Wyrda Endurrita

by Mythology216 the Beard King

In the final battle against Galbatorix, things go horribly wrong. In an act of desperation, Eragon uses the 7 words Brom whispered on his deathbed. Join Eragon and Saphira as they fully embrace this opportunity to right past wrongs.

1. New Beginnings

A/N: My co-author and I have done some calculations based on statements made by Paolini in canon. He said that even the weakest elf is 10 times stronger and faster than the strongest human. In the real world, the fastest sword swing on record is roughly 50 mph at the hand. Thus, the tip speed is roughly 150 mph. That means the weakest elf can swing their sword at least 500 mph at the hand and 1500 mph at the tip. The speed of sound is roughly 700 mph, so the weakest elf can easily swing their sword at mach 2 at the tip, breaking the sound barrier. A thrust is even faster. Applying the same logic to archery, the heaviest war bows we know of had a draw weight of around 200 lbs, firing arrows at roughly 180 mph. That would mean the weakest draw weight for an elven bow should be 2000 lbs, firing arrows at roughly 480 mph. Such an arrow would have an impact force of up to 23k Newtons. That's equivalent to modern large-caliber anti-materiel rifles. The world's strongest man is between 12 and 15 times stronger than the weakest able-bodied man. Do with that as you will to calculate the capabilities of the strongest elf. This story will be following the power levels we're told exist in this universe, rather than what we were shown.

"Submit!" Galbatorix's command reverberated through the chamber, a chilling echo of power and malice. The weight of his mind pressed down on me, a relentless assault that threatened to consume every fiber of my being. Ice and fire danced around me, tearing through my defenses with savage precision.

A cry tore from my lips, a primal scream of defiance against the overwhelming force bearing down upon me. In my desperation, I reached out to Saphira, her presence flickering at the edges of my consciousness. Her voice, usually a steady reassurance in the storm, was strained, as if she too was struggling against the oppressive weight of Galbatorix's magic.

Hold on, Eragon, she whispered, though her thoughts were clouded, tinged with panic. I am with you—together we will find a way.

But the dragons under Galbatorix's control were everywhere, their minds wild and erratic, overwhelming even her calm. Still, her resolve burned bright within me, a tether keeping me grounded. I could feel her energy reaching out, faint but steady, as if she were trying to break through the mental barricade Galbatorix had erected.

Instinctively, I drew upon her strength, pouring my own energy into a spell unlike any I had ever attempted before. There were no words, no structure—Galbatorix's magic choked all language, leaving only the raw essence of my intent. A spell of desperation and fury, a silent plea for understanding in the face of tyranny.

I wanted Galbatorix to understand the depth of his atrocities, to feel the weight of his sins bearing down upon him. It was not an act of aggression, but a desperate attempt to communicate, to make him see that even in the deepest of darkness, a spark of defiance could still burn.

A flicker of hope sparked within me, growing stronger as Saphira's presence surged, her will intertwined with mine. We can do this, she urged, her voice now more certain, more focused. Her energy fed mine, and the spell began to take shape, a fragile thread of hope in the midst of chaos.

But then Galbatorix's laughter shattered it, harsh and mocking. "You sentimental fool," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Do you truly believe I am ignorant of what my actions have wrought?" He shifted seamlessly into the Ancient Language, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It is only through my efforts that Alagaësia has survived, and will continue to do so. Everything I have done is justified."

His words cut through me like a blade, slicing away any illusions I had left. Still, I refused to yield, meeting his gaze with unwavering defiance. But his next words, muttered as though to himself, chilled me to the bone. "Perhaps an example should be made."

With a wave of his hand, Arya and Elva were dragged before me, held aloft by the king's spell. My heart dropped as my eyes locked with Arya's, but it was Saphira's voice that broke through the fog of panic.

Eragon, don't—

But I was already too late. The king's cruel whisper reached my ear. "You will serve me, but someone must pay for your defiance. The choice is yours. One will die, the other will live as your slave, a gift to my most powerful servant."

Every fiber of my being rebelled against the cruelty of the decision forced upon me. Saphira's mental presence flared in my mind, a burning cry of anguish at the thought of having to choose between the two. I am sorry, Eragon, she whispered softly, her own grief and helplessness bleeding through. We will find another way...

But I couldn't. I could only will Arya to understand, never breaking eye contact, as I whispered, "Kill me. Let them go, and kill me."

Galbatorix chuckled, pacing slowly around us. "Now why would I kill such a valuable asset, Eragon?" He followed my gaze, a cruel smile twisting on his lips. Galbatorix locked eyes with me, and the briefest flicker of recognition passed between us. Then he intoned, "Thrysta."

At first, it seemed that nothing happened. But as the king strolled away, whistling, I saw Arya start to grimace in pain. Her exposed skin flushed, and her eyes bulged in terror. My heart clenched in my chest. As Galbatorix released his spell, I rushed forward to catch Arya before she hit the ground. The instant she landed in my arms, her breath rattling, Galbatorix's spell completed, and her body contorted as if torn apart from the inside.

Blood and viscera rained down around me, a brutal confirmation of the king's cruelty. My screams echoed through the chamber, but they felt distant, muted—lost to the deafening roar of my grief. I was paralyzed, trapped in a nightmare from which there seemed to be no escape. My eyes were transfixed on the crimson stains that marred my hands, a stark reminder of my failure to protect Arya.

Even as despair threatened to consume me whole, a fiery rage rose to match it, fueled by my fury and Saphira's burning anguish. We will make him pay, Eragon, she vowed fiercely, her words an echo of my own. She urged me to act, to fight, to unleash everything I had. Together, we can destroy him.

With every ounce of strength I could muster, I tore down the barriers protecting my mind and reached out to Umaroth and the Eldunarya, drawing upon their dwindling reserves of energy. The connection to Saphira and the dragons surged through me like wildfire, igniting the rage that had been building.

Turning a hate-filled glare to Galbatorix, I unleashed the full force of my will, channeling Brom's dying words like dragon fire to cleanse the stain upon Alagaësia. Galbatorix's smirk faltered as I began to speak, his eyes widening in realization. He lunged forward, sword raised—but it was too late.

As the blade pierced my chest, I welcomed the embrace of darkness with a bittersweet smile upon my lips. I'm sorry, Saphira, I thought in my final moments, hoping that somehow, she would understand. Whatever afterlife awaited me, I was ready. I could only hope that, in my final moments, Brom's spell had managed what I could not.

~ x ~

I woke up with a start, the taste of blood sharp in my mouth and a dull ache pulsing through my skull. My vision blurred, shapes and colors swirling like the remnants of a forgotten dream. I tried to push myself up, expecting the cold, unyielding stone of Galbatorix's throne room beneath me. Instead, my hands sank into something soft and familiar.

Straw? Blinking rapidly, I forced my eyes to focus. The room came into view slowly: rough wooden walls, a small window letting in soft moonlight, and the unmistakable scent of hay and pine smoke. It was a smell I hadn't experienced in too long—the comforting scent of home.

My heart pounded as I scrambled to my feet. This was impossible. I was supposed to be in Uru'baen, facing Galbatorix. I could still feel the phantom pain of his sword piercing my chest. And yet. . . here I was, standing in my old room at Garrow's farmhouse, the place I had left behind a lifetime ago. I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. The rough-hewn table by the window, the small bed of straw I had slept on for most of my childhood—it was all the same.

I ran a trembling hand through my hair, trying to make sense of it. What had happened? Had Brom's spell somehow. . . sent me back? My thoughts spun in a frantic whirl. The last thing I remembered was the surge of power from the Eldunarí, the words of magic leaving my lips in a final act of defiance. I had expected nothing beyond that moment — no life, no afterlife. Just silence. And now I was here, back at the very beginning.

A sharp squeak pulled me from my thoughts. I turned toward the shelf by the bed. My breath caught in my throat. Nestled among my childhood keepsakes was a deep-blue dragon egg, the same egg that had hatched Saphira all those years ago.

I stared at it, hardly daring to breathe. Could it be. . . was this really happening again? As I watched, a tiny crack appeared on the shell, spider-webbing across its surface. My heart leaped into my throat. I reached out with a shaking hand, hesitating for just a moment before gently touching the egg.

The moment my fingers brushed the smooth surface, the crack widened. The egg rocked back and forth before splitting open with a soft pop. A small, sapphire-blue dragon hatchling tumbled out, chirping and blinking in the dim light. I sank to my knees, tears welling up as I reached for her.

The instant my hand touched her, the bond snapped into place with a force that left me breathless. It was like a thread tying our souls together, filling my mind with her warmth, her curiosity, and an unspoken love. And then, it was more. Memories rushed through me like a tidal wave, fragments of a shared past crashing into my mind.

I saw flashes of our life together, of battles fought side by side, of triumphs and losses, of the moment she had been ripped away from me. And yet, beneath it all, I felt her own memories — her terror in the throne room, her anguish at losing me, and the impossibility of waking here, back at the beginning.

You remember, I thought, staring at her in awe. She looked up at me, her wide, knowing eyes brimming with the same disbelief and recognition I felt.

I do, she replied, her mental voice trembling with emotion. Her presence in my mind was just as I remembered — a comforting weight, warm and steadfast. We're back. But. . . how?

"I don't know," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "But we'll figure it out. Together."

As the thought passed between us, a strange sensation surged through me, pulling me back to the present. My vision flickered, and suddenly, faint, translucent runes appeared before my eyes. The experience was so startling that I almost toppled backward.

System Alert: New Game Starting…

I blinked, rubbing my eyes, but the runes remained.

