A/N: Hey y'all. So… yeah, when I said there'd be a time jump, I didn't mean to make you wait for the actual amount of time. (Not actually, but still…) That's uh… That's my bad. Lots of stuff happened in my life. I bought a house, had a baby, got caught up with taking care of my son, and now I have written my own original manuscript. After doing that, and now being in the querying process, I have found the time and the inspiration to return to a lot of my fics. Starting with this one. Thank you all.
Twenty Years Later
Dawn just barely peeked over the mountains, flooding the valley with soft pink light. Somewhere outside the window, a robin trilled its morning tune with merry delight. Only recently had the wildlife begun to return to Vroengard. Brom didn't realize before how much he missed the sounds of nature. Isolated here on this island, it was easy to forget what life used to be like, before the Fall and the Forsworn and the end of the world as he knew it.
He loved to start his mornings on the small porch at the back of his humble dwelling. It gave the perfect view of the sunrise over Mount Ilthiaros, and faced the vast lake in the center of the island. Across the gently lapping waters, Brom saw the ruins of Doru Araeba rising above the small collection of newly-built structures along the lake's edge.
Many of the old buildings they'd demolished, repurposing the materials for the new structures. Only a few were intact enough to be worth refurbishing. Even so, Brom preferred his little cabin across the lake. It was far enough away from the others that he felt some small sliver of privacy. But really, as a Rider, he was never alone. Not with the others, the dragons, and the Eldunarí always closeby. Even from here, he sensed the elves, already awake and starting their routines.
All of them had busy schedules. Hardly a day went by when there wasn't a litany of things requiring his attention. It's why Brom valued these few moments of peace early in the morning, when he could collect his thoughts and center his mind in preparation for his duties.
He had to meet with Vrael first thing this morning, finalize the preparations for his journey tomorrow. And then the afternoon would consist of lessons and municipalities. After dinner, he'd have to make the trek to the Vault, which wouldn't see him returned until midnight, at least. There was so much to do. This would be his only chance to relax.
No such luck.
"Brom-elda, I beg of you. Let us come. Tol and I are ready; we want to help." The young woman stood at the edge of the porch, barely past the steps. It was becoming a habit of hers, ambushing him this early in the morning. She didn't normally make it three steps in the door before starting her protestations, let alone the back porch. Maybe his forecast for luck wasn't so dreary after all. Brom heaved a sigh, clutching his mug a little tighter as he turned to face the woman.
Yenma dor'El had been the first new Rider added to the ranks. Seven years ago, huddled in the damp basement of a home in Aroughs, a pale dragon egg hatched for her. The moment those spidery cracks appeared in the egg, Brom thought he might cry. After thirteen years without a hatchling, they were beginning to fear their order truly was dead. But as a twelve-year-old Yenma cradled the tiny lilac dragon in her arms, those fears faded away.
Brom became her teacher, earning the title of Ebrithil like he never thought he would. Having an apprentice naturally came with its own special set of challenges. Even more so when the future of their entire order hinged on his success. He and Saphira argued about the best teaching methods in those early days, but the four of them eventually fell into a tenuous sort of harmony.
The young Surdan woman was nothing if not headstrong, and her dragon, Tolningr, had a nervous disposition. But they were dedicated students, and soon grew competent in their skills and abilities. After seven years as a bonded dragon and Rider, they were a capable pair. Brom was immensely proud of them. In the old days, they would have graduated from their apprenticeship years ago.
But the old days were gone. Brom was hesitant to take the risk.
"Yenma," he sighed, holding in a groan. "Must we start the day this way?"
Irritation flashed across her face, her brown skin flushing darkly. She tossed her silky black braid over her shoulder with a huff. "If I don't catch you now, you'll avoid me 'til supper, Ebrithil. And you're even grumpier after you've been in your cups."
Brom couldn't restrain his laugh. Impudent though the statement may have been, the young Rider was not entirely wrong. Saphira chuckled her agreement within his mind.
"Even so," Brom said, "may I finish my tea before we have this discussion for the hundredth time?"
"Seventy-sixth, actually," she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.
Brom took that as her agreement and raised his mug to his lips, reveling in the herb-scented steam that snaked up over his face. Though spring began a few weeks ago, the mornings were still cold. It didn't normally bother him, but his aggravation was in rare form today.
