CHAPTER

Battle of the Burning Plains part 2

Eragon's POV

The amethyst-colored dragon descended gracefully, her wings slicing through the air with a quiet authority that commanded attention. As she landed beside Saphira, the ground trembled under her immense weight. Her scales shimmered like polished gemstones, reflecting the sunlight in hues of deep violet and lavender. She was majestic—twice Saphira's size and far more muscular, her presence both awe-inspiring and intimidating.

Saphira's voice resonated in my mind, tinged with an emotion I hadn't heard before—relief, perhaps, or hope. "Another dragon and rider, little one. We are not alone anymore. There are more of us." Her words carried a weight that brought a lump to my throat. For so long, Saphira had been the only female dragon in Alagaësia, a solitary symbol of a dying race. Now, before her stood a sister, a kindred spirit, whose beauty and power were undeniable.

The amethyst dragon turned her glowing violet eyes toward Saphira, who watched her intently, her tail twitching with anticipation. Saphira spoke again, her tone puzzled. "She has blocked her mind from me. Her rider, too, they must be preparing to fight Murtagh." There was a hint of frustration in her voice, as though she longed to connect and speak to the other dragon.

I studied the rider as he dismounted, his movements smooth and deliberate. His armor was unlike anything I had ever seen—sleek and form-fitting, yet reminiscent of traditional plate armor. Brightsteel Chains of metal flowed seamlessly into each other, defying the laws of craftsmanship. His helmet, a plumed skull, radiated an eerie crimson glow from the eye sockets, and when he finally spoke, his distorted voice chilled me to the bone.

"Hello, brothers," he said, the eldritch quality of his voice echoing unnaturally.

The word brothers sent a jolt through me. Did he know us? My mind raced, the possibilities swirling like a storm. Could this be Mark? The enormous object hovering in the sky above seemed to support the idea, yet the presence of the dragon complicated things. She was undoubtedly older than Saphira, far too developed to be a hatchling. If this was Mark, how could he have bonded with a dragon this large?

Saphira's confusion mirrored my own. "I do not understand it, little one," she said softly. "But as long as they fight for the Varden, and not against us, I do not mind."

I nodded silently, agreeing with her. Whatever mysteries surrounded this rider, we needed allies in the fight against Murtagh and his dragon.

Murtagh's rage erupted suddenly, his voice raw with accusation. "Why? Why did you not come sooner, Rider? Had you revealed yourself, Thorn and I could have been free! But no, you waited, you hesitated—and because of you, we are slaves!" His anger was a volatile mix of pain and betrayal. "We will never forgive you for that. You will suffer as we have suffered, and I will ensure it."

Without waiting for a response, Murtagh lunged, his blade slicing toward the mysterious rider. But the man moved with uncanny grace, effortlessly dodging every attack. Each strike that had overwhelmed me earlier now seemed clumsy and slow against his fluid movements. I watched in awe, unable to take my eyes off the duel.

Saphira murmured in my mind, her tone almost reverent. "Look at how effortless he moves. He is toying with Murtagh."

I nodded in agreement, replying through our link. "If this is him holding back, just how strong is he? Could he challenge Galbatorix?"

Saphira hesitated, her voice thoughtful. "If he could, the mad king would never have risen to power in the first place."

Her words sobered me. For all the rider's skill and power, Galbatorix remained an insurmountable force.

Murtagh finally halted his assault, his chest heaving as he screamed, "Fight back, you coward! That's why you went and hid all these years, because you are a craven coward who let his order die out at the hands of the king."

The rider straightened, his posture stiffening as though the words had struck a nerve. Slowly, he extended his left arm, palm facing downward, and murmured a phrase in the ancient language. The ground beneath him rippled like water, and from the center of the distortion, a weapon emerged—a sword encased in a purple, iridescent sheath.

It was a rider's sword, unmistakably so. Its craftsmanship was exquisite, the sheath embossed with intricate patterns that glinted in the light. I squinted, deciphering the glyphs etched along its length. Öndslitr. Soul Reaper. The name alone sent shivers through me; its ominous weight heavy in the air.

The rider grasped the hilt, pulling the blade free with a soft whisper of steel. The sword itself was stunning—its thin blade gleaming with a violet hue, its edges wickedly sharp. A purple gem sat embedded in the pommel, perfectly balanced and glowing faintly with latent power.

For a moment, the rider's haunting crimson gaze met mine, then flicked to Saphira, who remained tense but watchful. He turned back to Murtagh, leveling the blade at him. His voice, distorted and menacing, carried a chilling finality.