Welcome to the beginning once more, Eragon Bromsson.
Mental: Emerald
Physical: Human
Class: Dragon Rider
Skills:

Swordplay: Novice

Imperial Style: Novice

Gynjar Skulblaka (Roaring Dragon) Style: Novice

Ausa Adurna (Flowing Water) Style: Novice

Magic: Novice

Archery: Master

Perks:

The Gift of Dragons: A remnant of what once was, granting you a unique connection to the flow of energy, though its full extent is a mystery.

Draconic Embers (Unlocked):

Basic Energy Gathering: You passively draw energy from natural sources (e.g., sunlight, fire, running water). Note that this ability is only active when you aren't actively exerting yourself, either physically or magically.

Expanded Storage: Your energy reserves are modestly larger than a typical human's, allowing for extended use of magic or physical stamina.

Improved Recharge: Normal methods of recovering energy are much more effective for you.

Draconic Eyes: Your eyes gain slitted pupils and adopt a multicolored hue, reminiscent of the spectral dragon seen during the Agaetí Blödhren. This alteration gives you natural night vision, allowing you to see in minimal light as well as a normal man can at high noon.

I stared, bewildered. My breathing quickened as the runes scrolled across my vision. What in Gûntera's name is this? It was unlike anything I had ever encountered, even among the elves' ancient magics or the dwarves' enchanted relics.

System Note: Your journey begins anew. Proceed with caution, as events may not follow the path you remember.

I barely had time to process the message before I noticed the changes taking hold. A sharp, searing pain bloomed in my eyes, making my vision flash white. It was as if something inside me was being ripped open, and I felt my pupils shift, elongating into slits. The sensation was excruciating, like hot steel scraping against the inside of my skull, twisting and pulling until I thought my head might burst. The pressure built, threatening to overwhelm me, but I gritted my teeth and held on. I couldn't afford to be weak. Not now.

The pain ebbed, leaving behind an aching, burning sensation as the transformation completed. My vision sharpened, but the world around me seemed impossibly vivid—every shadow stretched, every light source intensified, and yet I could barely hold onto the energy coursing through me. It felt... meager. Distant. As though I were trying to draw from a well that had once been deep and full but now barely had a drop of water left. Each burst of energy I tried to access flickered weakly, only offering a faint sense of power before it slipped away, like water through my fingers.

I clenched my fists, frustration and anger bubbling up. What had happened to me? Where was the immense power I had once commanded? The fire in my chest, the strength I'd drawn from Saphira and the Eldunarí—now it felt like a distant dream. There was only this feeble, fragile strength, barely enough to keep me standing.

Saphira's voice was a soothing balm against my inner turmoil. Eragon? Her concern was palpable, her mental voice reaching me through our bond. What is happening to you?

"I don't know," I admitted, still staring at my reflection. My voice was hoarse, tinged with frustration. "But it's tied to whatever this system is." I felt a pang at the thought of the Eldunarí—they had been part of my strength. "This power... It's nothing like before."

Saphira's mental touch was a steadying force. We will figure it out, she said, her tone firm and comforting. Together.

I nodded, though a nagging sense of helplessness clung to me. Together, I echoed, but even with her presence beside me, I couldn't shake the weight of my weakness. This was my second chance, but how could I grasp it with such fragile power?

System Alert: Quest Unlocked — A Second Chance
Objective: You have been granted an impossible chance to change your wyrda, your fate, and that of all of Alagaesia. Do not let this second chance go to waste.
Rewards: Unknown

The runes faded, leaving me alone with Saphira and the quiet of the farmhouse. I gazed around the room, the place where it had all begun. This was my second chance, and I wasn't going to waste it. But I knew, deep down, that this time would be different. The strength I had taken for granted was gone, and it would take everything I had to claw my way back to the power I once commanded.

~x~

The moon hung high in the night sky, its pale light casting long shadows across the farmhouse. I lay in the stillness of my room, staring at the ceiling, my mind reeling. The changes to my eyes—my dragon's gift—felt more like a curse than a blessing. The power coursing through me felt weak, a mere shadow of what it should have been. The energy that once surged through me with ease was now only a flicker, like a dying ember. It made my skin crawl with frustration.

I had no intention of staying in Carvahall, not with the danger lurking just outside our doors. It was too late to stop Sloan, or anyone else, from learning of the 'stone' I found in the Spine. If I stayed, I knew the Ra'zac would come for the farm, pointed in my direction by Sloan, and Garrow would die again. I couldn't let that happen. Not again.

But how could I leave in such a way that not just Sloan, but the whole village, would point the Ra'zac to me, and not the farm?

A plan began to form in my mind, one that would make sure all attention was focused on me, and not on Garrow or the farm. If I could make myself the target—the one everyone thought was responsible for whatever chaos unfolded—then the Ra'zac would be distracted, believing I was the only threat. The farm would be left undisturbed, and Garrow and Roran would be safe.

I would leave a trail. Not just any trail, but one so obvious, so carefully orchestrated, that no one would doubt I was the cause of the commotion. I would steal from the villagers—just enough to make it clear who was behind the thefts, without actually taking too much to empty them out.

Sloan would be the first. I would take all the meat and gold I could carry, leaving enough signs that pointed directly to me, making it impossible for anyone to miss. I wouldn't stop there, though. Gedric had leather I could use to make a saddle for Saphira when she grew. He would be next, his shop just as empty of stock, with all the evidence left behind to make it look like I was desperate. Gertrude would find that some of her medicinal herbs were gone, just a few select ones that would look like a hurried grab. Finally, I would visit Horst, and take one of his finest knives—a valuable commission from one of the Traders.

I would leave enough behind for everyone to know exactly who did it. I would make sure they thought I was a thief, not just someone running away, but someone who had gone mad, and who was desperate to hide his tracks. That would be enough to make it clear to everyone that I was gone, and burn what goodwill would normally keep them from selling me out once the Ra'zac appeared.

It was a risky plan, but it was the only way to keep the village—and Garrow—safe.

I stepped quietly out of my room, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on my chest. The house was still, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth and the rustle of the night wind outside. I paused in the hallway, glancing toward Garrow and Roran's rooms. The silence was deafening. This was it. There was no turning back.

With a sigh, I made my way to the small desk in the corner of the kitchen, where Garrow kept his ledger supplies. The faint smell of ink and paper lingered in the air as I opened the drawer. The paper was rough, the ink smudged from years of use, but it would have to do. I had to leave a message for Garrow and Roran—something they could hold on to when I was gone.

My hand trembled slightly as I dipped the quill into the ink, setting it carefully on the page. The words didn't come easily, but I forced myself to write, knowing there was no other way.

Garrow,

I know you'll be suspicious when you see this letter, but I swear to you that it is truly me, Eragon, writing these words.

I know you never wanted me to learn to read or write. I know you thought it unnecessary for a boy like me, and you were right in many ways — there were far more important things to focus on. But over the years, I learned from the Traders who passed through Carvahall. They left books behind, and I would spend hours poring over them, copying down the letters, trying to understand the words. At first, it was slow, and I didn't know if I'd ever be able to make sense of it. But little by little, I pieced things together. I learned to read, and though I'm still not quick with it, I've learned enough to write this message to you. I never told you because I knew you wouldn't approve, but it's the only way I can leave you this note.

I'm sorry.

This isn't something I wanted to do. I didn't want to hurt you, but I can't stay here. I know you'll want to stop me. You've always kept me safe, and I'll always be grateful for that. But I can't live like this any longer, not with the questions I have about my mother, about who I am, about where I come from. I have to find the truth.

I've spent my whole life here in Carvahall, under your roof, with you and Roran. And I know you think of me as a son, and I've always thought of you as my father. But this journey is something I have to take on my own. I know you'll want to keep me here, to protect me, but I've already made up my mind. This is something I have to do for myself.

Please don't search for me. Not yet. I'll come back when I can. But for now, I need to leave and follow this path. I don't want you to worry — I'll be careful, and I will take care of myself.

Take care of Roran, too. He may not understand now, but he will. I trust you both more than anyone else in this world, and I hope you understand why I had to leave without telling you face to face. I know you'll be angry, and I deserve that, but I hope in time you'll understand.

I'll carry the lessons you've taught me always, and I'll remember every moment we've had together. You gave me a life I'll never forget, and I'm sorry for the pain my leaving will cause.

Eragon

I swallowed hard as I put the quill down and took a deep breath. My eyes stung with unshed tears, but I forced them away. This was what I had to do.

I took another piece of paper and quickly scribbled the second note. I could already feel the distance between me and them growing, but this was my path now.

Roran,

I'm sorry.

I know you'll be angry. I know you'll think I'm abandoning you and Garrow, but I'm not. I'm doing this because it's something I have to do, something I can't ignore any longer. I don't know how to explain it, but I need to find out the truth. There are things about my mother, about who I am, that I need to understand. And I can't do that while staying here.

You've always been there for me, Roran. We've fought together, we've laughed together, and we've grown up side by side. But this isn't about you or Garrow. This is about me, and the answers I need. I know you won't understand, and I don't expect you to. But please don't hold it against me. It's not about running away from you or Garrow — it's about running toward something.

Take care of Garrow, even when he's angry with me. You're the strongest man I know, and I know you'll help keep things together here. I trust you to protect what's ours, and I trust you to understand one day why I had to go.

Goodbye, Roran. I'll be back when I can.

Eragon

The letters were done. I couldn't bring myself to read them again, though the weight of every word pressed heavily on my chest. I wasn't a liar, but I was leaving, and that alone felt like a betrayal. They would understand, eventually. But right now, all I could think about was the plan. It had to work. I had no choice.

The farm would be safe—this time, Garrow and Roran would be left to go on with their lives. The Ra'zac wouldn't even look at the farm, not if I made it clear to the village that I had vanished, a thief in the night. No one would question the cause of the chaos. I would burn every bridge behind me, make sure there was no one left who would stand between me and the truth I needed to find.