Frost-covered grass crunched under-paw as Tolningr settled on his haunches. The lilac dragon watched them from wide amethyst eyes, tail flicking with his palpable agitation. Though from his own nervousness, or his Rider's frustration, Brom could not be sure. That was good; a sign that their bond was strong.
He took a few more sips of the tea, weathering their implacable stares with calm composure.
Saphira sent a shower of admonishment. Come now, Brom. They are desperate for a chance to prove themselves. Why not give it?
For precisely that reason, he replied. They are desperate. Desperation leaves room for mistakes, and mistakes open the door to tragedy.
She grumbled in response but said nothing. Twenty years was not much more than a blink in the life of a Rider, but the stretch of time had given Brom something close to wisdom. Not to the level of Oromis-elda, of course. But enough that his thirst for vengeance no longer woke him in the middle of the night. He'd even managed to keep clear of Morzan and the Wyrdfell for close to a decade, which was no small source of pride for Brom.
Yes, time gave him prudence and patience. Revenge was a dish best cooked slowly, an art Brom was beginning to perfect.
Yenma and Tol reminded him too much of himself and Saphira in their younger days. Those memories made him even more cautious; their own status as Indlvarn was enough reason to keep his young wards on a tight leash.
Brom slowly drank the rest of his tea, down to the dredges, then placed the mug upon the railing. He turned to face Yenma. "Now—"
"I promise we will be safe, Brom-elda. If the reports are true, the Wyrdfell do not venture outside Ilirea if they don't have to. We can remain hidden."
Ignoring her interruption, he cast a pointed look at Tolningr where he sat in the grass, the dawn light basking his delicate lilac scales in a glorious array. "Really?" Brom drawled, sliding his gaze back to the young woman. "I understand Glaedr is your only point of reference, Yenma, but Tol is by no means small. A dragon draws attention in any capacity. A dragon that does not belong to one of the Forsworn? That's the kind of attention we cannot afford."
"And why not?" she argued, bracing her clenched fists on her ample hips. "It's been twenty years. Is it not time to show the Wyrdfell that the Riders have returned?"
"No, it is not."
Brom waited a long moment, letting the words sink in.
She glared back in silent challenge. The hilt of a knife banded into her leather harness glinted sharply as her breath heaved through her chest. Even in this remote place, inhabited by only a few, Yenma kept various knives and other weapons hidden on her person. A remnant of her past life on the streets of Dauth, she'd once told him. Looking at her now, Brom couldn't help thinking the striking woman would draw attention even without her dragon in tow.
"Yenma-kodhr," he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please believe me when I say it is not for your lack of skill. Nor yours, Tolningr. I am proud to be your teacher, and expect great things from you both one day. But the restoration of the Riders has not gone as smoothly as we hoped." The young woman made to speak, but Brom raised a warning hand to silence her, looking between the two of them slowly. "Nïmun and Simea are barely a year into their training. Hawk is still a boy; Sparrow, only a hatchling. You and Tol are all we have. I will not risk you."
"You leave for Narda tomorrow to find a new Rider and meet with our allies," Yenma said, taking a few steps forward. "Maybe the sight of us will convince others to join the cause."
"Or maybe it will alert our enemies and start a war we are not ready for!" The last scraps of Brom's patience floated away on the morning breeze. His voice echoed in the cold air, met with a long silence.
Forgive us, Ebrithil. Tolningr's high voice was accompanied by a soft groan. The dragon lowered his head, amethyst eyes snicking closed quietly.
Yenma shot a look over her shoulder at the lilac dragon, but clamped her mouth shut. While Brom regretted losing his temper, he would not complain that the conversation seemed to be at an end. This recurring disagreement was beginning to wear on him, and, he feared, fraying the relationship with his students. While a difference of opinion was to be expected—heaven knows he and Oromis had their fair share of arguments—they could not afford for this to drive Yenma and Tol into doing something foolish.
Your time will come, young ones, Saphira offered, radiating a soft warmth into their minds. Let me be the first to tell you: there is no glory in battle, only pain. The glory comes with the victory. We must have patience if we are to win.
Tolningr bowed his head lower, emitting a low grumble. Even Yenma seemed mollified, her features softening as she backed off the porch. She raised a hand—the one with the gedwëy ignasia—in front of her chest, driving her other fist into her palm and lowering her head.
We understand, ebrithilar, Yenma replied. She lifted her gaze, and while her round face appeared placid, Brom saw a hard edge in her dark eyes, one that sent a shiver of uncertainty snaking down his spine.