"Remember, brother," he said, his tone laced with dark promise. "You asked for this fight."

Murtagh's lips curled into a smug smirk as he lifted Zar'roc, the crimson blade glinting malevolently under the harsh sunlight. With the weapon pointed at the mysterious rider, he declared, his voice laced with defiance, "I don't need to fight you with my blade. Subduing you mentally will suffice."

A heavy tension settled over the plateau as Murtagh's brow furrowed in concentration. It was clear he had initiated a mental duel, his expression twisting with the effort of his psychic assault. Across from him, the rider stood calm and composed, as though the clash of wills were little more than a passing annoyance. His posture was relaxed, his body language confident, and he casually twirled his violet blade—Öndslitr—through the air with practiced ease. The contrast was striking: Murtagh, straining against an invisible force, and the rider, barely acknowledging the attack.

The rider turned his head slightly, addressing his dragon, whose shimmering amethyst scales glistened like a constellation of stars. "Thank you, sister," he said, his distorted voice reverberating with a peculiar warmth.

I blinked in astonishment, my gaze shifting to the massive purple dragon. Was it her doing? Had she single handedly held against Murtagh's mental assault? My thoughts churned with self-doubt. Was this rider and his dragon truly that powerful? was my own strength so pitiful in comparison? My chest tightened at the thought, but Saphira's voice reached me, steady and reassuring.

"You are not weak, little one," she said, her mental tone firm yet gentle. "Remember Oromis' words. He called you a prodigy. Even Mark recognized your gift. Do not let doubt cloud your heart. We face off against enemies that are centuries ahead of us in experience and power, yet we have achieved so much in so short a time, do not think yourself weak."

Her encouragement was a lifeline, and I sent my gratitude through our link, her presence bolstering my resolve. Refocused, I watched the unfolding duel with keen eyes.

Murtagh let out a guttural scream of frustration, his mental attack breaking as though hitting an immovable wall. The rider finally spoke, his tone laced with sardonic amusement. "Got that out of your system? Good. Can we move on to the sword fight? I'd like to quickly beat you, I've got things to do, after all."

The casual dismissal infuriated Murtagh. With a roar of rage, he surged forward, Zar'roc slicing through the air as he charged. Their blades clashed in a thunderous meeting of steel, but it was immediately evident that Murtagh was outmatched.

The new rider's movements were fluid, almost lazy, yet every step, parry, and strike were executed with surgical precision. Murtagh swung again and again, but the rider danced around the attacks as if he could predict them before they came. A graceful spin allowed him to sidestep one particularly vicious strike, and he retaliated with a clean cut to Murtagh's arm. The gash wasn't deep, but it drew blood and a sharp gasp of pain from Murtagh.

"Fight harder," the rider said mockingly, his voice dripping with disdain. He deflected another blow with a hanging parry and retaliated with a slash that tore through Murtagh's chest armor. The metal split like parchment, exposing the fabric beneath.

I studied the rider closely as the duel unfolded. His physique was undeniably human—broad shoulders, powerful arms, and a towering frame that slightly surpassed even Mark's impressive height. He lacked the lithe, almost ethereal grace of an elf, but his raw power and control were no less mesmerizing. Every movement seemed choreographed, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next as though he were performing a deadly dance.

Murtagh's strikes grew desperate, his once confident demeanor crumbling into panic. The rider, meanwhile, upped the ante, switching to wield Öndslitr with a single hand. The audacity of the move was staggering, and yet he continued to dominate the fight, deflecting Murtagh's blows with effortless precision. With his free hand, he gestured theatrically, taunting his opponent as though this battle were a game.

Saphira's voice reached me again, filled with awe. "The way he fights, the way he flows between his moves, it's as if he's rehearsed this a thousand times."

I couldn't help but agree. His swordsmanship was dazzling—a blend of form and function that was equal parts artistry and lethality. Flashy spins, precise cuts, and near-effortless parries overwhelmed Murtagh. Each move seemed designed to humiliate, a stark reminder of the gulf in their abilities.

Finally, the rider disarmed Murtagh in a single, decisive motion. Zar'roc flew from Murtagh's grasp, skittering across the ground with a metallic clang. Before Murtagh could react, the rider's blade was at his throat, its edge glinting with an ominous purple sheen.

The rider tilted his head slightly, his death-mask helmet making the gesture all the more chilling. In a tone devoid of strain but full of finality, he said, "Huh, guess I win. Shocker!"