Saphira was with me, the bond between us something so intimately familiar. We had shared this connection in the past, the warmth and understanding flowing between us as though we had always been this way. Her presence was constant, always there, a steady force in my mind. Her soft thoughts were like the echo of a voice I had always known. Though she had only just hatched hours ago, it felt as if she had been with me forever.

But tonight, she had to stay hidden. The village would be too dangerous for her, and I couldn't risk exposing her, not now when she was so small, still vulnerable.

I wish I could come with you, she said in my mind, frustration evident in her voice. You know how much I want to help. How can I stay hidden while you do this alone?

I felt the ache in her words, the pull to be by my side. But I had no choice.

You're too small, Saphira, I said, my voice gentle but firm. If I take you into the village now, we'll be caught. You need to stay hidden until it's safe. I'll be back as soon as I can.

I don't care how small I am, she snapped, her frustration mixing with the heat of her young fire. I can take care of myself. I'm not just some helpless hatchling!

I know you can, I said, a quiet smile tugging at my lips despite the heavy weight of my thoughts. But you need to wait. You'll be safer out here, hidden in the trees. You're not ready to be seen by anyone yet. Not until we're ready to leave this place for good.

There was a pause, the silence between us heavy with her reluctance. I understand, she finally said, her voice softening. But I don't like it.

I know, little one. But I promise, this is only temporary. We'll be together again soon. You're my strength, my fire. But you have to trust me this time. Trust that I'll do what I must to keep us both safe.

I trust you, Eragon, she replied, her tone finally steady. But I will not stay hidden forever.

No, you won't, I said with a soft laugh, feeling her warmth and spirit brighten my heart. Now, stay hidden and wait for me.

I gave her one last look as I turned toward Carvahall, the village barely visible in the distance. The weight of the night pressed on my shoulders, but I pushed it aside. I had a plan to execute, and I couldn't afford to hesitate now.

~x~

I moved toward the village, my footsteps soft but sure as I made my way through the familiar woods. My heart beat faster as I neared Carvahall, and I could almost feel the tension in the air. The village would be in chaos by morning. I had to make sure of it.

The butcher's shop was my first stop. Sloan would be the first to feel the sting of my departure. I grabbed everything I could: meat, all the gold he had, and anything else of value. I made a mess—tore open bags, spilled the gold, upturned barrels. I didn't hide the fact that I was the one responsible. I wanted it to be clear. I had no intention of being seen as anyone's son anymore.

I left the butcher's shop with evidence all around me—footprints, spilled goods, broken things that spoke of a frantic and desperate person. It was important that everyone thought I had snapped. I couldn't let them think I was leaving on purpose, seeking answers. I needed them to believe I had been overcome by fear, by some madness that made me a thief.

Next was Gedric's leather shop. The leather I took wasn't even a fraction of what he had, but I needed more than just practical supplies. I needed to make sure this looked like a senseless crime. I took enough to make a saddle for Saphira—enough to make it obvious that I had taken something of value and left chaos in my wake. I didn't care about the consequences for Gedric; this wasn't about him. It was about making the village believe I had turned into a desperate thief. The more they thought I had stolen for no reason, the more they would point the Ra'zac at me.

Gertrude's herb shop came next. I didn't take much—just a few jars of medicinal herbs, some of the dried plants she kept in jars. I scattered them around, making it look as if I had taken what I could in a panic, and left everything else behind. The chaos I created would tell the villagers that I wasn't just desperate. I was someone who had lost all sense of purpose, someone they could no longer trust.

The last stop was Horst's blacksmith shop. The forge was quiet, the rhythmic sound of hammer on metal absent from the air. As I moved through the dimly lit workshop, the shadows of unfinished weapons and tools loomed around me. It was there, resting on a velvet-lined display shelf, that I saw it.

The knife was a work of art, a masterful piece forged with both function and beauty in mind. The blade was made of polished steel, its surface gleaming faintly in the soft light. Its edge was impossibly sharp, honed to a mirror finish that seemed to shimmer with a life of its own. The steel tapered to a fine point, slender yet unyielding, the curve of the blade designed for precision. Intricate runes were etched along the spine of the blade, their design flowing like water in a gentle stream, suggesting both elegance and deadly purpose. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, the stitching tight and flawless, offering a comfortable grip. A silver etched cross-guard protected the wielder's hand, its edges sharp but subtle, adding a touch of refinement to the weapon. The pommel was adorned with a small, deep red gemstone, polished to a soft glow, its color reminiscent of blood—a fitting detail for such a dangerous tool.

I grabbed it without hesitation, even though it wasn't the most practical of choices. It was a knife for show as much as for use—its value far exceeded its utility for any practical combat. It would be a good weapon for anyone who needed one, and its beauty would certainly add weight to my actions. But that wasn't why I took it. I wanted the village to know that I had stolen something of worth, something that would make them think my descent into madness had no reason other than pure destruction.

By the time I finished, the village would wake to chaos. The butcher's shop, Gedric's leather, Gertrude's herbs, Horst's knife—all would point to me. I would be the thief, the one who had run off into the night without a trace. No one would suspect anything else, and no one would think to protect me. I would be alone, but I would be free.

As I turned toward the woods, an unexpected wave of longing struck me, sudden and fierce. It wasn't just the village I was leaving behind—it was Brom. My father. The realization swept over me like a cold wind, and before I could think, my feet were carrying me toward his house.

The path felt both familiar and foreign under my boots, as if I were being pulled by something beyond myself. My breaths quickened, my hands trembling with an emotion I couldn't name. I stood before his door, my fist raised to knock. Just one word, just one glimpse of him, and I could—

I froze, my heart clenching as a memory surged forth. The blood, the wound, his final moments. Brom had died because of me. Because I had been unprepared, reckless, and ignorant. The ache in my chest grew unbearable as I lowered my hand. I could not—would not—be the cause of his death a second time.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I stepped back. "I'll return," I whispered to the door, though it brought me no solace. With one last look at the house, I turned and made my way back toward the woods, vowing that when I came back, I would be stronger. I would be worthy of him.

Saphira was still waiting, her blue form barely visible in the shadows.

It's done, I thought, though the pain of leaving everything behind still lingered. They'll think I've disappeared. The Ra'zac will come for me.

I will wait for you, she said again, her voice steady and comforting. We're together in this, Eragon. Always.

I knelt beside her, my hand resting on her soft scales. The connection between us was undeniable, and as I touched her, I could feel the bond growing stronger—richer, deeper. It was the only thing that felt real anymore.

Let's go, I whispered, my voice shaking slightly. We'll rescue Arya, together. No matter the cost.

Saphira nodded, her presence a steady force beside me as we moved deeper into the woods. There was no turning back now. I had done what I had to do, and now we would both move forward into whatever awaited us.

~x~

The dim winter sun had just crested the Spine when I found a small clearing off the forest path, the ground still soft with unpacked snow. Frost sparkled on the trees, and my breath hung in the air like faint wisps of smoke. I set down my pack carefully beside Saphira. Her sapphire-blue scales were gleaming in the light. Even now, she looked too majestic for this simple forest, a fragment of something ancient and powerful reborn into the present.

"We'll eat after I finish training," I said, brushing my hand over her smooth head. She huffed, curling her tail around herself, but through our bond, I felt her concern. She was worried over how far I might push myself. I could admit that her concerns had merit; it was somewhat embarrassing just how often I'd pushed too far, only to regret it, in the previous time.

I stood in the center of the clearing, closing my eyes and letting the crisp morning air fill my lungs. The frost clung to the snow-dusted ground, and the faint chirp of birds overhead did little to break the silence. I breathed deeply, the cold seeping into my skin, trying to steady my mind. But the more I focused, the more my frustration burned. This wasn't the same. The strength I once had, the agility, the grace—now, it felt as if I were trying to remember something I had forgotten long ago.

The Rimgar was a test, I had been told. A meditation, a path to unity of body and mind. But it wasn't just stances and movements. It was supposed to be something more. Oromis had always said that the Rimgar wasn't about perfection, but discovery. Yet, I felt like I was retreading old ground, trying to grasp something that kept slipping further away.

Each shift of my weight, each pull of muscle, felt like a reminder that I wasn't where I used to be. That I would never be there again.

I raised my arms slowly, palms facing outward, like I was pushing against some invisible wall. My knees bent slightly, my feet sinking into the snow. The cold bit at my legs, and the muscles in my thighs burned—too easily, too quickly. My balance was already shaky, and I had barely settled into the first position. The effort left me straining, fighting to hold steady, and I couldn't help but feel the weight of how far I had fallen.

I adjusted, shifting my weight, but even the smallest movement was met with resistance. My body felt slower, heavier, as though it wasn't mine anymore. The familiar ease of the stances I once executed flawlessly now felt like an uphill battle. The ache in my legs only deepened with every passing second. The fatigue came faster than it should, the burning in my muscles making it harder to concentrate.

I tried to push the thoughts away, but they kept creeping in: I was never supposed to be here. I was supposed to be stronger than this.

As I transitioned into the second pose, I swept my arms outward in a controlled arc. But the movement felt slow, sluggish, my muscles stiff from the cold and the strain. I gritted my teeth, forcing my foot to plant firmly in the snow, but it slid beneath me. I caught myself, but the effort left my calf aching, my leg trembling beneath the pressure.

I could almost hear the voice of Oromis in my head: Every shift is an opportunity to learn.

But I wasn't learning. I was merely surviving. Each motion felt like a futile attempt to reclaim what I had lost, to prove that I could still master this, when in truth, I was simply clinging to the echoes of abilities that no longer came so easily.

