on. He could trust the loyalty of the others—well, most of them—but Aelia was a wild card. However calm she seemed, Morzan knew there was always some plot swirling just below the surface.

"The fuss," he finally explained, speaking slowly, "you may attribute to Tovar."

A slender, perfectly groomed eyebrow shot up high over the other, giving Aelia's face an uncharacteristically surprised look. That look faded almost as quickly as it came, but did not escape Morzan's notice. Aelia swayed backwards on her heels, looking up at him from under long, dark lashes.

"And what misstep has Tovar made to convince his king into making a visit to the vaults?" she questioned innocently.

Master of Shadows indeed, Morzan thought with just a little self-satisfaction. She seemed to be lacking in her duties, not knowing exactly why he was here. He rolled his shoulders back and gazed past her into the sword vault. "This is a mission of reward, not of punishment."

"Hmm." She hummed softly, looking back over her shoulder into the vault as well. Her silver tunic shimmered with the movement, swishing against her black velvet breeches. "I did not think you capable of bestowing rewards, Your Majesty. Tovar is very fortunate indeed."

Morzan bristled only slightly at her impudence, but ultimately settled on ignoring it. "This reward is one of necessity, as it were," he replied, brushing past her and walking under the stone archway into the vault. He heard her tip-toeing in behind him, keeping a few paces back. "You may remember that Tovar lost his blade many months ago. An unfortunate incident, which earned him more than a few lashes. It has taken him this long to prove to me that he is worthy of another."

"The subjugation of Dras-Leona," Aelia remarked wistfully, shifting her gaze up and down the walls. "The others tell me it was a monumental struggle, and Tovar was instrumental in ending the battle."

"Here I was thinking that three Riders would be enough..." Morzan heaved a sigh, gazing up at a column of swords. "No matter, it is done. And now Tovar may have his wish. If nothing else, I need him at his strongest, which means supplying him with a blade of highest quality. Gods know there's no other use for these bloody things." This last statement he muttered to himself, huffing out an irritated sigh.

"He prefers the falchion, my lord." Morzan did not wonder at how she knew this, but nodded all the same. Aelia certainly had her uses—and those uses were extremely varied—even if she irritated him most of the time.

Morzan began to walk the perimeter of the vault, inspecting the swords as he went. Each was custom made for its Rider, suited to the style, weight, and edge that they desired. Rhunön, the elven smith, also imbued them with a color to match the scales of their dragon. A wickedly sharp falchion caught his eye in the corner of the room, situated halfway up the wall and directly under a werelight sconce. Gingerly, he lifted the sword from its stand and inspected it under the light. The color was a dark blue—so dark, it was almost black—and not a true match to Tovar's dragon, which leaned more towards indigo. But it was close enough, and beggars did not have the luxury of choice.

"This will do," he said, running a calloused thumb over the silver rune on the flat of the blade.

Aelia was suddenly at his shoulder, peering down at the weapon with an inquisitive gleam in her eyes. "Mærr," she said quietly, uttering the name as if it were the most beautiful word she'd ever heard. "'Noble'... how fitting."

"Do you know the Rider it belonged to?"

Her unsettling silver eyes raked over the blade before shifting up to his face. "Rindava, Rider of Garren," she stated plainly, as though reciting her lessons. But then her mask of passivity shifted. Her face suddenly transformed into a gleeful look, though it was edged with something sinister. "I killed her myself. She begged for mercy at the end. Not so noble after all, it seems."

Against his will, Morzan's mouth pulled up into a smirk as a sudden thought struck him. Aelia had her little games, but so did he. That manic look in her eyes ignited something within him, a sudden urge to see her calm shattered and have her cowering before him. Twisting the falchion with blinding speed, the edge of the blade flashed as it sliced through the air and came to rest at the base of Aelia's throat. Her body stood stock still, though her eyes continued to rove over his face, as they always did. All the same, Morzan's blood pumped wildly at having caught her so off guard.

"Well done, my lord," she said evenly, her usual smile nowhere to be found. "But you seem to have forgotten the first rule of close quarter combat."

Morzan scoffed lightly. "And what is that?" he hissed, inching his face closer to hers. "Because from where I stand, you are dangerously close to losing your head."

