Hello everyone, Bladewolf101 here! Welcome to chapter 51, which officially kicks us off into the last book of the Inheritance Cycle. Well, chapter 50 kinda did that, but that was more of the beginning of it, this one really kicks off the plot of the final book. Now Stryker and I are unsure of how many chapters it'll take to conclude the Inheritance plot, but I'd say hopefully by chapter 70… if we're lucky. Inheritance was a big book, but Stryker and I have a history of going nearly 20,000 words in a chapter.

Also, remember to come to mine and Stryker's Discord server. The invite code is "82arz7EwFT". You can come and ask us anything. It can be about any of my stories, not just The New Dragon. Though I can't say much because that would be spoilers.

Anyway, time to answer the reviews.

Guest (Chapter 1): Uh… no. I ain't publishing another story until I've got all thirty current stories completed. The idea is… passable, but it doesn't catch my interest. I've read enough Star Wars stories where Darth Vader does something in another world.

Valor-Derzod (Chapter 22): Size isn't everything to display respect. Just look at Yoda from Star Wars.

SDC21 (Chapter 1): Oh get over it! You don't like it? Then tough. If you can handle some original stuff, then don't bother reading the story.

Mr E Guest: Yeah, not gonna lie… that was where that originated from. That was Stryker's idea mainly, I think he's as big of a fan of that movie as I am. Dragonheart… one of the best dragon films ever created.

Nathnathn: Yeah, in regards to the sequel, since Stryker went and talked about it without consulting me about it, it may take place after the Inheritance Cycle series, as Ancalagon, Saphira, Eragon go through some stuff and challenges. Don't want to say much, it's still just a thought at the moment, nothing concrete.

Dragomancer (Chapter 49): Well, maybe he's learned to forgive and forget rather than holding it against her like an impudent child. Yeah, what she said was harsh and all that, but I'm trying to show maturity on Ancalagon's part.

Luxo11 (Chapter 1): Well, that's your opinion. Your entitled to it. But do me a favor… read all the fucking chapters before you go and make your opinion. If you had read straight up to the current one, then you'd see not everything is close to canon.

Bittersweetss7: Well, he WAS going to be out a bit longer but… Stryker decided it was best he comes back earlier. It is his character, so he has the right to decide that.

Thunderofdeath97: Why am I not surprised to see you here? Look, clearly you see anything as a means of shitting on somebody. What Arya did was one of those friendly slaps you give to a friend. Did she full on smack him hard with intent to harm? NO, she did not. And do not blow up the review section on this story to complain about one thing. Eragon has not been treated poorly. If you're talking about when he went off on his own to deal with Sloan and kill the Ra'zac, well he had Saphira worried and Ancalagon would be a shit mate if he didn't at least respond to her distress. Do me a favor, next time you want to review, put down something more respectful and not hate-filled… because it may not be me that answers a review from you next time. You've already stressed me out enough.

Let's get into this final book!

The New Dragon

-Chapter 51-

With the knowledge that his unhatched sister had been laid, that he was a big brother now, Ancalagon was determined to have this battle over earlier than expected. Putting the thought of the dragon-killing weapons to the back of his mind, as well as the fact they'll be keeping it, Ancalagon turned to his companions and mate.

Right, first we- A squeal interrupted him.

The sound was stabbing, slicing, shivering, like metal scraping against stone. Ancalagon snorted and growled at the irritating sound. Eragon's teeth vibrated in sympathy and he covered his ears with his hands, grimacing as he twisted around, trying to locate the source of the noise. Saphira tossed her head, and even through the din, he heard her whine in distress.

Eragon swept his gaze over the courtyard two separate times before he noticed a faint puff of dust rising up the wall of the keep from a foot-wide crack that had appeared beneath the blackened, partially destroyed window where Blodhgarm had killed the magician. As the squeal increased in intensity, Eragon risked lifting one of his hands off his ears to point at the crack.

"Look!" he shouted to Arya, who nodded in acknowledgment. He replaced his hand over his ear.

Without warning or preamble, the sound stopped.

Eragon waited for a moment, then slowly lowered his hands, for once wishing that his hearing were not quite so sensitive.

Just as he did, the crack jerked open wider-spreading until it was several feet across-and raced down the wall of the keep. Like a bolt of lightning, the crack struck and shattered the keystone above the doors to the building, showering the floor below with pebbles. The whole castle groaned, and from the damaged window to the broken keystone, the front of the keep began to lean outward.

"Run!" Eragon shouted at the Varden, though the men were already scattering to either side of the courtyard, desperate to get out from under the precarious wall. Eragon took a single step forward, every muscle in his body tense as he searched for a glimpse of Roran somewhere in the throng of warriors.

At last Eragon spotted him, trapped behind the last group of men by the doorway, bellowing madly at them, his words lost in the commotion. Then the wall shifted and dropped several inches-leaning even farther away from the rest of the building-pelting Roran with rocks, knocking him off balance, and forcing him to stumble backward under the overhang of the doorway.