The third pose tested my flexibility and focus. I lowered into a deep crouch, one leg extended to the side, the other bent beneath me. My arms moved as if they were tracing a slow arc, but the fluidity was gone. I couldn't move with the grace I once had, the smoothness of each transition lost in the stiffness of my joints.

The snowflakes drifted softly from an overhead branch, landing on my face and arms. They weren't the soft touch of the world I remembered, but a reminder of how out of place I was in it. My spine ached with the effort, a dull, constant reminder that even this simple stretch was more than it should be. It wasn't an achievement; it was a struggle, a return to something familiar that now felt impossible.

I ignored the discomfort, shifting my torso slightly to ease the tension, but the tightness in my back didn't ease. It only reminded me of my weakness.

The Gift of Dragons, the only thing that seemed to keep me going, hummed faintly in the background of my awareness. It soothed the muscles, relieved the sharpest aches, but only when I was resting. The instant I pushed myself again, it felt like I was trying to run on a broken wheel. Energy came, but only in fleeting bursts. This wasn't progress—it was merely staving off collapse.

I moved into the fourth pose, palms pressed flat against the snow, fingers splayed wide. The cold bit at my skin, but that was nothing compared to the strain that pulled at my shoulders and thighs. The ground beneath me was uneven—rough, rocky in places, and the slight shift in my hands made me feel it all too acutely. Every muscle was tight, each breath coming harder than it should.

As I transitioned to the fifth pose, my arms swept above my head, the motion so slow, so clumsy. My legs burned from the effort, my torso trembling with the weight of trying to hold the position. My heart hammered in my chest as I fought to stay steady, but the struggle felt so pointless. I used to be able to do this effortlessly. Now it felt like I was dragging my own body through each movement, each shift of weight.

I felt the presence of Saphira, her warm voice curling around my thoughts. You're pushing yourself too hard, Eragon. You need to rest.

I can't, I thought bitterly, my breath coming in ragged gasps. This is all I have. This is all I can do to get it back. To get me back.

I could feel her frustration with me—But you're not giving yourself a chance to heal. You won't get anywhere if you don't rest.

I knew she was right, but that didn't stop the bitterness rising in my chest. She could heal quickly, with the power of the dragons. I had The Gift of Dragons, but it only worked when I rested. It wasn't enough to bring back the strength I had lost. It wasn't enough to make me the man I had been.

When I moved into the sixth pose, crouching low again, I could feel the tremors in my muscles. My shoulders burned, my legs quivered beneath me. I couldn't even focus properly, my mind clouded with thoughts of what I used to be able to do. I pushed on, not because I was learning, but because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't. I couldn't afford to let go of this. It was all that I had left. And yet, I couldn't help but wonder if it was all for nothing.

The final pose arrived, and I rose slowly, arms sweeping upward like unfurling wings. My weight shifted onto one foot, the other lifting behind me in a controlled extension. But it wasn't controlled. It was shaky, uneven, like I was trying to balance on a tightrope that had already snapped. The pose required every ounce of focus, every bit of strength, but even then, the tension in my muscles was almost unbearable.

I held the position, my breath slow and deliberate, the cold air burning in my lungs. For what felt like an eternity, I stayed there, fighting to hold my balance, to hold myself together. The world around me seemed distant, muffled as if I were submerged underwater, each thought slow and laborious. All that existed was the strain in my muscles and the rhythm of my breathing.

Finally, I eased out of the pose, my body heavy with exhaustion. I stood still for a moment, catching my breath. The ache in my muscles was a dull hum in my body, but already, The Gift of Dragons was working, soothing the strain. But I knew it wouldn't last long. The moment I pushed myself again, the gift would slip away, and the pain would return.

It wasn't progress. It was just survival. The strain in my body was real, the stiffness and fatigue a constant reminder that the power I once commanded was gone, and I had no choice but to fight my way back to it.

Saphira's voice rang through my thoughts again, and despite myself, I felt a fleeting sense of gratitude for her presence. She was right; I was pushing too hard, but she understood what this meant for me.

You've done enough for today, Eragon, she said gently, her tone filled with warmth. You'll recover your strength in time. But don't rush it. Let the healing come naturally. You won't find your balance by forcing it.

I exhaled sharply, stretching my arms overhead. I know, I muttered, feeling the familiar burn in my muscles, but it didn't feel like an accomplishment. It just felt like something I had to do, over and over again.

Saphira's sapphire eyes gleamed in the distance, her tail flicking once in acknowledgment. You'll be stronger tomorrow. But for now, rest. That's the only way forward.

I will, I replied softly. But it didn't feel like a declaration of triumph. It felt like a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.

The wind rustled the trees around me, the world around us quiet for now. The stillness pressed in on me as I caught my breath, but I knew the day wasn't over. Not yet.

I couldn't just keep practicing the Rimgar. As much as I hated to admit it, I had reached the limits of what I could do with my body for now. The fatigue, the pain, it was just too much. But there was still magic. Magic, at least, was something I could work with. Or so I told myself.

I stretched out my hands, feeling the bite of the cold air against my fingertips. My breaths came steady now, but there was a lingering tightness in my chest, a frustration I couldn't shake. The Rimgar had loosened my body, but it hadn't eased the frustration gnawing at me. Magic had always come as naturally as breathing. Now it felt distant, like a fading memory locked behind an invisible wall that I could barely comprehend. I had cracked it earlier, but only just. There was so much work left to do.

I closed my eyes, centering myself. I needed to regain control, to remember how it felt to pull magic from the world around me, to feel it hum through my body.

Fire, I thought, the word rising in my mind. I whispered the Ancient Language: Brisingr.

The fire appeared, but only after a moment's resistance. It flickered weakly in my palm, the light casting warm shadows against the snow. It shouldn't have been this difficult. The flame should've been strong, the heat should've been instantaneous, but instead, I had to coax it from the ether, slowly, and with more effort than I was used to. The warmth was comforting for a moment, but as the flame grew, I felt the strain. The energy was leaking from me faster than it should. My mind fought the barrier, but each second that passed, the fire drained me more.

Not enough, I thought, frustration mounting. It's too slow.

I pressed on, pushing my reserves to sustain the fire, but the feeling of it—fragile, trembling in my palm—was not right. It wasn't the vibrant warmth I remembered. It was weak. This wasn't just about controlling the flame; it was about reclaiming the control I had lost. Magic shouldn't take this much effort to maintain. But as I held it, the weight of it pulled at me, each second more taxing than the last. The energy inside me didn't flow freely; it was confined, limited, and I could feel it, a faint strain at the edges of my awareness.

Finally, with a sharp flick of my wrist, I scattered the sparks, letting them fall harmlessly into the snow, where they melted the frost. The warmth from the flame dissipated quickly, leaving me with the hollow, empty feeling that followed any expenditure of energy. It hadn't been difficult in the sense that a human would struggle with it—but I had more power than a human, and still, it felt draining. Every time I used it, it was as if I was losing a little more of the strength I had once taken for granted.

I shook my head, trying to clear the frustration that threatened to cloud my focus. I can't keep going like this.

I knelt and scooped a handful of snow, trying to push away my frustration. Audr. The snow shimmered and compressed into a crystalline sphere in my hand. I felt the magic pulse under my hands, the task simple enough to be done with ease. I tossed the sphere into the air, caught it, and then murmured, Thrysta. The ice froze midair, hanging suspended by my will.

This was better. The strain was there, but it wasn't as bad. As I shaped the sphere, turning it, making it spin in the sunlight, the energy within me seemed more fluid. It wasn't like before, when I had commanded magic without thought, but it was something. Still, I felt the subtle pressure behind my eyes, the strain beginning to build as I continued to control it.

Stop, a voice echoed in my mind.

It wasn't a suggestion.

I gritted my teeth, unwilling to yield. The ice sphere spun faster, a ribbon of light trailing behind it as I pushed the magic further. But my vision blurred slightly, my focus faltering as the pressure behind my eyes grew.

Saphira, I thought, frustrated, I'm not done. Just a little longer.

You're pushing yourself too hard, she projected firmly, her voice cutting through the haze of my thoughts. Stop now, Eragon.

I tried to ignore her, but the barrier in my mind was starting to press in on me, the edges of my control slipping. My breath came faster, shallow, as the exertion drained me further. I was no longer pushing through the fatigue; I was simply running on empty. The magic wasn't coming as easily as it once did. It was leaking from me, and the harder I tried to maintain control, the faster it slipped away.

Saphira's presence surged through our bond, insistent and commanding. Stop now, Eragon. Before you overextend yourself. You've already gone too far.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to push through, to keep going until I could feel the power flooding back into me. But deep down, I knew she was right. The strain was becoming dangerous, and I was already pushing my limits.

With a final sigh, I let the ice shatter in my hands, the shards falling softly into the snow. I closed my eyes, my head spinning as I fought to regain control.

I felt Saphira's presence beside me, warm and steady. You are not invincible, she said gently. You have more strength than any human, but even you have limits. You can't rush this. You have to give yourself time.

I exhaled, trying to steady my breath. My arms felt heavy, my body weary. I can't afford to wait, I thought bitterly, but the words were hollow. Saphira was right. Every spell I cast took more than it should have. I wasn't recovering fast enough.

You will, she assured me, her voice calm. But you must be patient. This magic, your strength—it will return in time. But you cannot force it.

I nodded, feeling the weight of her words. The barrier in my mind, the frustration in my chest, weren't going to be solved by pushing harder. I had to rest. I had to be patient.

The clearing was still, quiet, as I let the last of the tension leave my body. My energy reserves would only replenish when I rested. And I needed to give myself that time.

Saphira padded closer, her sapphire eyes glowing softly with approval. For now, rest. Tomorrow will be a better day. You'll recover what you've lost—but you need to let your strength grow again.