"And you," she hissed back, "are dangerously close to losing something far more precious." The point of a dagger pressed against his groin, firm enough to make its presence known but not hard enough to pierce his leather pants. With just the slightest bit of chagrin, Morzan admitted that he did not notice her dagger, but the fact that he'd caught her unawares was enough to keep his smile in place.

Taking a small step back, he removed the blade from her throat, huffing out a laugh. Aelia sheathed her dagger in her belt, positioning it beneath her tunic at the small of her back. Morzan watched with mild interest as she rolled her shoulders, and just like that, the façade was back in place. Her mouth spread into an easy smile, and her eyes seemed to sparkle with intensity.

"Take this to Tovar, would you?" he questioned, handing over the blade by the hilt.

She inclined her head in obeisance and took the proffered sword, gripping the leather-wrapped handle tightly. "Of course, Your Majesty," she replied magnanimously, treating his question as a request while knowing it was the furthest thing from it. Aelia turned, her voluminous hair swaying behind her like a waterfall as she sauntered out of the vault on silent feet. Morzan watched her go, straightening his black leather jerkin. "Oh, I nearly forgot to mention," she suddenly said, stopping just past the vault door and turning back to him. But she said no more, presumably for dramatic effect.

"What is it, Aelia?" Morzan asked wearily, clenching his fist. He'd had just about enough of her games for today.

She smiled mischievously, tracing a finger down her jawline. "The shadows told me to tell you... There's an old section of the library, dating back to the time of the elves. You might find some tomes of... particular interest there." Aelia winked lazily and let out a very girlish giggle before turning once more and skipping out into the corridor. Morzan watched as she vanished into the shadows of the hallway before she reached the end, nothing at all to indicate she'd ever been there.

If there was any one of the Forsworn he'd need to keep an eye on, it was Aelia Birasdaughter. Sometimes, he thought she only remained loyal to their cause so she could observe what she deemed as "interesting events". Yet other times, she seemed wholly devoted to their mission. Her unpredictable nature was what made her simultaneously a lethal enemy and a fickle ally, neither of which Morzan could afford. But he had little choice; he needed her ability to slip in and out of places unseen. If the Riders who'd survived the Fall were planning something, he would need her to spy for him.

No... he could not afford to lose Aelia's fealty. And if that meant suffering her antics and flirtations, then so be it. Morzan gazed around the vast room, gripping the ruby-set pommel of his own Rider's sword as he looked at all the others. Letting out a heavy breath, he strode past the empty altar and left the vault, uttering a few words to seal the door once more. This stockpile would certainly have some use to him, though its contents were not nearly as intriguing as the vault just down the hall.

But that would have to wait. For now, he would heed Aelia's words, although he knew better than to press her on whatever else she might know about these mysterious volumes she spoke of. Whatever lay hidden in the stacks of the library, he would ferret it out. Perhaps it held the key to restoring what was lost, and ushering in a new age of power and dominance for his Riders; his Forsworn. The ancient wisdom of the elves may yet hold the key to the future of his dreams.


Vrael could have wept upon seeing the ruins of what was once the greatest library in the known world. A portion of Moraeta's Spire—nearly two-hundred feet in height—still stood, but the buildings that stood nearby were nothing more than rubble. It was folly, he knew, to hope that any piece of the library survived, but he hadn't been able to help it. After their miserable night in the municipal building, it would have been a miracle beyond all reckoning.

In the grand scheme of things, he supposed, it didn't matter. The Vault of Souls was the only thing that mattered now. As long as the treasure within remained untouched, everything else could be rebuilt. Vrael saw the Rock of Kuthian from their vantage point, a little ways south of the library on a hill that had once been covered in forest.

"Shall we?" he questioned aloud to his companions. Brom carried Oromis, the latter still too weak to walk the great distance from Doru Araeba to the Vault. The younger man nodded and began to make his way down the hill alongside the Elder Rider.

Their trek was slow going, but the three of them eventually made it to the edge of the spire. Brom stopped and set Oromis down on his feet, leaning up against a crumbling bench to catch his breath. "I'll keep watch while you two go inside," he said after taking a draught from his waterskin. "If anyone is lurking about, this would be the perfect opportunity to ambush us. Though where they might be hiding..."