Murtagh's dragon roared in defiance, his deep, guttural cry vibrating through the air, a sound of raw protest and unyielding determination. The purple dragon, however, answered with a roar of her own, deeper, louder, and far more commanding. The very ground beneath us trembled under the force of her voice, small stones shifting and dust rising as the sheer power of her cry silenced Thorn. Though subdued, Thorn remained defiant, his crimson eyes locked on the massive purple dragon, his body rigid with tension.

The rider chuckled, the sound low and almost dismissive, before addressing the dragon directly. "Rest easy, Thorn. I don't intend to kill your rider, little brother."

His words were calm but laced with an unsettling familiarity. I froze, confusion swirling in my mind. How did this stranger know the dragon's name? Even the dragon, Thorn seemed taken aback, his head tilting slightly in what could only be described as surprise. Murtagh's expression shifted, a flicker of doubt crossing his hardened features, but he said nothing.

The rider continued, his tone steady and authoritative. "I have won our little duel, yet I have no desires to hold you prisoner, I doubt I could for an extended period of time anyways. You are free to leave. However, I will be taking the Eldunarí you carry with you, the fact that Galbatorix thinks to use them as a power source, against their own will, is one of the main reasons I will kill him, and nothing will change that."

Eldunarí? The word caught me off guard. My mind raced as I turned to Saphira, her azure eyes reflecting my confusion. "What is he talking about?" I asked through our mental link.

"I do not know," she admitted, her mental voice tinged with unease. "But whatever it is, it is important to him."

I resolved to ask the rider about it later, if he was willing to speak. For now, I watched intently as he took action.

The rider spoke a string of words in the ancient language, the syllables resonating with an undeniable power. Immediately, Thorn froze mid-movement, his powerful limbs straining against some invisible force. He thrashed violently, his wings beating against the air in a futile effort to break free, but it was no use. The spell held him firmly in place.

Unperturbed, the rider strode toward Thorn, and then levitated towards Murtagh's saddle. His movements were deliberate and precise as he unlatched several of the saddlebags strapped to Thorn's side. Then, with a small flick of his wrist and another murmured phrase, the bags vanished into thin air. I stared in disbelief, trying to process what I was witnessing. Who was this man? His mastery of the ancient language was extraordinary, far beyond anything I had ever encountered. I had learned from Oromis, one of the greatest teachers in Alagaësia, yet even my skills felt paltry compared to his.

After landing, the rider turned and walked toward Murtagh, picking up Zar'roc from where it had fallen. He approached slowly, his presence commanding as he extended the crimson blade to its rightful owner. "Here, a rider should have his own sword, and what better sword for you, than your father's." he said, his voice softer now, almost regretful. "For the record, I'm sorry I wasn't there to rescue you."

Murtagh's eyes narrowed, confusion and anger battling for dominance on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but the rider raised a hand, continuing. "You know I would have moved heaven and earth to free you from the fate you've endured. But if I had, you would never have met Thorn. And now that you have..." His voice hardened, an edge of determination creeping in. "...I will stop at nothing to free you both."

Murtagh's lips parted, his voice trembling as he asked, "Why? Why promise me this? You don't know me. You owe me nothing."

The rider chuckled; the sound devoid of mockery. His helmeted head tilted slightly as if he were reflecting on the weight of Murtagh's words. Finally, he replied, "Because, brother, you, Eragon, and I are family. And family helps one another, no matter the cost." As he spoke, his gaze shifted toward me, his crimson eyes locking with mine through the shadowed visor. The intensity of his words sent a shiver down my spine.

Murtagh looked utterly bewildered, his brows furrowed in suspicion and disbelief. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice hoarse, almost desperate for answers.

The rider seemed to hesitate, his posture stiffening as though weighing a decision of great importance. He turned his head toward his dragon, the great amethyst beast watching him intently with her piercing green eyes. A plume of smoke curled from her nostrils; her gaze unwavering. A silent exchange passed between them, and after a long moment, the rider nodded, his decision made.

Slowly, he reached up to the sides of his helmet, the metallic edges catching the light as he lifted it from his head.

My breath caught in my throat as the helmet fell away, revealing a face I thought I'd last seen in Tronjheim. His familiar features were unmistakable, though marked with an air of wisdom and hardship.

"Mark," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

Murtagh stood frozen, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. He blinked several times, as though struggling to comprehend the scene before him. Finally, he managed to croak out, "You? But how? How are you a Rider now? Galbatorix has the last remaining egg."