As Roran straightened from a crouch, his eyes met Eragon's, and in his gaze Eragon saw a flash of fear and helplessness, quickly followed by resignation, as if Roran knew that, no matter how fast he ran, he could not possibly reach safety in time.

A wry smile touched Roran's lips.

And the wall fell.

But a black blur dove in and surrounded Roran as the wall fell. Eragon's eyes widened while Saphira's heart leapt to her throat upon seeing her mate dive in to protect Roran from the crumbling wall. Michael! She called, anxious for a response.

Luckily, she got one and it was a very reassuring one.

Ow. Stupid wall. Ancalagon shook the wall off him with his wings, shoving some of it aside with his tail while uncovering Roran from his paws. He looked down at the man. Next time… just sprint like a madman. I'd wager your wife would fight her way into whatever afterlife you believe in to drag your soul back to the living, just so she can kill you all over again.

"Duly noted." Roran nodded as Ancalagon stood, having also protected five others from being crushed by the wall. His smooth, black scales were covered in dust, and he looked like he had been left in a dusty old attic for many years with the dust clinging just to him.

I'm going to need a bath after this. Ancalagon grumbled.

I'm sure either Saphira, myself or the rest of my kin would happily jump at the opportunity if you offered. Arya's musical voice chuckled in his head.

Hmm, take a bath and a wash with my mate, or have elves clean my scales until they look reflective and smooth again… hard choice. Both are very tempting. Ancalagon gave a fanged smirk.

Who said anything about choosing between the two? The elf was openly laughing, leaning against the dragon's leg as she was doubled over. There are thirteen of us. I'm sure we could split it seven and six.

Hmm… Ancalagon thought it over before shrugging his broad shoulders. Sure, whatever you say. But a word of advice: if Saphira and I get too… affectionate, as I know she'll start it, walk away quickly.

The elf then fell over, roaring with laughter.

"What's got her showing emotion?" Roran's voice drifted over to the group from where he was leaning against his cousin.

Don't ask. Almandine's proud, yet tired voice echoed into the group's minds. She focused on her son. You, big brother boy, have a duty to fulfill when you arrive so I hope you remembered your task…

I haven't forgotten. Ancalagon assured her before looking at the humans and elves. Now, as I said before… let's get this battle over with before supper. I have an unhatched sister to meet.

"Yes yes, of course." Roran stated, waving a hand dismissively and walking toward the destroyed gates of the keep with Eragon in tow.

Ancalagon snorted and shook his head before glancing at Arya. You know how tempting it is to leave the rest of the fighting to all of you so I can go see my mother and unhatched sister? It's as tempting as the thrill to fight. He spread his wings and took off into the air, keeping an eye out for any more archers on the walls as things are handed inside.

Eragon sprinted down the corridor. His footsteps and his breathing sounded strangely muted to him, as if his ears were filled with water.

He slowed as he drew near an open doorway. Through it, he saw a study with five armed men pointing at a map and arguing. None of them noticed Eragon.

He kept running.

He sped around a corner and collided with a soldier walking in the opposite direction. Eragon's vision flashed red and yellow as his forehead struck the rim of the man's shield. He clung to the soldier, and the two of them staggered back and forth across the corridor like a pair of drunk dancers.

The soldier uttered an oath as he struggled to regain his balance. "What's wrong with you, you thrice-blasted-" he said, and then he saw Eragon's face, and his eyes widened. "You!"

Eragon balled his right hand and punched the man in the belly, directly underneath his rib cage. The blow lifted the man off his feet and smashed him into the ceiling. "Me," Eragon agreed as the man dropped to the floor, lifeless.

Eragon continued down the corridor. His already rapid pulse seemed to have doubled since he entered the keep; he felt as if his heart were about to burst out of his chest.

Where is it? he thought, frantic as he glanced through yet another doorway and saw nothing but an empty room.

At last, at the end of a dingy side passage, he caught sight of a winding staircase. He took the stairs five at a time, heedless of his own safety as he descended toward the first story, pausing only to push a startled archer out of his way.

The stairs ended, and he emerged into a high-vaulted chamber reminiscent of the cathedral in Dras-Leona. He spun around, gathering quick impressions: shields and arms and red pennants hung on the walls; narrow windows close under the ceiling; torches mounted in wrought-iron brackets; empty fireplaces; long, dark trestle tables stacked along both sides of the hall; and a dais at the head of the room, where a robed and bearded man stood before a high-backed chair. Eragon was in the main hall of the castle. To his right, between him and the doors that led to the entrance of the keep, was a contingent of fifty or more soldiers. The gold thread in their tunics glittered as they stirred with surprise.

"Kill him!" the robed man ordered, sounding more frightened than lordly. "Whosoever kills him shall have a third of my treasure! So I promise!"

A terrible frustration welled up inside Eragon at being delayed once again. He tore his sword from its scabbard, lifted it over his head, and shouted:

"Brisingr!"

With a rush of air, a cocoon of wraithlike blue flames sprang into existence around the blade, running up toward the tip. The heat from the fire warmed Eragon's hand, arm, and the side of his face.