Oromis nodded slowly, casting Vrael a look. They had not told the younger Rider of the protections placed around the Rock. It was not that they did not trust the boy—far from it, actually—but the key to entering the Vault was not something they wished to become public knowledge. The fewer people that knew, the better it would be.

"We'll not be long," Oromis said to his former pupil. With a great deal of difficulty, the elf began walking toward the spire alongside Vrael, keeping his eyes trained on the Rock.

Vrael's body seemed to hum with anticipation. Not much longer now, he said through his bond with Umaroth, sensing his dragon's consciousness beyond the thick stone door and deep beneath the mountain. This place was the perfect choice for shielding the eggs and Eldunarí from harm, but the protections placed around it made it difficult for Umaroth and Vrael to communicate effectively. A feeling like a rainstorm washed over him, illuminating Umaroth's relief at their arrival.

The two elves approached the Rock carefully, gazing up at the jagged stone edifice. Vrael exhaled a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Within his own mind, he uttered his true name, taking many moments as the name spanned several sentences. Each facet of his long, arduous life laid out in the ancient language like a scroll. It had changed recently, accounting the Fall of the Riders and the great sorrow he'd experienced at their defeat, but the essence of him was still the same. Judicious; wise and ancient; unfailingly fair, but with high expectations of those amongst his order... The list went on and on.

As he finished reciting his name, Oromis began to recite his own. The name was not quite as long as Vrael's, and contained many different traits that Vrael knew he himself would never possess. When he was done, they waited patiently for the lines to appear, marking the broad double doors inset into the stone. Golden glyphs depicting the wards upon the Vault appeared, glowing brightly and then fading to a dull dim.

Screeching as the stone was freed, the doors swung outward on hidden hinges, releasing a cloud of dust and ash as they scraped against the ground. After a few moments, the cloud cleared and the doors came to a stop. Without an ounce of trepidation, the two elves stepped into the long tunnel that would lead them to the Vault. Vrael felt Brom watching them curiously, but he made no move to follow. Once they were clear of the threshold, the doors swung closed once more. He directed a thought at Brom not to be worried, and they continued on into the darkness. Vrael conjured a white werelight to illuminate their path, keeping his eyes trained ahead.

The future that lay before them was clouded, but with the contents of this Vault, they had a chance to start again. As the end of the tunnel appeared, glowing with the light of the magma pit, Vrael's pulse began to race. Oromis stumbled slightly on the knobby ground, but maintained his balance well enough. They passed under the glyph-carved arch and entered the Vault, gazing around at the quiet space.

It was exactly as he remembered it last, having remained untouched. That thought brought him comfort, and he found himself able to release some of the tension that had found its way into his spine and shoulders.

"They are still here," he whispered hoarsely through his relief, scanning the tiers that held the dragon eggs they'd managed to cache. There had been so many... and they'd managed to save so few. The Eldunarí glittering in their alcoves all along the walls began to buzz at recognizing the Elder Rider. Cuaroc—the metal dragon-man Silvarí conjured as a defender for the Vault—approached them with thundering steps, weapon securely sheathed at his side. Pounding a seamless arm against his broad chest, the creature came to a halting stop and inclined his head at the two of them.

Well met, my old friend, Umaroth's voice boomed throughout the cavern. A chorus of humming voices droned underneath his words, rising and falling like the tides of the oceans. It has been too long. Your arrival was greatly anticipated.

Apologies, Vrael replied to the gathered Eldunarí, that we were not able to come sooner. The world is greatly changed, and it was not yet safe.

Oromis looked around, trying to conceal the tears glimmering in his eyes. But Vrael would not have condemned him for it; he understood the overwhelming emotion the other elf was experiencing in that moment. Their comrades had been destroyed—slaughtered and butchered like cattle at market—yet their salvation sat before them now, pristine and untouched.

Let us delay no longer, Vrael said to them all, inhaling deeply. There is much work to be done.


Allllrighty, that's all for now! As I said, time jump coming up, but I'll make it clear where we are jumping to. Hope you all enjoyed. Please review!