Mark's response was a soft chuckle, almost as if the situation amused him. "Divine intervention, brother," he said, his voice light but carrying an undertone of something deeper, something more serious. "Now, it's time for you to return home, and I apologize in advance for what Galbatorix is about to put you through for failing him."

Murtagh's eyes darkened, and he turned without another word, walking toward Thorn. He climbed onto the dragon's back with practiced ease, his movements stiff, weighed down by the burden of the conversation. Mark, however, remained unmoved, a faint smile curling at the edges of his lips. He addressed Thorn directly, speaking with unexpected warmth. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Thorn," he said, his voice calm but sincere. "You are an impressive young dragon indeed. I hope that we can be friends in the future."

Thorn snorted through his nostrils, sending a puff of smoke into the air. His red eyes were sharp, yet there was no aggression in his stance. For all his size and power, he seemed to accept the rider's words, acknowledging them without hostility.

Murtagh, having settled on Thorn, looked back toward Mark. His voice was strained, the weight of his thoughts apparent in his next words. "Why not just give up, Mark? You have to admit, that Galbatorix had a point, the riders of old were fat and lazy, and under them, many atrocities were committed, join me, as we aim to make the world a better place. If you do not, then know that Galbatorix will use my memories of you and our fight to make me strong enough to capture you, Eragon, Saphira, and your dragon the next time we clash" His eyes were filled with a mixture of anger and resignation, as though he knew the consequences of his past choices but could do nothing to change them.

Mark's smile only widened, his expression softening with a hint of something akin to sadness or understanding. "Sure, the riders of old had their fault, I don't refute that, but to commit a genocide of an entire race, because you do not agree with their beliefs and their actions, no matter how wrong they were, I cannot stand behind that, brother," he replied, his voice low but steady. "And as for you coming back with more power to fight me. I look forward to it, brother. Until then, stay strong."

Murtagh nodded stiffly, his shoulders tight with the weight of what he had to do. Without another word, he kicked Thorn into the air, the dragon's powerful wings beating against the wind as they ascended into the sky. As they flew off, Murtagh gave me a curt nod, his eyes avoiding mine.

I turned to Saphira, a question burning in my mind. "Why is he letting him go? He should have captured him," I said aloud, my voice laced with frustration. There was a lingering sense of unease, the weight of Mark's decision not fully settling in me.

Saphira's voice echoed in my mind, calm and logical. "He knows we do not have the means to keep a dragon and his rider in confinement, especially one that serves the Mad King." Her words made sense, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. It bothered me deeply.

As Murtagh and Thorn disappeared into the distance, Mark walked toward me, his footsteps measured and steady. He didn't speak right away, but I could feel his gaze on me as he came closer. Finally, he broke the silence. "Hello, Eragon," he said, his voice softer now, almost apologetic. "I know you are probably angry at me for what I did. I'm sorry I left without seeing you after the battle, but there were urgent matters I had to attend to."

A part of me still burned with anger at how Mark had just disappeared without a word, but another part was relieved, even glad, to see him standing before me again. There was so much I wanted to ask, so many questions that had been swirling in my mind since we last saw each other. I couldn't help myself.

"What were these urgent matters you had to attend to? How are you a Rider? How is she so big? Are Nadara and Kargvek still with you? What in the blazes is that thing in the sky?" The words spilled out in a rush, too many thoughts crowding together.

Mark chuckled; his laugh warm but tinged with a weariness I hadn't expected. "Nadara and Kargvek are still with me," he replied, his voice steady. "They were assisting the Varden during the battle. As for being a Rider and my new dragon… well, that's a story for later." His smile faltered just slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. "Right now, though, I'd like to introduce you to my bond mate and sister, the dragon, Olympia."

"Olympia," I repeated the name, my mind racing. I turned to look at her—this new dragon, who stood majestically beside Mark. Her scales shimmered in the light, a deep, vibrant purple that reminded me of a stormy sky at twilight. There was something ethereal about her, something ancient and beautiful. I couldn't tear my gaze away from her as Mark continued.

"You named her after your best friend from your old world?" I asked, my voice incredulous.

Mark's chuckle rang out again, light and easy. "No, Eragon," he said, shaking his head slightly, his smile widening. "She is my best friend from my old world. She died in our old world and was reborn as a dragon. Her egg was a gift from the gods to aid in the fight against Galbatorix and future threats. Like me, she retained all her memories from that world."

I stood there, stunned into silence. My mind reeled, trying to process the enormity of what Mark had just said. A dragon reborn from another world, with memories intact? Who just so happened to know Mark. It was almost too much to believe.