Then Eragon lowered his gaze to the soldiers. "Move," he growled.

The soldiers hesitated a moment more, then turned and fled.

Eragon charged forward, ignoring the panicked laggards within reach of his burning sword. One man tripped and fell before him; Eragon jumped completely over the soldier, not even touching the tassel on his helm.

The wind from Eragon's passage tore at the flames on the blade, stretching them out behind the sword like the mane of a galloping horse.

Hunching his shoulders, Eragon bulled past the double doors that guarded the entrance to the main hall. He dashed through a long, wide chamber edged with rooms full of soldiers-as well as gears, pulleys, and other mechanisms used for raising and lowering the gates of the keep-and then ran full tilt into the portcullis that blocked the way to where Roran had been standing when the keep wall collapsed.

The iron grating bent as Eragon slammed into it, but not enough to break the metal.

He staggered back a step.

He again channeled energy stored within the diamonds of his belt-the belt of Beloth the Wise-and into Brisingr, emptying the gemstones of their precious store as he stoked the sword's fire to an almost unbearable intensity. A wordless shout escaped him as he drew back his arm and struck at the portcullis. Orange and yellow sparks sprayed him, pitting his gloves and tunic and stinging his exposed flesh. A drop of molten iron fell sizzling onto the tip of his boot. With a twitch of his ankle, he shook it off.

Three cuts he made, and a man-sized section of the portcullis fell inward. The severed ends of the grating glowed white-hot, lighting the area with their soft radiance.

Eragon allowed the flames rising from Brisingr to die out as he proceeded through the opening he had created.

First to the left, then to the right, and then to the left again he ran as the passage alternated directions, the convoluted path designed to slow the advance of troops if they managed to gain access to the keep.

When he rounded the last corner, Eragon saw his destination: the debris-choked vestibule. Even with his elflike vision, he could make out only the largest shapes in the darkness, for the falling stones had extinguished the torches on the walls. He heard an odd huffing and scuffling, as if some sort of clumsy beast were rooting through the rubble.

"Naina," said Eragon.

A directionless blue light illuminated the space, and he witnessed Roran take out a soldier with his warhammer before the two cousins shared a nod.

"Have any trouble?" Eragon asked with a small grin.

"Nah, you?" Roran joked back, getting a headshake in response. "Think anybody's keeping count on how many we kill?"

"You have less than us." Arya said as she appeared along with Blodhgarm, both of them cleaning their blades.

And I have more than you all combined. Ancalagon quipped, causing Eragon to sigh and the elves to crack smiles.

The vast mind of Stargazer then enveloped the group and they caught images of complete armies and nations laid low from the wrath of the dragon. His voice adopted a teasing tone when he spoke.

And what they did not know, was that as soon as they took a seat at the table, they had already lost.

You always have to get the last say, old man. Ancalagon snorted. Keep the ego in check.

The invitation of bragging was open, so I just waltzed on in. The ancient dragon said innocently.

Roran snorted in amusement, shaking his head and looked out the entrance. "I've about had my fill of this Lord Bradburn," he said in a deceptively calm tone. "He has held his seat overlong, I think, and ought to be relieved of his responsibilities. Wouldn't you agree, Arya?"

"I would," she said.

"Well then, let's find the soft-bellied old fool; I would give him a few gentle taps from my hammer in memory of everyone we have lost today."

"He was in the main hall a few minutes ago," Eragon said, "but I doubt he stayed to await our return."

Roran nodded. "Then we'll have to hunt him down." And with that, he strode forward.

Eragon extinguished his illuminating spell and hurried after his cousin, holding Brisingr at the ready. Arya and Blodhgarm stayed as close beside him as the convoluted passageway would allow.

The chamber that the passageway led to was abandoned, as was the main hall of the castle, where the only evidence of the dozens of soldiers and officials who had populated it was a helmet that lay on the floor, rocking back and forth in ever-decreasing arcs.

Eragon and Roran ran past the marble dais, Eragon restricting his speed so as not to leave Roran behind. They kicked down a door just to the left of the platform and rushed up the stairs beyond.

At each story, they paused so that Blodhgarm could search with his mind for any trace of Lord Bradburn and his retinue, but he found none.

As they reached the third level, Eragon heard a stampede of footsteps and saw a thicket of jabbing spears fill the curved archway in front of Roran. The spears cut Roran on the cheek and on his right thigh, coating his knee with blood. He bellowed like a wounded bear and rammed into the spears with his shield, trying to push his way up the last few steps and out of the stairwell. Men shouted frantically.

Behind Roran, Eragon switched Brisingr to his left hand, then reached around his cousin, grabbed one of the spears by the haft, and yanked it out of the grip of whoever was holding it. He flipped the spear around and threw it into the center of the men packed in the archway. Someone screamed, and a gap appeared in the wall of bodies. Eragon repeated the process, and his throws soon reduced the number of soldiers enough that, step by step, Roran was able to force the mass of men back.

As soon as Roran won clear of the stairs, the twelve remaining soldiers scattered across a wide landing fringed with balustrades, each man seeking room to swing his weapon without obstruction. Roran bellowed again and leaped after the nearest soldier. He parried the man's sword, then stepped past his guard and struck the man on his helm, which rang like an iron pot.