I closed my eyes, leaning back against the cold earth, letting the weight of the world slide away. Magic would come back in time. I knew it. But for now, I had to accept my limits and trust that my strength would return.

The growl of my stomach reminded me of the hunger I had been ignoring. I reached into my pack and pulled out the stolen steak from Sloan's shop. It had been tucked away carefully in a corner, wrapped in cloth to protect it from the cold. The meat wasn't the freshest, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt at the thought of taking it from the butcher. But my hunger gnawed at me, and the fire's warmth had only dulled the sensation temporarily. I needed something to replenish the energy I had spent.

My fingers lingered on the raw meat for a moment, the unease of eating it settling into my chest. The elves had taught me to respect life and to avoid needless cruelty. I had always been taught to be careful with how I used the resources around me, never taking more than was necessary. Eating meat felt like a violation of that lesson—something I had struggled with ever since I'd started my journey.

Still, my hunger was insistent. My body needed sustenance, and the time for idealism had passed.

I quickly gathered some dry kindling and arranged it into a small stack. The flames flickered to life, their heat comforting in the chilly air. My hands trembled slightly, still feeling the exhaustion of the day's magic practice, but the act of preparing the meal didn't take much energy. I set the steak on a makeshift spit and held it above the flames, turning it slowly to sear each side.

As the meat cooked, the smell of sizzling flesh filled the air, and my stomach gave a low growl of anticipation. My eyes lingered on the fire, watching the meat roast, but the act of cooking it didn't make me feel any better about the decision. I knew I needed to eat, but the fact that I had stolen it—taken it from someone who relied on it for their livelihood—left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Eragon, Saphira's voice echoed in my mind, soft but insistent. I know your thoughts. But you need to stop wrestling with yourself. You're not harming anyone. You're taking care of yourself, and you need strength to recover.

I sighed, turning the steak to ensure it cooked evenly. I know, I replied quietly. But I was trained to avoid this. The elves taught me to respect all life. It feels wrong to take what wasn't given freely.

Saphira was silent for a moment before responding, her tone steady but understanding. I understand your struggle, little one. I do. But think about what you've done. You're not slaughtering an animal for no reason. You've taken what was already taken from someone else, and it will nourish you. You need to regain your strength, and meat is one of the best ways to rebuild what you've lost. It's the quickest way to replenish the energy your body has spent. Without it, you will struggle to heal.

The smell of the steak growing stronger made my mouth water, and despite myself, I could feel my resolve weakening. Saphira's logic was sound—my energy reserves were finite, and my body needed food to recover. I wasn't the same person I had been before. I had changed, and so too had my circumstances.

I won't forget my training, I thought, the words still feeling heavy in my chest. But I can't afford to ignore my hunger. I'll deal with the guilt later.

You don't have to apologize to anyone for taking care of yourself, she said, the gentle force of her words cutting through the inner conflict. This is about your survival, and no one can fault you for that.

I exhaled, pulling the steak off the fire when it was done, its surface slightly charred but still juicy. I sliced off a large piece from the middle, the tender meat warm against the cold night air. The lack of seasoning didn't matter; the meat was enough. My body needed it, and in this moment, I needed it too.

The first bite was comforting, the rich, salty flavor filling my senses. I chewed slowly, savoring the texture, but the feeling of guilt still lingered, even as I swallowed. Eating felt like accepting something I didn't want to accept, a compromise I wasn't sure I was ready to make.

But as I ate, the hunger subsided, and a sense of warmth began to return to my limbs. The fire crackled softly nearby, grounding me in the present. The gnawing sensation inside me lessened, and I realized how much I had needed this meal. I wasn't fully restored, but the strength in my body began to feel more solid, more present.

Saphira's soft rumble echoed in my mind, approval and warmth radiating from her. You've done well, little one. This is the right choice. The food will give you what you need to heal, to regain your strength. There is no shame in this.

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of her words. I know, I replied softly. I just wish it didn't feel like this.

Saphira's voice was gentle, almost amused. It never feels easy, Eragon. But sometimes, the hard choices are the ones that lead to the greatest growth.

I smiled faintly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. As I continued to eat, I felt the first true sense of peace I had experienced all day. The frustration that had filled me earlier had faded into the background. I wasn't done yet. There was still much work to be done, both with my magic and with myself. But for the moment, I had done what I needed to do.

After all, I couldn't fight the battles ahead on an empty stomach.

The cold air bit at my skin as I gripped the rough branch in my hand, feeling the uneven texture of the bark beneath my fingers. It was a poor substitute for a sword, but it would have to do for now. I stepped into the center of the clearing, rolling my shoulders to loosen the tension that still clung to my muscles. My body hummed with the leftover energy from the Rimgar and the magic practice, but this was different. Swordplay required precision, control—a unity of mind and body that I was still trying to find.

I knew what I needed to do: footwork first. I had drilled it into my body over and over during my training with Brom, and I would have to do so again. It was a foundation I could rely on.

With a slow, deliberate motion, I shifted my weight to one foot, grounding myself to the earth. My feet slid slightly over the snow as I adjusted my stance, settling into the familiar position. My knees bent just so, my hips aligned. The first step was always the most important. I focused on it, making sure that each movement was as precise as possible. Every footstep had to be exact, my body steady as I prepared to move.

Shift the weight to the back foot, I reminded myself, moving slowly, my feet sliding across the snow in small, controlled steps. Now forward, bring the front foot in, just as you've done a thousand times before.

I took a step. My foot sank into the snow a little too deep. I hesitated, correcting my balance, but even as I did, frustration began to claw at the edges of my mind. This wasn't how it was supposed to feel. The footwork should've been instinctive. The placement should've been automatic, flowing naturally. Yet, each movement felt heavier, as though my body didn't want to listen.

I stepped again, but this time my foot slid, too far left. No, I thought, gritting my teeth. This isn't how it should be. I know this.

I forced my foot to settle, grounding it again. One more time. I slowly lifted the foot and brought it forward, focusing intently on the pressure, the angle, the feel of the ground beneath me. Every shift in weight had to be perfect, and yet... something was off. I could feel it.

The cold seeped into my muscles, but I tried to ignore it, pushing through the frustration that tightened my chest. This wasn't supposed to be so hard. My body was still young, strong—stronger than any human's. I had trained for years, but it was as if my muscles had forgotten how to move. There was no fluidity. No precision. Everything felt stiff.

I drew a deep breath and reset. I needed to go slower. I couldn't let my impatience drive me forward. This was about the basics—nothing more.

I stepped forward again, shifting my weight in a smooth, measured motion. My foot planted firmly on the ground, and for a moment, I felt a small spark of relief—until the next step came. My leg buckled, not from injury, but from weakness. The balance wasn't there. The confidence, the muscle memory—it was just gone.

I let out a breath, pushing the frustration aside, but it kept creeping in, nagging at me. I couldn't keep fighting my own body.

I stood still for a moment, eyes closed, hands steadying the branch at my side. Focus, I told myself. Slow, deliberate movements. The muscle memory would come back. It had to.

I started again, the movements slow, deliberate. I planted my feet, one after the other, moving through the motions of a basic stance, resetting with each step. The snow crunched beneath my boots, my legs aching from the effort of perfecting something I had once done without thought.

When the basic footwork felt just a little more fluid, I began incorporating the strikes. The branch in my hands felt foreign, too light, too unwieldy. My arms trembled slightly, and my first swing was wide, leaving me off-balance. The branch sliced through the air, but the power behind it felt weak, as if the movement had been forced rather than earned.

No, I thought, clenching my jaw. Again.

I reset. The branch felt like a dead weight in my hands, and the strain in my muscles made each swing harder than it should have been. Strike. Reset. Strike. Reset. I repeated the motion over and over. The swing, the arc, the follow-through. It wasn't right. It wasn't natural. My body had to relearn how to perform even the simplest of movements.

My arms burned as I continued, each swing slower than it should be, the branch falling through the air without the smoothness I was accustomed to. My footwork, too, faltered as I tried to balance the swing, adjusting my stance after each strike. Each time I thought I had it, something was off.

Shift weight. Balance. Strike. Over and over, the same basic motion, but my body felt like a foreign thing, disconnected from the knowledge I knew was buried deep within me.

You know this, I thought, pushing myself harder. You know how this should feel.

But it didn't feel the way it used to. Every repetition left me feeling more drained, more defeated. The fatigue settled deeper in my bones, and I could feel my frustration building. This wasn't just a test of physical strength. It was a test of will.

I pressed on. I forced my body to go through the motions, moving through the strikes, adjusting my footing each time the branch came down. The burn in my arms and legs was a constant reminder of how far I had to go, of how far I had fallen from what I used to be.

Saphira's presence was always a comfort, but now, it was also a steadying force. You're pushing yourself too hard, she projected, the tone of her voice full of concern. Slow down. Focus on the foundation.

I didn't stop. I can't, I thought, frustration clenching my jaw. I can't wait. I need to regain this. Now.

But Saphira's voice was insistent. You're not going to get anywhere by forcing it. Your body needs time to recover, just like your magic. If you push yourself too far, you'll only hurt yourself.

I paused, breathless, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cold air. My limbs shook, my footwork still awkward, but now I felt a weight in my chest. The frustration had clouded my judgment, pushing me harder than I should've gone.

Saphira's rumbling voice soothed me. This is just the beginning, little one. Take your time. The rest will come with practice.

I exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. She was right. I was rushing, pushing myself too hard, trying to force something that needed to come naturally again. The movements wouldn't come all at once. Not today.

I lowered the branch, letting it rest against my shoulder, and I took a few steps back. My muscles burned with the effort, but there was a quiet kind of satisfaction in knowing I had at least started. I hadn't regained everything I had lost, but I had taken the first step.