I turned to Saphira, my thoughts swirling. "Do you believe any of this, Saphira?" I asked, uncertainty creeping into my mental voice.

Saphira's mental response was calm, though there was a hint of curiosity in her tone. "I do not know what to believe, but there is one way to find out." She turned her head toward Olympia, her eyes narrowing as she reached out mentally to the purple dragon. Their conversation was guarded, private, and I could feel a flicker of their exchange brushing against my mind, though the details were hidden.

After a moment, Saphira spoke again, her mental voice warm with a touch of amusement. "He speaks the truth. I have spoken to Olympia. And…" she paused, as if considering something with fondness. "I like her." There was a light chuckle in her tone as she continued. "I thought she wouldn't behave like a dragon, given how she came to be, but she has proven me wrong. She is a fiery one, as she should be."

Before I could respond, I felt a mental nudge. I opened my mind, allowing Olympia in, and her presence washed over me like a warm breeze. Her mind didn't feel like Saphira's or Glaedr's—there was a draconic essence to it, but with more human elements woven through. Her voice echoed in my mind, gentle and full of warmth.

"Hello, Eragon. How are you?" she greeted me, her words infused with an energy that made me smile. "I'm really glad to finally meet and speak to you. Like the new look by the way, Mark's previous memories of you were when you were still human, new look suits you better."

I thanked her, then returned her greeting, going through the traditional elven greetings Oromis had taught me. As I did, I made sure to offer a compliment, as I knew dragons appreciated that. Olympia's mental laughter rang in my mind, light and playful.

"My my, look at you, you silver tongued charmer, bet the women in your life must be lining up to talk to you." she said, her voice filled with affection. I chuckled in return, as I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. I found myself liking her, she was easy to talk to, like talking to a person. It was unusual for a dragon to be so open, especially given how little I knew of them beyond Saphira and Glaedr. But Olympia… she was different.

After the introductions were over, Mark clapped his hands together, breaking the moment. "Well, this is all very touching, and I'm glad that we are all friends, but we need to move. Let's go meet up with Brom and Arya," he said, his tone turning serious. "There's a lot we need to talk about."

Mark's POV

Eragon and Saphira still had countless questions, but I assured them, "After the battle has settled, Olympia and I will answer everything." For now, there were more pressing matters. The Varden had won the day, although not without significant losses—and not entirely due to our intervention.

We walked toward Arya and Brom, who stood with Ajihad, Nasuada, Nar Garzhvog, King Hrothgar, and King Orrin. As we approached, the group's attention shifted to Olympia, who was engaged in a lively, mental conversation with Saphira. Her massive violet frame shimmered under the sunlight, her scales glinting like polished amethyst. Her tail swayed gently, but her powerful presence commanded every eye. The air around her practically buzzed with energy.

King Orrin was the first to speak, his voice loud and theatrical as he gestured toward me. "So, you're the Mark the Varden can't seem to stop singing praises about," he said, his tone dripping with thinly veiled sarcasm. "Finally decided to grace us with your aid, eh? And with a dragon, no less. Hornbreaker, could you not have come here earlier, eh? We lost good men and women in that battle."

I locked eyes with him, letting my expression harden into a glare that conveyed exactly what I thought of his attitude. His self-assured smirk faltered, and a flicker of fear passed across his face. My voice was sharp, my tone deliberately cold as I replied, "I did, which is why you are still standing in front of me, drunk enough to be able to question me like that. A thank you for saving your bacon wouldn't hurt, Orrin." I purposefully omitted his title, making it clear that I had no intention of humoring his childish attitude.

The insult landed. Orrin's hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt, his face reddening with indignation. Before he could draw, Olympia turned her gaze on him, her green eye glowing with an ominous light. She let out a low growl that rumbled through the ground like distant thunder. The king froze, his bravado evaporating as he stepped back, visibly shaken.

I felt Olympia's amusement in my mind. "Yeah, I don't like him either," she said, her mental voice dry with disdain. "He's just as childish and full of himself as he was in the books. I mean I get he just went through a battle he thought he was going to lose, and is now drinking to deal with the trauma, but still."

I couldn't help but agree, responding mentally, "He's not winning any points here, that's for sure."

Meanwhile, Nasuada rushed past the others and threw her arms around Eragon in a warm embrace. Relief and joy radiated from her as she greeted him. Then, to my surprise, she turned to me, her eyes bright with gratitude, and pulled me into a hug as well. "Hey, Nasuada," I said softly, returning the gesture.