Eragon sprinted across the landing and tackled a pair of soldiers who were standing close together. He knocked them to the ground, then dispatched each of them with a single thrust of Brisingr. An ax hurtled toward him, whirling end over end. He ducked and pushed a man over a balustrade before engaging two others who were trying to disembowel him with billed pikes.

Then Arya and Blodhgarm were moving among the men, silent and deadly, the elves' inherent grace making the violence appear more like an artfully staged performance than the sordid struggle most fights were.

In a rush of clanging metal, broken bones, and severed limbs, the four of them killed the rest of the soldiers. As always, the combat exhilarated Eragon; it felt to him like being shocked with a bucket of cold water, and it left him with a sense of clarity unequaled by any other activity.

Roran bent over and rested his hands on his knees, gasping for air as if he had just finished a race.

"Shall I?" asked Eragon, gesturing at the cuts on Roran's face and thigh.

Roran tested his weight on the wounded leg a few times. "I can wait. Let's find Bradburn first."

Eragon took the lead as they filed back into the stairwell and resumed their climb. At last, after another five minutes of searching, they found Lord Bradburn barricaded within the highest room of the keep's westernmost tower. With a series of spells, Eragon, Arya, and Blodhgarm disassembled the doors and the tower of furniture piled behind them. As they and Roran entered the chambers, the high-ranking retainers and castle guards who had gathered in front of Lord Bradburn blanched, and many began to shake. To Eragon's relief, he only had to kill three of the guards before the rest of the group placed their weapons and shields on the floor in surrender.

Then Arya marched over to Lord Bradburn, who had remained silent throughout, and said, "Now, will you order your forces to stand down? Only a few remain, but you can still save their lives."

"I would not even if I could," said Bradburn in a voice of such hate and sneering derision, Eragon almost struck him. "You'll have no concessions from me, elf. I'll not give up my men to filthy, unnatural creatures such as you. Death would be preferable. And do not think you can beguile me with honeyed words. I know of your alliance with the Urgals, and I would sooner trust a snake than a person who breaks bread with those monsters."

Arya nodded and placed her hand over Bradburn's face. She closed her eyes, and for a time, both she and Bradburn were motionless. Eragon reached out with his mind, and he felt the battle of wills that was raging between them as Arya worked her way past Bradburn's defenses and into his consciousness. It took a minute, but at last she gained control of the man's mind, whereupon she set about calling up and examining his memories until she discovered the nature of his wards.

Then she spoke in the ancient language and cast a complex spell designed to circumvent those wards and to put Bradburn to sleep. When she finished, Bradburn's eyes closed and, with a sigh, he collapsed into her arms.

"She killed him!" shouted one of the guards, and cries of fear and outrage spread among the men.

As Eragon attempted to convince them otherwise, he heard one of the Varden's trumpets being winded far off in the distance. Soon another trumpet sounded, this one much closer, then another, and then he caught snatches of what he would have sworn were faint, scattered cheers rising from the courtyard below.

Puzzled, he exchanged glances with Arya; then they turned in a circle, looking out each of the windows set within the walls of the chamber.

To the west and south lay Belatona. It was a large, prosperous city, one of the largest in the Empire. Close to the castle, the buildings were imposing structures made of stone, with pitched roofs and oriel windows, while farther away they were constructed of wood and plaster. Several of the half-timbered buildings had caught fire during the fighting. The smoke filled the air with a layer of brown haze that stung eyes and throats.

To the southwest, a mile beyond the city, was the Varden's camp: long rows of gray woolen tents ringed by stake-lined trenches, a few brightly colored pavilions sporting flags and pennants, and stretched out on the bare ground, hundreds of wounded men. The healers' tents were already filled to capacity.

To the north, past the docks and warehouses, was Leona Lake, a vast expanse of water dotted with the occasional whitecap.

Above, the wall of black clouds that was advancing from the west loomed high over the city, threatening to envelop it within the folds of rain that fell skirtlike from its underside. Blue light flickered here and there in the depths of the storm, and thunder rumbled like an angry beast.

But nowhere did Eragon see an explanation for the commotion that had attracted his attention.

He and Arya hurried over to the window directly above the courtyard. Saphira and the men and elves working with her had just finished clearing away the stones in front of the keep. Eragon whistled, and when Saphira looked up, he waved. Her long jaws parted in a toothy grin, and she blew a streamer of smoke toward him.

"Ho! What news?" Eragon shouted.

One of the Varden standing on the castle walls raised an arm and pointed eastward. "Shadeslayer! Look! The werecats are coming! The werecats are coming!"

Oh, it is so tempting to shout "The British are coming!" or "The redcoats are coming!" Ancalagon said privately to his parents, his mind having instantly connected to that age-old saying from his world upon hearing that soldier. It just sounded so similar.

Don't. Almandine said as she huffed out a tired chuckle while the thunderous laugh of her mate echoed through the breeze and over the city.