Tomorrow will be better, I thought, my heart steadying with the thought of continued effort, continued growth.

The cold air stung my skin as I stood in the clearing, the branch still clutched in my trembling hands. My muscles burned from the hours of training, and sweat clung to me despite the chill. I let out a deep breath, watching it mist in the frosty air. The clearing was silent now, save for the faint rustle of Saphira's tail as she settled back by the pack.

I leaned the branch against a tree and turned to my belongings, reaching for the small metal bowl I had tucked into my pack. My fingers brushed the cold steel, and I pulled it free, along with a waterskin. I poured the liquid into the bowl, watching as the surface stilled, reflecting the pale winter sky above.

The weight in my chest was unbearable. I couldn't push aside the gnawing worry any longer. Arya's image had haunted me since I awoke in this timeline. I needed to know—needed to see her.

Saphira's gaze followed me, her sapphire eyes gleaming in the dim light. She didn't speak, but her concern radiated through our bond. I could feel her support, steady and unwavering, as I knelt in the snow and set the bowl before me.

My hands hovered over the water, shaking slightly. What if she's already— I stopped the thought before it could take root, clenching my fists. I needed focus. I couldn't afford to falter now.

I whispered the words of power: "Draumr kópa," remembering at the last moment to add the words needed to hear what was happening.

The water rippled, faint at first, then more pronounced as the spell took hold. The reflection of the sky wavered and dissolved into shadow. For a moment, I saw nothing but darkness. I clenched my jaw, focusing harder, my will pouring into the spell. The darkness shifted, giving way to an image that sharpened slowly, like frost melting on a window.

The vision that appeared before me made my heart clench. Arya sat in the corner of a dark, filthy cell, her body hunched against the cold stone wall. Chains bound her wrists, the iron biting into her skin, leaving raw, bloody marks. Her once-pristine clothing was torn and soiled, her hair hanging in dark, tangled strands around her face.

My breath hitched as I took in her bruises, the shallow cuts that marred her arms, and the hollow look in her emerald eyes. Yet even in her battered state, there was a fire within her—a defiance that no amount of cruelty could extinguish. I could feel it radiating from her, even through the spell. Arya was unbroken, though Durza's efforts had clearly been relentless.

The sound of heavy boots echoed in the corridor beyond her cell, pulling my attention sharply. The image wavered as my concentration faltered, but I gritted my teeth, forcing the vision to hold steady. A moment later, the door to her cell creaked open.

Durza stepped inside, his crimson hair catching the faint torchlight. His pale skin was stretched tightly over his sharp features, and his scarlet eyes gleamed with malice. He carried himself with a predator's confidence, his movements slow and deliberate as he approached Arya.

"Have you reconsidered, Arya?" His voice was smooth, almost gentle, but it carried an undercurrent of menace that made my blood boil. "You know what I want. Tell me where you sent the egg, and this can end."

Arya didn't answer. Her head lifted slightly, her bruised face turning toward him, but her lips remained sealed. Her defiance was silent but unmistakable.

Durza's smile widened, though there was no warmth in it. He crouched before her, his eyes narrowing. "You are resilient. Admirably so. But even you have limits." He reached out, gripping her chin in his hand and forcing her to look directly at him. "And I will find them."

Arya's expression didn't change, though her muscles tensed visibly. Through the spell, I could almost feel the disgust radiating from her, the strength it took to hold her ground.

Durza released her abruptly and stood, his movements sharp. "Very well," he said, his tone icy. "We'll continue."

He raised a hand, and I saw his lips move, though I couldn't hear the spell he uttered. Arya's body jerked violently, her chains rattling against the wall as a sharp cry escaped her lips. My stomach twisted, rage and helplessness crashing over me in equal measure. Her back arched, her muscles straining against the invisible force that wracked her body.

"Stop!" The word escaped me unbidden, and the spell over the water shattered, the water's surface rippling violently before going still.

I stared at the bowl, my heart pounding. My hands clenched into fists, trembling with the weight of my emotions. I was already late, and the torture had begun.

Saphira's presence surged through our bond, her worry a steady force. She nudged my shoulder gently, her warm scales grounding me. You saw her, she said, her voice calm but firm.

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Durza..." I couldn't finish the sentence. My voice broke, the words sticking in my throat.

She is strong, Saphira said, her mental voice soothing. She endures. But she cannot do so forever.

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. The image of Arya's torment burned in my mind, a searing reminder of the urgency of my mission. "I won't let her die," I said, my voice low but resolute. "Not this time. Not like this."

Saphira rumbled softly, her tail curling around me protectively. Then we must move quickly, little one. We cannot afford hesitation.

I nodded again, the weight of my resolve settling over me. The road ahead was fraught with danger, but I would not let Arya suffer alone. This time, I would save her. No matter the cost.

As I packed the bowl away and rose to my feet, the clearing seemed colder, darker. But within me burned a fire that would not be extinguished—a fire fueled by anger, determination, and the unshakable bond I shared with the sapphire dragon at my side.

Together, we would face what lay ahead. Together, we would prevail.

~x~

The day had been long—longer than I had anticipated. The journey through the Spine had been harder than I remembered, the path rougher, the weight of my makeshift sword still awkward in my hand. Every step had felt like a burden, each movement a reminder of how far I still had to go. The cold wind had gnawed at my skin, my muscles ached from both the travel and the sword training I'd forced myself to complete, and every part of me just wanted to collapse.

I trudged through the snow, the faint light of dusk beginning to cast long shadows. Saphira walked beside me, her wings folded neatly against her body. Her presence was a comfort, but today, I was too tired to appreciate it.

You've done well today, Eragon, Saphira said, her voice calm and soothing in my mind. The training, the travel. . . it's a lot for one day, but you've managed.

I didn't answer right away. I was too focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on reaching our destination for the night. Every step felt like an effort. My limbs were heavy, stiff from the day's exertion, and the ache in my chest had started to tighten again, a reminder of how far I still had to go.

Saphira's voice came again, gentler this time. It's okay to be tired. Rest soon. You've made good progress.

That's when it hit me. My frustration, the weariness, the nagging feeling that I wasn't getting anywhere despite all the work I had put in—it all spilled out in an angry surge.

"Progress?!" I snapped, more sharply than I intended. "I'm still stuck here, Saphira. I'm still fumbling through footwork, still swinging that damned branch around like I've never held a sword before! I can't even summon fire the way I used to. I'm not making progress—I'm just wasting time. Every day feels like a repeat of the last, and I can't stand it!"

Saphira stopped walking beside me, her sapphire eyes watching me with something close to concern. I knew I'd hurt her feelings, but I couldn't bring myself to care in that moment. The weight of everything—the failed training, the endless traveling, the knowledge that I wasn't who I once was—it was too much.

I know you're frustrated, she said softly, her voice a calm anchor in my mind. I understand. But you've been through a lot. You're pushing yourself, and it's not easy.

"I know that!" I snapped again, grinding my teeth as I turned to face her. "But I'm not getting any stronger, Saphira! I feel weaker, not stronger. My muscles ache, my mind is exhausted, and I just. . . I don't know what to do anymore."

She stepped closer, her body warm and solid next to me. I could feel her comforting presence, but I couldn't shake the frustration that clung to me. I folded my arms tightly across my chest, feeling the cold air creep in.

Saphira remained patient, letting me simmer for a moment before speaking again. Her tone was firm now, her mind calm but resolute.

You don't have to do this alone, Eragon. You're not just a fighter. You have magic—use it. Your muscles can't adapt as quickly as they used to, but magic can help you. If you focus, you can speed up the process. You can make your muscles heal faster, adapt faster. It will take the strain off your body and help you grow stronger faster.

I looked at her, confused. Magic? I thought, my voice more hesitant now. What do you mean?

Have you forgotten that magic can do more than just fight and heal? You can use it to enhance your body's ability to recover. It can speed up the healing process, ease the pain, and even strengthen the muscles themselves. You're not limited to only what your body can handle—it's just a matter of using the magic to guide it.

The idea hung in my mind, tempting but foreign. But that's not what I'm used to, I replied, my tone still tight. I've always used magic to fight, to defend, or to heal injuries. I never thought about using it to. . . improve myself like this.

Saphira's eyes gleamed, her voice filled with quiet wisdom. You've always underestimated the power you have. Magic isn't just about fighting, Eragon. It's about change. You can shape your body with it the same way you shape the world around you. Just as you change the fire or the water, you can influence your own strength. Don't limit yourself. And have you forgotten what you once did to your knuckles? This would just be an extension of that.

I stood there, breathing heavily, feeling the weight of her words settle over me. It made sense, in a way I hadn't considered before. All this time, I'd been thinking about magic as something external—something separate from me. But Saphira was right. I was magic. I could shape my body with it, too. It was just. . . different. And it terrified me, in a way. It was too easy to push my limits by relying on magic instead of my own body. But maybe that was the point.

I met her gaze, finally giving in to the thought. You think it'll help?

Saphira nodded slowly, her expression softening. I know it will. But you have to believe in it. You can't keep forcing your body to do what it's not ready for. Let the magic help you heal, help you grow stronger.

I took a slow breath, letting the idea settle in my mind. For the first time in a while, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this was the answer I'd been searching for. I wasn't entirely sure how to do it, but I trusted Saphira. If she believed I could, then maybe I could.

I'll try, I conceded, the exhaustion apparent even in my thoughts, but now tempered with determination. I'll try.

Saphira nuzzled my arm, her scales warm against my skin. That's all I ask, little one.

I nodded, looking up at the stars beginning to emerge in the evening sky. The road ahead still felt long and uncertain, but for the first time that day, I had a sense of purpose. Maybe I wasn't as lost as I thought.