When she pulled away, her gaze shifted to Olympia, awe written across her face. She bowed deeply, mirroring the respectful greeting Eragon had given Saphira when they first met. Olympia's mental chuckle resonated through all of our minds, her amusement light but sincere. "Oh, such manners!" she said warmly, her voice carrying a regal air. "It's wonderful to finally meet you, Nasuada—and all of you." She turned her gaze to the rest of the group, her sharp eyes glinting with intelligence. "Mark has told me a great deal about you."

The group stood in stunned silence for a moment, processing the fact that Olympia could communicate so openly. One by one, they offered their greetings—except for Orrin. He scowled, his earlier embarrassment fueling his irritation as he demanded, "Where have you been hiding a dragon? And why didn't you show up earlier? The Varden needed your help long before now!"

King Hrothgar cut in, his voice a low rumble. "Where did you go after the battle of Tronjheim, and how did you end up bonded to a dragon?" His tone was more curious than accusatory, though his piercing gaze demanded answers.

I met their questions head-on, my voice calm but firm. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that," I explained simply. "Where I found her is knowledge only the riders will be privy to."

Orrin wasn't satisfied. "That is not good enough, as a king, I demand a full explanation," he snapped, his voice rising. He took a step forward, but before he could say more, Olympia's growl cut through the air, louder this time. Her thoughts filled the space, clear and biting. "Oh, can it, man," she said, her tone dripping with irritation. "Until you learn how to speak civilly—and not like a drunk child throwing a tantrum—take your authority and shove it where the sun doesn't shine."

The effect was immediate. Nasuada gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. King Hrothgar raised a bushy eyebrow, his face betraying a flicker of amusement. Arya's lips curved into a rare smile, while Brom let out a low, approving chuckle. Orrin, meanwhile, sputtered incoherently, his face an alarming shade of red as he muttered something about being a king and deserving respect.

Arya stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension. "Eragon, could you explain what happened on the battlefield? Last we saw, you had lost that fight." she said, her tone steady but laced with curiosity, and a bit of worry. "We saw the other Rider flee. We assume you two managed to beat him."

Eragon was quick to answer, his voice firm but tinged with exhaustion. He recounted how he had faced the other Rider—Murtagh—who had been enhanced by Galbatorix. Arya nodded toward the unconscious twins nearby, adding, "Yes, we noticed, probably some dark magic on Galbatorix's part. They, too, were enhanced beyond normal means."

Eragon continued, his voice growing heavier as he described being overpowered. "Murtagh was about to take us to Urû'baen," he said grimly, "when Mark showed up. He defeated Murtagh with ease, as if Murtagh were a child playing at war."

Olympia's voice broke into my thoughts, her tone filled with admiration. "He's not exaggerating, little brother," she said. "That was an impressive display. Galbatorix is going to take you very seriously from now on—more so than Eragon and Saphira, my guess is he's either going to try kill us, as we are too much of a threat now, or, he will try to capture and break us, to find out where you found my egg."

I nodded mentally in acknowledgment, a faint smile playing on my lips. "That works to our advantage, we need to find the word of power soon, and make a plan to draw him out, so that we can fight him and kill him," I replied, my thoughts steady but resolute.

The group fell silent, their gazes shifting between Olympia and me. The weight of what had been said—and what was yet to come—hung heavily in the air.

The weight of Eragon's words hung heavy in the air as he concluded his tale. A somber silence blanketed the group gathered before us—Ajihad, Nasuada, Nar Garzhvog, King Hrothgar, and King Orrin—all digesting the magnitude of the events that had transpired. Finally, Ajihad broke the silence, his voice steady but grave.

"This bodes ill for us," he said, his dark eyes sweeping across those gathered. "It is fortunate that you arrived when you did, Mark and Olympia. Without your intervention, we would have been overrun."

I nodded, feeling the eyes of everyone upon me. "We came as soon as we heard," I replied, my tone calm but firm, betraying none of the urgency that had driven us here.

Nar Garzhvog, the massive Kull warlord, stepped forward for the first time. His deep voice rumbled like distant thunder as he said, "Hornbreaker, well met. I am Na—"

I raised my hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I know who you are, Nar Garzhvog. You are a warlord, chief of your own tribe of Kull and Urgals."

The towering figure regarded me silently, his expression inscrutable. His sharp, bestial features betrayed no emotion, but I could tell he was processing my words. Olympia's amused voice echoed in my mind. "Might as well tell him about Nadara. He'll find out soon enough."