Eragon stood on the dais in the main hall of the keep, directly to the right of Lord Bradburn's throne, his left hand on the pommel of Brisingr, which was sheathed. On the other side of the throne stood Jormundur-senior commander of the Varden-holding his helmet in the crook of his arm. The hair at his temples was streaked with gray; the rest was brown, and all of it was pulled back into a long braid. His lean face bore the studiously blank expression of a person who had extensive experience waiting on others. Eragon noticed a thin line of red running along the underside of Jormundur's right bracer, but Jormundur showed no sign of pain.

Between them sat their leader, Nasuada, resplendent in a dress of green and yellow, which she had donned just moments before, exchanging the raiment of war for garb more suited to the practice of statecraft. She too had been marked during the fighting, as was evidenced by the linen bandage wrapped around her left hand.

In a low voice that only Eragon and Jormundur could hear, Nasuada said, "If we can but gain their support …"

"What will they want in return, though?" asked Jormundur. "Our coffers are near empty, and our future uncertain."

Her lips barely moving, she said, "Perhaps they wish nothing more of us than a chance to strike back at Galbatorix." She paused. "But if not, we shall have to find means other than gold to persuade them to join our ranks."

"You could offer them barrels of cream," said Eragon, which elicited a chortle from Jormundur and a soft laugh from Nasuada.

Their murmured conversation came to an end as three trumpets sounded outside the main hall. Then a flaxen-haired page dressed in a tunic stitched with the Varden's standard-a white dragon holding a rose above a sword pointing downward on a purple field-marched through the open doorway at the far end of the hall, struck the floor with his ceremonial staff, and, in a thin, warbling voice, announced, "His Most Exalted Royal Highness, Grimrr Halfpaw, King of the Werecats, Lord of the Lonely Places, Ruler of the Night Reaches, and He Who Walks Alone."

Least he doesn't have too many titles like Daenerys Targaryen. Ancalagon commented from where he was watching beside Saphira.

Who? Saphira looked at him confusedly.

Long story. Ancalagon waved her off. He was NOT about to breach that subject, especially given the fact he once had a crush on the actress playing the role. A jealous Saphira was a dangerous Saphira.

A strange title, though. He Who Walks Alone. Eragon commented to them.

Everyone has their titles, no matter how strange. Ancalagon said, tapping his talon against the ground almost impatiently. He was itching to go see his mother, to check on her after her labors, and see his unhatched sister. Yet, he had to be here for some damn reason.

Paternal leave, kiddo. Stargazer said with exasperation. I'm still listening, but you're my mouthpiece and hold my place of power in this meeting. When you speak, you not only speak for myself and your mother, but for all future wild dragons so please do not take this lightly. I am sure you remember Alma's teachings on politics, yes?

Yes, I do. Ancalagon sighed but gave in, and just laid beside Saphira to watch the proceedings.

The page stepped aside, and through the doorway strode Grimrr Halfpaw in the shape of a human, trailed by four other werecats, who padded close behind him on large, shaggy paws. The four resembled Solembum, the one other werecat Eragon had seen in the guise of an animal: heavy-shouldered and long-limbed, with short, dark ruffs upon their necks and withers; tasseled ears; and black-tipped tails, which they waved gracefully from side to side.

Grimrr Halfpaw, however, looked unlike any person or creature Eragon had ever seen. At roughly four feet tall, he was the same height as a dwarf, but no one could have mistaken him for a dwarf, or even for a human. He had a small pointed chin, wide cheekbones, and, underneath upswept brows, slanted green eyes fringed with winglike eyelashes. His ragged black hair hung low over his forehead, while on the sides and back it fell to his shoulders, where it lay smooth and lustrous, much like the manes of his companions. His age was impossible for Eragon to guess.

The only clothes Grimrr wore were a rough leather vest and a rabbit-skin loincloth. The skulls of a dozen or so animals-birds, mice, and other small game-were tied to the front of the vest, and they rattled against one another as he moved. A sheathed dagger protruded at an angle from under the belt of his loincloth. Numerous scars, thin and white, marked his nut-brown skin, like scratches on a well-used table. And, as his name indicated, he was missing two fingers on his left hand; they looked to have been bitten off.

Despite the delicacy of his features, there was no doubt that Grimrr was male, given the hard, sinewy muscles of his arms and chest, the narrowness of his hips, and the coiled power of his stride as he sauntered down the length of the hall toward Nasuada.

None of the werecats seemed to notice the people lined up on either side of their path watching them until Grimrr came level with the herbalist Angela, who stood next to Roran, knitting a striped tube sock with six needles.

Grimrr's eyes narrowed as he beheld the herbalist, and his hair rippled and spiked, as did that of his four guards. His lips drew back to reveal a pair of curved white fangs, and to Eragon's astonishment, he uttered a short, loud hiss.

Angela looked up from the sock, her expression languid and insolent. "Cheep cheep," she said.

For a moment, Eragon thought the werecat was going to attack her. A dark flush mottled Grimrr's neck and face, his nostrils flared, and he snarled silently at her. The other werecats settled into low crouches, ready to pounce, their ears pressed flat against their heads.