A flash of color over the lake drew his eye. Yenma followed his gaze, and they saw a wine red dragoness sweeping lower over the water, her elven Rider perched proudly in the saddle.
Nïmun and Simea were starting early this morning, it seemed. Brom envied Oromis for his compliant, laidback students. They were already beginning their aerial exercises, while Brom was still here parrying the same argument he'd had for months. What he wouldn't give to reverse time, go back to the carefree days of his youth and wait another sixty, seventy years before taking on an apprentice.
No use dwelling on it, Saphira chided. There is work to be done.
Brom let out a heavy breath, turning back to Yenma. "Why don't you join Nïmun today? Show him some more advanced techniques? I'm sure he and Simea would be glad for the company."
The young woman cast a glance at her dragon and then nodded, setting her jaw in a hard line. "As you wish, Ebrithil."
Without another word, she bounded the short distance to Tolningr's side, swinging into the saddle with ease. The lilac dragon leapt easily into the sky, not even waiting for his Rider to strap herself in. They were truly at ease with each other; a deeply bonded pair, and more adept in some disciplines than even Brom. They would do him proud one day, he knew.
Just not today.
In the throne room of Urû'baen, even the mightiest dragon looked small beneath the imposing height of the ceilings. Morzan lounged in his stone seat, one leg draped over a straight-carved arm of his throne as he stared down at the three of them. Their scales glimmered faintly under the white werelights suspended from the high ceilings. Sky blue, sandy tan, and charcoal gray, rippling with their slight movements.
These three looked especially diminutive, being the youngest of all the Forsworn. Though none of them could reasonably be classified as "young", by any stretch of the imagination. Either way, the three before him were the last to join Galbatorix's ranks, and thus, Morzan trusted them the least. Even after twenty years, there were some habits he couldn't quite shake.
"Failure will not be tolerated," he said, his voice level. "I grow weary of this search. Bring me back their heads, or it'll be yours on a pike. Do I make myself clear?"
The elf-woman, Savrai, raised her eyes, a startling shade of blue that closely matched her dragon. "Yes, Your Majesty," she replied. At her side, Vallah bowed, repeating the sentiment.
Morzan looked to the last of their group, his fingers beginning to tap at the arm of his throne. The dark-skinned man wore an amused expression as he stared at the Usurper King, his tan dragoness letting out a low hiss.
"Bennumora-on Dachu Keld," Morzan said sharply. "Do I make myself clear?"
Keld inclined his head a fraction, wearing that same smile. "Crystal, my king," he uttered, his deep, rich voice carrying through the cavern like a melody. "We will find these rebels and bring you their heads, with pleasure."
"Leave one alive, for questioning," Morzan amended, dropping his leg and leaning forward. "I doubt the cell in Narda is the only one."
"It will be done, my lord," Savrai answered, casting a sidelong look to the man at her right. His amber eyes flicked to her for a moment, understanding passing between them.
Morzan waved his hand sluggishly. "Leave."
The three Forsworn obeyed, retreating into the shadows without another word. Morzan waited until the door boomed shut before dropping his mask, slumping back into the seat. It was more than this never-ending search for his enemies that wore him down. If he wasn't sending the Forsworn out to look for dissenters, he was doing his damndest to keep the conniving bastards from killing each other. A task which presented its own special set of problems.
Kialandí was currently holed up in his tower, recovering from ingesting a near-lethal dose of hemlock someone slipped in his wine. Morzan wasn't sure which one of them did it, but he would've placed a wager on Tovar if pressed. They didn't call the man "Snaketongue" for nothing, and he'd been at the elf's throat for weeks leading up to the incident.
Erho, too, had become decidedly less useful five years ago when she lost a hand in a dispute with Aelia. He'd thought the elf had more sense than to get on the Shadowmaster's bad side, yet the Forsworn seemed to all have a talent for proving the king wrong when it came to their ineptitude.
At least Savrai and Vallah had shown appropriate deference today, unlike Keld. Morzan released a wordless growl at the thought, clenching his fist tightly. As a former member of clan Dachu—one of the Wandering Tribes that roamed the Hadarac Desert—Keld had always been a bit unpredictable. His nomadic tendencies led him away from their stronghold in Urû'baen more often than not, and Morzan was never truly confident in the man's loyalties. He seemed merely to sail whatever tide lifted him highest.