I heeded her advice. "You seem confused," I said aloud, meeting Nar Garzhvog's gaze. "I did not read your mind, if that's what you're wondering. I know who you are because of Nadara. She told me."

The name struck him like a hammer blow. Nar Garzhvog's entire demeanor shifted as he straightened, his piercing eyes narrowing. The air grew tense, thick with the unspoken weight of his next words. "How do you know of her, Hornbreaker?" he demanded, his thick Urgal accent rough and unyielding. "If you or any of the humans have harmed my niece, I swear to my gods and yours—I will not rest until you are dead."

A chill settled over the group as his words sunk in. Everyone tensed, hands straying toward weapons. Orrin, ever the fool, chose this moment to worsen matters.

"Have a care who you threaten, Urgal," he sneered, stepping forward. "We outnumber you, beast."

Ajihad's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "King Orrin, that is enough out of you."

The insulted king turned on Ajihad, his tone sharp with indignation. "Why do you speak down to me, Ajihad? Are we not equals? Why do you treat me like one of your subjects when I merely exercise my right as king?"

I rolled my eyes, tired of the bickering. Before they could escalate into a full-blown argument, I raised my voice. "Enough!"

The command rang out, silencing them all. I turned my attention back to Nar Garzhvog, holding his gaze steadily. "Your niece is safe," I assured him. "I give you, my word. She and Kargvek are close friends of mine and integral members of my team. In fact, they fought valiantly in the battle. You will see them soon. After we've attended to some rider business, they will meet you and the other leaders in Ajihad's tent later."

Nar Garzhvog studied me for a moment longer before giving a slow, deliberate nod. Satisfied, I addressed the group. "For now, I need to speak with Eragon, Saphira, Brom, and Arya in the throne room of my ship. We will reconvene later."

The group began to disperse, leaving me to gather my companions. Using a spell in the ancient language, I levitated the unconscious twins beside me, their bodies in a magical stasis to prevent them from lashing out. Murtagh's saddlebags, containing dangerous artifacts, were safely hidden in a pocket dimension.

As we moved toward the ship, Valinor's deep, resonant voice filled my mind. "Hatchlings, well done on your victory. I have landed the ship on flat ground, away from the battle. Also, the Eldunarí studying the metal you recovered along the brightsteel ore, and have made some fascinating discoveries. They request that you come see them as soon as possible."

I thanked her mentally and reached out to Nadara and Kargvek, who were helping heal the injured and being hailed as heroes by their respective groups. Both agreed to meet us at the ship.

As we approached the massive vessel, Angela and Solembum appeared, the herbalist's sharp eyes sparkling with mischief. "About time you returned," she said dryly. "Things were growing dreadfully dull without you and Eragon. And who's this radiant creature?" Her gaze fell on Olympia, her curiosity palpable. "A new dragon? Where did you find such a beauty?"

I chuckled. "Divine intervention. Her name is Olympia."

Angela raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching in amusement. "Honoring a friend from your old world, are we?"

I shook my head, my smile widening. "No, Angela. She is the Olympia, from my old world."

For the first time, Angela's playful demeanor faltered, replaced by genuine surprise. She approached Olympia, who tilted her massive head in curiosity, her violet eyes gleaming with amusement. "Well met," Angela said, a sly smile returning. "Now, care to share any embarrassing stories about Mark from your old world? I'm sure he has a few, and the people need to know a few, to help keep him relatable to them."

Olympia's rumbling growl startled the others, but I recognized it as her version of laughter. "Oh, do I ever," she replied, her mental voice brimming with mischief. "Stick around, Angie—I've got stories that will leave you in stitches."

"Oly," I said warningly, though I couldn't suppress my grin.

Angela threw back her head and laughed. "Oh, I like her," she declared.

Olympia's voice rang out, warm and friendly. "And I like you too."

Brom, his patience clearly wearing thin, cleared his throat. "As delightful as this is, we have matters to attend to. Angela, if you'll excuse us—this is Rider business."

Angela opened her mouth to protest, but I cut in. "She stays, Elda. Angela has knowledge that rivals even mine and skills that will prove invaluable. I'd rather have her as an ally and trusted friend."

For the first time, Angela's sharp gaze softened, her expression one of genuine warmth. She inclined her head, her voice quieter as she said, "Thank you, Mark."