Throughout the hall, Eragon heard the slither of blades being partially drawn from their scabbards.

Grimrr hissed once more, then turned away from the herbalist and continued walking. As the last werecat in line passed Angela, he lifted a paw and took a surreptitious swipe at the strand of yarn that drooped from Angela's needles, just like a playful house cat might.

Saphira's bewilderment was equal to Eragon's own. Cheep cheep? she asked.

I'm not even going to bother but… mom, dad, at some point you two have to teach me the languages of this world. Ancalagon said. It would come in handy to know different languages.

His mother's laugh thundered into his mind and she couldn't even form a coherent response so Star, through his own mirth, answered. That… that was no other language… And then he lost it.

Grimrr strode up to Nasuada, but halted dead in his tracks in front of Ancalagon and Saphira. He looked the two over and then locked eyes with the black scaled dragon. "We are well met, Dragon Prince. Congratulations are in order and I will personally speak with you and your parents later." The werecat purred, his tone holding more respect than Ancalagon thought possible from the species.

Ancalagon inclined his head in response. Very well. As he watched Grimrr approach Nasuada, he frowned. Dragon Prince?

He was not wrong… you inherited the title when we adopted you, Michael. His mother said softly, as if fearing his response.

I… I honestly don't know what to say, really. I'm part shocked, and the other part is most likely the draconic pride trying to be flattered at receiving such a title. Ancalagon said. He was never going to fully adjust to the pride dragons hold, or the flattery they enjoy.

Pretty princess my ass. You're a petty prince at this rate. His father grumbled. A title is a title. Just some words. They define your persona, who you are around those who hold seats of power. They do not define you as an individual though. Many let titles such as the ones us three hold go to their heads. We, your parents, know that will never happen with you so we aren't afraid of Grimrr calling you or us by our rightful titles given out of respect and trials.

Ancalagon simply nodded and focused on what was going on.

At last Grimrr arrived before Nasuada. He inclined his head ever so slightly, displaying with his bearing the supreme confidence, even arrogance, that was the sole province of cats, dragons, and certain highborn women.

"Lady Nasuada," he said. His voice was surprisingly deep, more akin to the low, coughing roar of a wildcat than the high-pitched tones of the boy he resembled.

Nasuada inclined her head in turn. "King Halfpaw. You are most welcome to the Varden, you and all your race. I must apologize for the absence of our ally, King Orrin of Surda; he could not be here to greet you, as he wished, for he and his horsemen are even now busy defending our westward flank from a contingent of Galbatorix's troops."

"Of course, Lady Nasuada," said Grimrr. His sharp teeth flashed as he spoke. "You must never turn your back on your enemies."

"Even so … And to what do we owe the unexpected pleasure of this visit, Your Highness? Werecats have always been noted for their secrecy and their solitude, and for remaining apart from the conflicts of the age, especially since the fall of the Riders. One might even say that your kind has become more myth than fact over the past century. Why, then, do you now choose to reveal yourselves?"

Grimrr lifted his right arm and pointed at Eragon with a crooked finger topped by a clawlike nail.

"Because of him," growled the werecat. "One does not attack another hunter until he has shown his weakness, and Galbatorix has shown his: he will not kill Eragon Shadeslayer or Saphira Bjartskular. Long have we waited for this opportunity, and seize it we will. Galbatorix will learn to fear and hate us, and at the last, he will realize the extent of his mistake and know that we were the ones responsible for his undoing. And how sweet that revenge will taste, as sweet as the marrow of a tender young boar.

"Time has come, human, for every race, even werecats, to stand together and prove to Galbatorix that he has not broken our will to fight. We would join your army, Lady Nasuada, as free allies, and help you achieve this."

What Nasuada was thinking, Eragon could not tell, but he, Ancalagon and Saphira were impressed by the werecat's speech.

Stargazer's presence enveloped those in the room, weighing on them like heavy metal chains as he spoke.

I apologize for my absence, but I take it you have already met my son so we can move on from that. Grimrr, I know you know my mate and I, and you know what we have done the last eight decades, so I ask you this: why stand by our side now? Why not wait until we confront the Black King? Strategically, you have given yourselves away and shown your loyalty. If I were in your position, I would have waited until the last possible second before showing my hand.

After his speech, the werecats looked at one another and seemed rather embarrassed that they hadn't thought of that.

I do not sense a forthcoming answer so I'll simply assume you never thought of it. Unfortunate, yet emotions are high and I understand shortcomings in war. A grumble of annoyance echoed around the chamber. Been in enough to know a few things. If that is all, I will be withdrawing my son and Saphira from this meeting now. They have a special someone to meet.

Excuse us. Ancalagon said to everyone present as he got to his feet, followed by Saphira, and they left the room. Once they were in the open air, they spread their wings and took to the sky, flying in one direction where they knew Stargazer and Almandine were waiting, as it had been the area Almandine chose to rest in before the battle even began.