Then again, wasn't that what they all did with Galbatorix? And look at them now. Back-biting and fighting amongst themselves, their dragons reduced to animals, and their magic waning every day. Morzan felt it now, in the way his bones ached and by the faint lines appearing around his mismatched eyes. He was growing haggard; they all were.
He'd found the spell years ago, buried deep within one of the books Aelia's shadows told her about. It would fix everything, if only they had the power to cast it. As it stood now, he and his Forsworn were too weak to wield the spell that would restore them to their former glory. Without any substantial energy stores or Eldunarí to draw on, it was an impossible task.
A delicate hand landed on his shoulder, stroking lightly at the red velvet of his doublet. "You are in a dark mood this evening, my lord."
Morzan did not start at the sudden intrusion, as he once did. After so long in each other's company, he'd grown used to the way Aelia seemed to appear out of thin air. He'd even grown numb to her mercurial nature, which oftentimes mirrored his own. They complemented one another, in a way.
"My throne comes with many complications that often leave me in a dark mood," he muttered back, keeping his eyes trained forward. Slowly, Aelia sauntered around the chair, crouching down in front of him.
"What complications cloud your thoughts this evening?" Her lustrous hair fell over her shoulder, brushing against his leg, and her silver eyes danced in the torchlight. Gently, she placed a hand on his knee, soft tendrils of shadow wisping from her fingers.
Morzan watched the shadows for a long moment, feeling them feather against him, delicate and warm. "Rebellion," he finally answered, gaze going vacant. "Treachery within these very walls. Power… slipping through my grasp."
Her hand slid higher on his thigh, gripping lightly. "Who have you sent this time?"
"You don't already know?" he snapped, his eyes flicking to her face.
Aelia smiled, unfazed. "They told me," she replied, glancing down at her hand. "But I do love the sound of your voice, my lord."
"Flattery," Morzan scoffed. "You're trying to stroke my ego?"
With a lazy smile, Aelia moved her hand to his groin, cupping him through his pants. "It's not the only thing I can stroke, my lord."
Quick as lightning, Morzan fisted his hand in her hair, jerking her head to the side. Her rosebud mouth parted in surprise, though her hand did not move. Morzan leaned in close, feeling her breath ghost across his lips.
"Tread carefully, Shadowmaster," he said, blood already rushing to his groin. "I like to break the things that crawl into my bed. And it will not gain you any favor. Ask Kialandí and Erho. They already tried."
Aelia's lashes fluttered over her unnatural eyes as she pulled against his hold, wincing as her scalp stretched. His pulse quickened at the sight, hastened further when she squeezed her fingers on his hardening length.
"I wish only to please you, my lord," she breathed, the scent of jasmine and summerwine coating the words. "If it will pull you from your misery, you may take your pleasure as you see fit."
A smirk twisted his face. Morzan reached down to the blade leaning against the side of his throne. Its crimson blade flashed wickedly as he raised it between them, the runes etched into the flat glowing under the torches.
"This is my only misery, Aelia." He twisted the blade so she could read the rune. "These issues are mere distractions; tiny obstacles on the road to glory. I will surmount them easily. The only thing I need from you is your continued surveillance of the treacherous snakes in this citadel. Is that understood?"
She nodded, wincing again as his fist tightened in her hair.
"When I want something else, I will send for you. Now get out." Morzan shoved her away, jerking her head sharply to emphasize his words.
Her shadows slithered back under her skin as she rose, bowing her head. Quietly, Aelia padded away, back into the darkness she'd slithered out of. Morzan stood from his throne, crossing to the opposite side and slipping out of the chamber.
Every few years, one of them would pull this stunt. They thought him no better than a baseless animal, ruled by his cock like some dog. After all this time, did they not realize the easiest way to gain his favor was to do what he asked? Do it and get results? Fools, the lot of them.
As he fumed down the corridor, the thought struck him that it might be time to start adding to their ranks. There was only so much they could do in their current state, and it was beginning to seem like it might take less time to train a new Rider than to wait for these idiots to suddenly become useful.
After these rebels in Narda and elsewhere were dealt with, the hunt would begin. For the first time in two decades, a thrill of true excitement coursed through Morzan's veins. Small obstacles, indeed. Hurdled easier with a true Rider under his command. But where to begin the search?
That's all for now. Thanks for reading!