The ship loomed ahead, a towering marvel of metal and magic, its imposing structure gleaming softly under the starlit sky. As we entered through the cargo hold, the hum of enchantments resonated faintly through the air, a constant reminder of the ship's otherworldly nature. The group moved as one, their footsteps echoing in the vast, open spaces of the hold, and we began our journey toward the throne room.

Brom's sharp eyes roamed the ship's interior, a mix of curiosity and skepticism etched on his face. "I can't fathom why it's shaped this way," he remarked, his voice tinged with bewilderment. "And how does it fly? It's solid metal—far heavier than any craft I've ever seen. Yet it moves as though it weighs nothing."

Angela, walking beside him, added with a sly smile, "I suspect the answer lies in magic far beyond even the scope of the current knowledge we possess."

Saphira padded silently beside Eragon, her shimmering blue scales glinting in the dim light. "This is remarkable," she said privately to us, her mental voice tinged with satisfaction. "Finally, a place where I can walk freely without worrying about cramped spaces. These ceilings are grand enough even for me."

Arya, who had been unusually quiet, finally broke her silence. "Your ship truly is a marvel. The magic woven into its construction pushes the boundaries of what we thought possible with the ancient language."

I chuckled softly, exchanging a private thought with Olympia. "She has no idea what we have planned, the inventions we are going to create." Olympia's amused hum echoed in my mind as we continued onward.

The corridor opened into the throne room, an expansive chamber that immediately commanded attention. The walls were covered with a green moss, and there were trees running along the walls, spaced evenly, making the chamber feel like a forest. Golden cloths embroidered with intricate designs—a roaring white dragon stood at the center of each tapestry that hung on the moss-covered walls; its fierce majesty almost lifelike. The throne itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, forged from solid gold and polished to a blinding sheen. Its grandeur was undeniable, but its ostentatiousness bordered on indulgent.

Instead of a traditional carpet, the floor was covered with short, enchanted grass that mimicked the look and feel of a freshly mowed lawn. The back of the throne was embedded into a living tree, its massive branches stretching upward toward the raised ceiling, which was enchanted to display the current sky. Tonight, the ceiling reflected the serene beauty of the early night, stars twinkling like diamonds scattered across velvet.

Eragon took a step forward, his breath catching as he took in the sight. "Wow," he murmured, awe evident in his voice.

Brom let out a low whistle, nodding appreciatively. Even Arya, usually composed and restrained, gave a subtle nod of approval. "It is… impressive," she admitted.

Angela, however, was less reserved. She approached the throne with her usual irreverence, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. "I must say," she began, a mischievous grin playing on her lips, "I am loving the theme you have going on here, Mark. But isn't it a bit… ostentatious? I mean the gold throne? And a tree? Really?"

I laughed, her comment breaking the solemnity of the moment. "It's meant to show the power of the new riders, and the throne is not mine," I clarified. "The throne belongs to the oldest member of the Dragon Riders, our leader, and that is not me."

Angela didn't miss a beat. Without even looking away from the throne, she replied casually, "Hmm, so that means Oromis and Glaedr. That would explain why the throne's design mirrors Glaedr's majesty."

Her words struck like a thunderclap. Brom and Eragon froze, their eyes widening in shock. Brom was the first to speak, his tone sharp and accusatory. "How do you know of them? That knowledge is a closely guarded secret!"

Eragon chimed in, his voice tinged with disbelief. "It's true. How could you possibly know something so few are privy to?"

I, on the other hand, merely chuckled, shaking my head in exasperation. "Of course, you knew about them, yes, I designed it for them," I said to Angela, my voice laced with both amusement and resignation. "One of these days, you'll have to tell me exactly how you know everything."

Angela turned to me with a sly smile, her sharp gaze glinting with humor. "You first, Rider," she shot back.

"Fair enough," I replied, still chuckling, but Arya's voice cut through the exchange, sharp and demanding. "How do you know of Glaedr?" she asked, her emerald eyes narrowing as she fixed me with an intense stare. "I understand that the wise one knows, but what of you, child? How have you come by a secret so closely guarded?"

I met her gaze evenly, unshaken by her intensity. "I will tell you," I said, my tone firm, "but first, you must swear an oath of secrecy. Whatever I reveal here must not leave this room or be discussed with anyone else until I give you explicit permission."

They exchanged uncertain glances before nodding one by one. Together, they swore the oaths, their voices resonating with the power of the ancient language. Satisfied, I turned to Olympia, who gave me a subtle nod of encouragement.

"After we do this," I said to her mentally, "the Riders will rise again. Galbatorix will pay for his crimes, and we can begin to focus on the actual threat."