It didn't take them long to arrive, and they set down a few feet away as they didn't want to set off Stargazer or Almandine's protective instincts, which were at an all-time high now that the egg had been laid. If they just barged in rudely… they'll get teeth to the face.

Hey mo– Ancalagon began before cutting himself off as his mother's head snapped around and she snarled… before realizing who he was and her gaze softened. She turned her head to regard Stargazer who nodded and they lifted their wings…

… revealing a large, deep purple egg nestled against her underbelly.

Ancalagon went stiff, frozen like a statue as he stared at the egg containing his little sister. Saphira stared, transfixed, before nudging her mate gently, breaking him from his state and he looked at her, but her eyes gestured for him to go. She knew he was uncertain of this, given he had been an only child, but she knew he would adjust and adapt to being an older brother.

Ancalagon looked ahead, then almost took a step forward but looked at his parents, his eyes silently asking for permission to approach. The two dragons didn't move from their positions, wings still lifted and blank, expectant looks on their faces.

Slowly, while laying onto his belly, Ancalagon came forward but stopped at a respectable distance, but not too far away. He was close enough that he slowly leaned his head in and gently pressed the tip of his snout against the egg, eyes closed as his mind gently prodded at the life within the shell.

A wave of emotions crashed into him, an image of an annoyed purple dragon raising her brow and beckoning him closer with a talon. She was seated between Stargazer and Almandine, and then the scene changed…

… and the two were flying through the air. Then they were hunting together. And the final image caused tears to drip from Michael's eyes as he saw the two of them together, snoring away with her head resting on his neck like a pillow. Saphira was held in his arms and her head was laying against the purple dragoness's flank. All three of them sleeping soundly.

You know her. Alma's voice whispered. Tell us, Michael. What is her name?

The tears still falling, he responded. Violet. Her name… is Violet.

The sense of approval flowed through them all and then a force pushed them all out and back into the real world where the two younger dragons were encircling the egg as the larger, older dragons encircled them.

"We need more Riders."

"They will never agree to this, Nasuada."

"I stand by the dragons." Orik stated harshly. "They lost their first hatchling to the elves just over a thousand years ago. We will not be stealing their second!"

Nasuada sighed, holding her head in her hands. "Well, I'm going to ask them. Get the other leaders and bring us to them, Eragon."

The young Rider was fuming inside, angered beyond belief at the arrogance the leader of the Varden had. "They will not consent to this!" He argued, his voice rising. "You're only risking their wrath by even suggesting this to them!"

"I don't have a choice!" She yelled, slapping her hand down onto her desk.

"There are always choices," Orrin stated calmly from his place standing at the tent entrance. "Whether you choose to trust in those who have yet to let us down or to trust in your own misguided assumptions is the question at hand." And then he whirled away, cape flapping behind him as an elf led him to the dragons' nesting area.

Nasuada sighed and shook her head. "Regardless, this is happening." She said firmly and left with her Nighthawks.

Cursing, Eragon followed while quickly contacting Saphira, who had gone out for a hunt while Ancalagon remained with his parents and unhatched sister. Saphira, are you back from your hunt yet?

No, why? Saphira asked, confused at his panicked tone.

Eragon paused, then sighed. Nasuada is going to try asking or convincing Almandine and Stargazer to bind their egg to choose a Rider. We're all infuriated but she's going against us all and doing it anyway.

Saphira stiffened in shock at his words, as not only did they bring a great deal of anger at the human's mere arrogance, but this also brought up her own fears of whether it would be similar to any hatchlings she and Ancalagon have. Their own thoughts on whether their children will be wild or have a Rider. If this is how it would be… she'd rather her children be as wild and fierce as their father.

Quickly, she turned and flew like a bat out of hell to the nest, where she found Ancalagon laying outside of it, the guardian basically while Stargazer and Almandine slept with their egg safely between them. At her frantic approach, Ancalagon snapped his head to her, frowning as he felt her emotions.

Saphira, what is… He stopped as he saw the leaders approaching, and he knew something was wrong. And whatever it was… it was setting him off like a wolf ready to snap and snarl. He shot to his feet and stood in between the leaders and the nest, barring the way and a warning growl told them to halt.

The ancient dragons lifted their heads, towering above those gathered before them, and Stargazer narrowed his eyes.

What do you want and why should we care?

Ancalagon looked at Saphira, who looked hesitant, before she privately showed him Eragon's memory of what Nasuada wanted. And as soon as he saw that, he went stiff as a board… the anger growing like a whirlwind, his head slowly turning with his eyes narrowing.

Nasuada stepped forward. "Stargazer, I come before you with a suggestion, one that I hope you will at least consider given the desperate times. And you know, desperate times call for desperate measures."

I am listening…

Nasuada nodded, at least they were listening to her proposal. "As you are aware, we-"

She wants to bind Violet to choose a Rider. Ancalagon cut in with a dark, angry growl. Not even going to let Nasuada try and sweet-talk the suggestion to them.

No. The answer was short and immediate, causing Ancalagon to freeze from the power behind it. It promised more than just death. The tone carried images of emaciated bodies, twitching sporadically as lightning flickered over them. It promised the worst of tortures without mercy. As they watched, Stargazer nodded toward his son and laid his head back down next to Alma's. Deal with them as you see fit, my son.