~x~

Two weeks had passed since I left Carvahall, and each day felt like a lifetime's worth of lessons compressed into hours. The isolation of the road left me with little else to focus on besides my training, my thoughts, and the bond I shared with Saphira. The journey was grueling, but it was also transformative. My body, once clumsy and stiff with human limitations, had begun to adapt, though the progress came slower than I had hoped. Every small victory was hard-earned, and I could feel the stirrings of something deeper within me—a change that was both invigorating and frustrating.

Mornings began the same way: with the Rimgar. The cold air hit my skin, sharp and biting, but it was the routine I had learned from Brom and had come to rely on. The movements, which had once been awkward and imprecise, were slowly becoming more fluid, though the grace of the elves still eluded me. My body responded with effort, but the grace and ease I sought was still far out of reach. The ache in my legs and back was constant—constant reminders of how much further I had to go. But it was familiar. It was an ache that signaled progress, even if that progress was slow.

Before I began each session, I would focus my magic on preparing my body for the task ahead. I spoke quiet words under my breath, calling the magic to help enhance my efficiency. The rush of power was subtle, but it focused my muscles, sharpening my awareness. It didn't make things easier, but it made the effort feel more effective. The magic would make my muscles more responsive, my joints more fluid, helping me to get the most out of each movement. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to make the pain less brutal.

As I moved through the stances, bending into deep crouches and holding each pose, I could feel the difference. The added magic allowed me to hold positions longer, to stretch my body further than I could have without it. The strain was still immense, but the magic gave me a slight edge, helping me push past the fatigue. It wasn't just the movement—it was the endurance, the effort of holding each stance for a few moments longer, keeping my form sharp despite the burn in my muscles.

Even with the magic supporting me, the toll on my body was still overwhelming. The aching in my legs, the tightness in my back, became deeper with each set of repetitions. But I forced myself to keep going. It was the only way. No magic could replace hard work. No spell would make me as strong as I needed to be. It could only support the work, amplify my efforts, help me go a little farther than I thought I could.

When I had finished with the Rimgar, I would move to my strength training. Stones, fallen logs, anything I could lift. The physical effort was exhausting, but I needed to push my limits. Each time I lifted a stone, I'd call on magic again, to help enhance the strain on my muscles. It didn't make lifting any easier; it only made it harder, forcing my muscles to work harder, straining them beyond their normal limits. Every motion was accompanied by a sharp burn in my arms, my legs, my back. Sweat ran down my forehead, my breath coming in ragged bursts. But I didn't stop. Magic could push me, but only to a point. My body still had to do the work.

Saphira watched from a distance, her gaze soft but intent, as I continued my exercises. She had never said much during these sessions, always standing as a silent observer, offering support in her own way. Her presence was a comfort, but also a reminder that I wasn't alone. I was pushing myself harder than ever, but I knew I was doing it for something greater.

You are improving, little one, she said softly, her voice both a comfort and a challenge. But be careful not to overextend. Even dragons need rest.

I paused for a moment, sweat dripping from my brow, muscles trembling. I knew she was right. Even though the magic was helping, I was still pushing myself too hard. But the frustration gnawed at me. I could feel myself growing stronger, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't fast enough.

I know, I thought, wiping my hands on my tunic. I can feel it, Saphira. I'm getting stronger.

You are, she interrupted. Stronger than you realize. But remember: strength isn't just about pushing harder. It's about knowing when to stop, when to rest. Magic cannot make you invincible.

I shook my head, my breath heavy, frustration bubbling up in my chest. It's not enough, I replied. Even in thought, my voice was low and tense. I can feel it, but it's not enough. Every day, I push myself harder, and yet. . . it's like I'm just inching forward. It's not fast enough. I can't wait. I can't keep going like this and expect things to just happen.

Saphira's gaze softened, and I could feel the weight of her silence. She understood my frustration. I didn't need to explain it to her.

You are growing stronger, she said again, her voice steady but filled with a quiet encouragement. But the path ahead is long, and rushing it will not get you where you need to be. The magic, your training, your strength—these things take time, Eragon. Be patient with yourself.

I stood still for a moment, letting her words wash over me. Patience. It was something I had never been good at. I had always been driven, always pushing for results, always seeking to achieve more. But I could feel the truth in her words, even if it didn't settle easily in my chest.

I know, I conceded, my exhaustion evident in our bond. But I don't have the luxury of time. There's so much I need to do, so much I need to become.

Saphira tilted her head, her eyes gleaming in the dim light of the evening. And you will, little one. But don't forget that the journey itself is as important as the destination. You cannot force yourself to be ready, but you can prepare yourself to be what you need to be, step by step.

I let out a breath, the tension easing slightly in my shoulders. "Step by step," I repeated quietly. It wasn't the answer I wanted, but it was the only one I had. And deep down, I knew Saphira was right. There was no shortcut. I would have to earn every bit of strength, every moment of mastery.

The night stretched ahead, long and uncertain, but I had made progress, even if it was slower than I wanted. And for the first time that day, I allowed myself a small moment of peace in knowing that progress, no matter how slow, was still progress.

~x~

Each night, after the fire had burned low and the forest had settled into a still, hushed quiet, I scried Arya. It had become a ritual of sorts, a way to remind myself why I endured the grueling training, why I pushed my body and magic to their limits. Saphira would watch silently from her perch nearby, her concern evident but unspoken, as I poured water into a shallow bowl and whispered the spell.

The surface of the water shimmered and rippled, dissolving into shadow before resolving into Arya's cell. The vision never failed to stir a mix of emotions within me—relief that she was still alive, anger at the conditions she was forced to endure, and helplessness at my inability to act just yet.

Most nights, the cell was quiet, save for the distant echo of footsteps or the faint clinking of her chains. Arya would sit against the cold, stone wall, her posture rigid despite the exhaustion etched into her features. Her emerald eyes, once bright with determination, now seemed dulled by the constant strain of captivity. Yet, even in her battered state, there was an unyielding strength about her—a quiet defiance that radiated from her very being.

I would watch her breathe, watch her shift slightly to ease the discomfort of her bindings. Sometimes, she would whisper to herself in the Ancient Language, her voice barely audible but steady. Other times, she would close her eyes and fall into a restless sleep, her face twitching as if haunted by nightmares.

On some nights, the silence was broken by Durza's arrival. His presence was like a shadow crawling across the vision, his crimson eyes gleaming with a malevolent light as he entered the cell. I could see the way Arya stiffened at the sound of his boots against the stone floor, her body tense as though preparing for a blow that might never come.

"Have you reconsidered?" he would ask, his voice smooth and deceptively calm. He would crouch before her, his pale fingers reaching out to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "It would be so much easier if you simply told me what I want to know. Where is the egg?"

Arya never answered, never gave him the satisfaction of a reaction. Her silence was a weapon, her defiance an unspoken challenge. Durza would smile, though there was no warmth in the expression, and rise to his full height. "Suit yourself," he would say, his tone dripping with mockery. "We'll speak again tomorrow."

But not all his visits were so restrained. There were nights when he used magic to torment her, invisible forces pinning her to the wall or dragging her to her knees. Arya's cries, though brief, echoed in my mind long after the vision faded. On those nights, I would find myself trembling, my fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms. Saphira's steady presence was the only thing that kept me grounded, her concern and reassurance flowing through our bond.

"You will be free," I whispered to Arya's image one such night, my voice raw with emotion. "I swear it."

And then there was the night the soldiers came.

The scrying began as it always did—the surface of the water rippling and shifting until the cell came into view. Arya was seated in her usual spot, her head resting against the wall, her eyes closed in a rare moment of rest. But then the heavy creak of the cell door opening shattered the stillness.

Four soldiers entered, their faces twisted into lecherous grins. They moved with a predatory confidence, their armor clinking softly as they approached her. One of them chuckled, his voice low and cruel. "Looks like we've got a little time alone with her."

Arya's eyes snapped open, her gaze sharp and cold. She didn't flinch, didn't shrink away as they surrounded her. Instead, she straightened, the chains binding her wrists clinking as she met their leering gazes with a glare of such intensity that even I, watching from afar, felt its power.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the clear threat before her.

The soldier closest to her leaned down, his hand reaching out as if to touch her face. "Just keeping you company, elf," he sneered. "Durza won't mind if we have a little fun."

Rage surged within me, hot and blinding. My hand hovered over the bowl, trembling as I fought the urge to break the scrying spell and lash out with whatever power I had. But I couldn't reach her—not yet. All I could do was watch.

Arya's eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped into a dangerous tone. "Leave," she said, her words laced with steel. "You will regret it if you don't."

The soldiers laughed, their amusement echoing harshly against the stone walls. But something shifted in the air—something subtle but undeniable. The soldier who had leaned down froze, his hand halting inches from Arya's face. His grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. The others exchanged uneasy glances, their bravado faltering as an invisible tension filled the room.

"I... I think we should go," one of them muttered, his voice unsteady.

"Coward," another hissed, but even he hesitated, his confidence wavering.

Without another word, they backed away, their steps hurried and awkward as they left the cell. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Arya alone once more.

I exhaled sharply, my chest heaving as if I'd been holding my breath the entire time. Arya sat perfectly still, her expression unreadable as she stared at the door. I could feel the weight of her defiance, the strength that had driven those men away without her lifting a finger.

Saphira's voice was soft in my mind, her tone filled with pride. She is remarkable.

"She is," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "And I will not let her suffer this any longer."

That night, as the scrying spell faded and the water stilled, I vowed to act. I didn't know how or when, but I knew one thing with absolute certainty: Arya would not remain in that cell. Not if I could help it.