With pleasure. Ancalagon growled, his eyes dark with fierce desire to kill.

"We did warn you."

The voice caught the black scaled dragon's attention and he looked over to see a disappointed Nar Garzvhog standing with Orrin, who looked furious and Orik… who ripped his ax out of the head of the Nighthawk he had just killed for getting in his way.

Arya then stepped forward with the twelve other elves and a pissed off Eragon. The leaders and elves then formed a line on either side of Ancalagon, standing with their weapons drawn. Their point was clear.

They will stand with the dragons or die trying.

At his command, the shadows came alive and entangled the remaining Nighthawks in their dark grasp. Ancalagon kept his dark gaze locked with Nasuada as he commanded the shadowy tendrils to rip their bodies apart… from the inside.

As the sickening sound of flesh being torn filled the air next to the screams, Ancalagon spoke with a cold, dark tone. If there's one thing I cannot stand above all… it is the greed and arrogance of humans. It has led to many mistakes, such as war. Wars have been raged because humans got greedy that they could not get what they believed was theirs, or that they believed they were owed something. And as such, you have started to fall prey to desperation and greed. Desperate to add another tool of power to the Varden, greedy to have another Dragon Rider. Well, guess what? You will NOT be having my sister be your lap dog. No one will ever touch her or dare to control any of my family. This world will burn and die for the next one to begin if anyone seeks to challenge my words. This is your only warning; don't fuck with my family.

The army, shaken to their core, dispersed and dragged their leader with them. Those who had stood with Ancalagon only nodded and began to walk away before a field of electricity crackled to life around the nesting ground, preventing them from leaving.

Thank you. All of you. Almandine said softly, snaking her head around to look at each of them. When she looked at Nar Garzvhog, he tried to kneel, but she merely hummed and bumped her snout against his chest. Take heart, war chief. You may fly on my mate's back tomorrow afternoon. And as for the rest of you… she turned her attention to the others. You may ask us for any favor. Whether that be knowledge about something or a flight on our backs, just let us know. Then she curled back up and went back to sleep, the crackling barrier dissipating once more.

Ancalagon laid back down, resuming his guarding of the nest but now more alert. He knew what a desperate human could be like. And he would not be surprised if someone tried to steal the egg from the nest… which would be the most stupid of decisions. He was snapped from his thoughts as Saphira laid beside him and nuzzled against his body with low growls, her tongue snaking out to lick at his neck.

What's wrong? He asked her.

After that speech you just made… I am so hot for you right now. Saphira growled seductively, making him stiffen, namely from what she said as he would never expect her to say something like THAT. Also… I do have something I wish to speak with you about in regards to what you just went through. I… I don't want our young ones to be bound. I want them to be free. Like you, your sister and your parents.

Ancalagon just growled softly and nuzzled her. They will. That's a guarantee.

Bah! Get a damn room already! Stargazer growled, curling his large bulk around the nest and Alma. We'll be fine for a few hours. Go get it on so you can get off. Yeesh.

I hate him. Ancalagon grumbled as he got to his feet and took off eagerly after Saphira, his instincts driving him.

And for the sake of my sanity, STAY OUT OF THE SKY!

B.W.: Okay, so before any of you… passionate readers or those who just want something to complain about, the argument scene with Nasuada was something Stryker and I have planned for the last month. We wanted to breach the topic of human greed and desperation, which couldn't exactly be explored in the books because there was only one dragoness around. But because there's more than one dragon in this story… well, you get the point. What do you think, Stryker? Think we'll get some annoying harpy giving us hate comments for "Hating on the characters"?

Stryker: Most likely. Do we really care about the haters though? Me personally, no. No, not really. I can't speak for you though.

Bladewolf: I never gave a damn about haters and whatever they had to say. It's always negative… especially the most hateful ones that tell you to jump off a cliff or go kill yourself. Seriously, you would not believe how many guest reviews I've gotten with comments like that, so I always deleted it. Bunch of cowards hiding as a guest to send hate reviews.

Stryker: Ima be real with you chief, or that one dude recently telling us in the reviews that you should get a beta to go over your story. Like… I guess I don't exist! Wooooo! The invigible dargoon! I'm dead… lol

Bladewolf: Probably just skips over all the bold text, reads the chapter, and doesn't do anything else… which is probably how he doesn't know you are my Beta. I mean, you are my editor, so you do fix any mistakes I make grammar wise. So I don't really see what he's complaining about. Sure, we probably miss one or two, but we eventually fix it. But anyway, to any of you readers who are gonna start giving us hell for how we treated Nasuada in this chapter, let me tell you something… the OC, main characters, or whoever, doesn't ALWAYS have to be friendly with everyone. I don't go making stories where the OC is like… some happy-go lucky idiot who smiles and makes friends with everyone! What do you think this is, My Little Pony or something?! Or worse, Naruto?! *Takes deep breath* Glad, I got that out of my system.