~x~

The sun had dipped low on the horizon, casting the forest in hues of orange and gold. Shadows stretched long across the road as I trudged along, my muscles sore from the day's training. The ache in my body was familiar, though—a sign of progress—and the quiet hum of The Gift of Dragons within me felt like a constant reassurance. Every step I took seemed purposeful, propelling me forward as the evening deepened, but I couldn't shake the gnawing feeling in my chest. The road ahead was uncertain, and the darkness in my thoughts weighed heavily on me.

Then I saw them.

Seven soldiers marched down the road, their crimson tabards bearing the twisting flame of Galbatorix. The sigil was unmistakable, the emblem of the Empire's unyielding grip on Alagaësia. My breath caught, and I froze in place, my fingers curling into fists. A maelstrom of emotions surged through me: grief, rage, and a fierce, unrelenting hatred for everything they represented.

But it was the flash of a memory that hit hardest.

The vision of soldiers entering Arya's cell struck me like a physical blow. I saw them again, lecherous grins on their faces, circling her like vultures. Arya's silent defiance, the way she had never once flinched or given them an ounce of satisfaction—no, they would never break her. But they still tried. The humiliation, the way they thought they could have their way with her because she was a prisoner. It made my blood run cold, and the rage that flooded my mind felt like a wildfire, scorching everything in its path.

Eragon, Saphira's voice pressed gently against my thoughts, steady and calming. Breathe. You must not let anger cloud your judgment.

I inhaled sharply, forcing my trembling hands to still. I had to focus. The memory of Arya's suffering was sharp, but I couldn't let the anger cloud my decisions. Saphira was right. I couldn't afford to act recklessly—not now, not when these soldiers represented everything I had vowed to fight against.

The soldiers were here. They were on my land, in my world, unchallenged. Their presence a mark of Galbatorix's unchecked grip on the Empire. If they continued unchecked, they would bring more suffering, more devastation. But the real reason I froze—why I couldn't take my eyes off of them—was Arya. They were so close, and I couldn't ignore this chance. The thought of her, imprisoned, tortured by these men, urged me forward with a raw intensity.

I gripped my bow tighter, trying to steady myself. The soldiers were too close, and I couldn't afford to let them slip by. I had to take action—but not blindly, not rashly.

Stay hidden in the trees, I commanded, my voice firm, but the words felt hollow even as they left my mouth. I'll take care of this.

There was a long silence before Saphira's voice broke through, laced with frustration. You are not ready to face them alone. Her words were thick with concern, but beneath that, there was a hint of something deeper—a restlessness, a frustration that echoed my own.

I know it's dangerous, she continued, her tone sharp, but you think I am powerless? That I cannot fight beside you, just because I am small?

I winced, guilt surging through me at the thought of leaving her behind. Her frustration was palpable, a heavy presence in my mind. I could feel her desire to fight, to protect me, but her size—still too small to safely enter battle—was a bitter pill to swallow for both of us.

I won't fail, I insisted, trying to steady my breath, my heart hammering in my chest. Please, Saphira. Trust me.

Trust you? she shot back, the words sharp with emotion. I trust you with my life, Eragon. But I can't just stand aside while you face danger alone. I will not be sidelined, not when I can help.

Her voice softened, but the frustration lingered. You don't understand. I'm here, waiting for you to need me, and yet you ask me to hide? I am your dragon, just as you are my rider Eragon, and I will not sit idly by while the Empire's soldiers march unchallenged.

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to find the right words, but there was no easy answer. The raw frustration she felt mirrored my own. But I knew she wasn't ready, that even with all her strength, she couldn't take on these soldiers yet.

I'm sorry. I felt the weight of her pain and frustration as though it were my own. I don't want to leave you behind, but I need you to trust me. If I fail. . . if something happens to me, you have to be the one to rescue Arya. You're my. . . her only hope.

There was another long pause, the silence thick with her inner turmoil. Finally, she sighed, a soft sound of reluctant acceptance that I felt like a weight lifting from my chest.

You are my heart, Eragon, she said quietly, the frustration still there, but tinged with something softer. And I will wait. But know this—I will not always be small. You will not always have to fight alone.

After a final moment of hesitation, she relented, fading back into the shadows of the forest. But I could still feel the unease swirling within her, that quiet, restless energy that could never truly be quelled. She wasn't going to stand by forever.

I swallowed the knot in my throat, forcing myself to focus. The soldiers weren't the only threat, not by a long shot. But they were a symbol of everything I was fighting against, and they were so close now. They had to be dealt with—swiftly and decisively. I had no time to waste.

I moved off the road, stepping quietly into the underbrush. The dense trees and thick foliage provided me with cover, but my pulse quickened as the soldiers came into view. Their boots crunched against the dirt as they marched with practiced rhythm, their laughter echoing faintly through the trees.

I followed them, moving in silence like a shadow, each step measured and deliberate. The memories of Arya—her strength, her defiance—pushed me forward, urging me to do whatever was necessary to stop them. Her image haunted me, but I couldn't let it cloud my actions. They would not go unchallenged.

When the soldiers halted in a small clearing to set up camp, I crouched behind a large oak. The men were laughing, settling into their usual routine. Two of them stood guard at the edges of the camp, their hands resting lazily on the pommels of their swords. They were too lax, too comfortable. I could see them, but they didn't see me.

The temptation to rush in, to take them all down at once, was overwhelming. But I couldn't afford to be reckless. I had to be smart. I had to make this count.

I studied the soldiers carefully—where they stood, where their weapons were placed, how many were awake and how many were drifting into a drowsy stupor. I took a deep breath, focused on the task at hand, and reached out with my mind.

The sentries were distracted, their thoughts sluggish with boredom, while the others relaxed around the fire, drifting toward sleep. Their minds were unguarded, ripe for the taking. I whispered the words in the Ancient Language, sending a pulse of magic to weave through the air, pulling their focus deeper into a state of unconsciousness.

But the sentries were more alert. I could feel the tension in their awareness. They wouldn't succumb easily. I had to act quickly.

Drawing my bow, I nocked an arrow with practiced precision and pulled the string back. The first sentry stood with his back to me, unaware. I released the arrow, and it flew true, striking him in the throat. He crumpled with a crash.

At the noise, the second sentry whipped around, his hand flying to his sword. He saw the faint movement, the rustle of the underbrush. But I was faster. My second arrow pierced his chest, and he stumbled back, crashing to the ground in a heap.

The rest of the camp remained oblivious. I moved silently among them, my knife in hand. The magic had done its work, lulling the soldiers into deep sleep, their minds unguarded. One by one, I dispatched them, the blade flashing in the firelight. Their deaths were quick, quiet—none of them had time to even realize what was happening.

When I reached the final soldier, he opened his eyes just as the blade touched his skin. Fear flickered in his gaze, and for a moment, I hesitated. His confusion reminded me of how young he was—barely older than I had been when I first found Saphira's egg.

I wanted to stop. I wanted to show mercy. But the memory of Arya—of her enduring those same soldiers, of her silent resistance in the face of unimaginable torment—overpowered me. He had chosen his path. He had chosen to serve the Empire, and that choice had led him here.

I pressed my hand over his mouth, cutting off any chance for protest, and finished the job.

When it was done, I stood among the bodies, my chest heaving. The clearing was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire. Blood stained my hands, my clothes, but there was no time for hesitation. I had to keep moving.

It is done, Saphira's voice broke through my thoughts, steady and calm. You acted decisively.

I had to. These may not be the men I saw enter her cell last night, but they serve the same master. I couldn't let them go.

I gathered what I needed quickly—supplies for the journey ahead. A longbow, a quiver of arrows, an arming sword. Armor, gold. Anything that could help me continue my quest. As I hefted the armor, I felt its weight press down on me more heavily than I expected. It wasn't that I hadn't worn armor before—I'd done it countless times in the past. But now, without the strength I once had, the weight felt oppressive, as if the very metal itself was a reminder of how much I'd lost. I gritted my teeth and adjusted the straps, forcing myself to bear the load. It would protect me—yes, that was the important thing. But the burden was something I would have to get used to again.

Before I left, I whispered a final spell: "Brisingr." The fire roared to life, consuming the tents and the bodies in a fiery blaze. I stood still for a moment, watching the flames consume everything, feeling the heat warm my face. Then, without another word, I slipped into the darkness of the forest.

Saphira emerged from the shadows, her sapphire eyes gleaming with concern. Are you alright? she asked softly, her voice laced with worry.

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded, my chest rising and falling with each breath. I'm fine, I said, my voice steady but distant. It's done.

Her gaze lingered on me, her worry and pride mingling. She didn't press further. Together, we moved into the night, the burning camp fading into the distance behind us. The weight of my actions, though, didn't settle as it once might have. There was no crushing guilt or sorrow—just a quiet, unsettling satisfaction that I had acted decisively.

It was only as I moved through the forest, the sound of my steps muffled by the undergrowth, that I began to notice it. The absence of guilt. I had killed those soldiers without hesitation, without second thoughts. They were soldiers of the Empire, men who had chosen to serve a tyrant, and I had ended their lives without remorse. But why did I feel no different than if I had simply done what was necessary?

I couldn't quite place it. The satisfaction of having dealt with the immediate threat was undeniable, but there should have been more. Something deeper—something to remind me of the humanity I was fighting to protect. But there was nothing.

Saphira's presence brushed against my mind, a grounding force, though she said nothing. She didn't need to. I knew she could sense my unease, the shift in my thoughts, but I had no answers for her or myself.

"It was necessary," I whispered, mostly to myself. But as the words left my mouth, they didn't sound like a justification—they sounded like something I was trying to convince myself of.

I shook my head, pushing the thought aside. The road ahead was long, and there would be more battles to fight. Arya's image, still vivid in my mind, stayed with me, a reminder that every step I took, every decision I made, was in her name—and for her freedom.

That was enough. That would have to be enough.