Authors Notes
Hello readers!
How are you? I hope you have been enjoying the story. Apologies for the delay, I had things to take care of, I will try to release chapters more frequently.
I will be experimenting with a new storytelling technique. The other POVs that are not the main characters (Mark and Olympia) will be told from a third-person perspective; if you do not like this, just tell me in the review section, and I will change back to first-person.
Enjoy the story, and feel free to leave a review if you have any comments or questions; this will help the story get better.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Aftermath
Galbatorix wiped the blood from his hands, the deep crimson staining the pristine cloth he used. Murtagh lay motionless where he had collapsed, unconscious after enduring the full extent of his master's wrath. His dragon had carried him away moments ago, with Galbatorix's reluctant permission. Now, the king sat upon his throne, his fingers drumming absently against the armrest as he once again delved into Murtagh's memories, sifting through the battle as if searching for some hidden detail that might explain the impossible.
His brow furrowed. Deep in his heart—though he would never admit it—he knew that Murtagh had never truly stood a chance. The battle had been decided the moment that boy returned. Mark, the enigma.
Galbatorix's jaw clenched at the name. That boy had upended his plans once again, his perfect, meticulously crafted plans. Not only had he bested Murtagh, but he had done the unthinkable—he had captured the Twins, freed the Eldunarí that had been held under Murtagh and the Twins' control, and somehow emerged stronger than before. It was maddening.
A muscle in his jaw twitched as he took a slow sip from his goblet, the rich wine barely tempering the rage boiling within him. How? How had the boy achieved such a level of power? He had no Eldunarí aiding him, no ancient spirits lending him strength. And yet, he had accomplished feats that even the greatest of the old Riders would have struggled to match.
What is he? Galbatorix mused, his fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet. A Shade? No, that would be impossible. Something else, then. Something beyond my understanding…
The thought was infuriating.
His free hand curled into a fist as his mind churned with possibilities. Had I sent Barst instead, this debacle would have been avoided. He would have brought Eragon and his dragon to me, and then crushed this meddlesome boy. But no, he had relied on Murtagh and the Twins, and they had failed. Because of that boy.
And yet, despite his anger, despite his frustration, Galbatorix could not ignore the fascination creeping into his thoughts. The boy had not only acquired a dragon—he had become a rider. He now had a female dragon, stronger and older than Eragon's Saphira. No… not older, younger, but enhanced beyond what should have been possible. The boy had accelerated her growth, shaped her into something bigger and greater.
Galbatorix's lips curled into a thin smile. So… the boy is willing to cross lines that the Riders of old dared not. That, at least, was something he could respect.
He took another sip of his wine, allowing the thought to settle. Saphira was still central to his plans—her importance had not waned—but now, another possibility had presented itself. If there was one more dragon out there… were there others? Were there more eggs, more dragons waiting to be discovered, waiting to find Riders?
He let out a slow breath and closed his eyes, shifting his focus back to the battle. Through Murtagh's memories, he watched the fight unfold once again.
The boy was a gifted swordsman, far beyond what should have been possible. Murtagh, bolstered by Eldunarí, should have been unstoppable. And yet, Mark had toyed with him, effortlessly countering his strikes, moving with an ease and precision that made the duel seem almost unfair. It was not a battle of equals—it was a hunter playing with his prey.
Galbatorix let out a soft chuckle. Impressive.
And for the first time in centuries, he felt something stir within him. Amusement. A flicker of excitement. Perhaps—after all these years—he had finally found a worthy opponent. Someone who could challenge him. Someone he could crush.
His fingers curled against the golden armrest of his throne. Perhaps it is time for me to step onto the battlefield once more. To remind the world what true power is. He could see it now—Mark, kneeling before him, swearing fealty. His dragon at his side, bound to his will. With Mark under his command, the Forsworn could be reborn. Stronger. Unstoppable.
A slow smile spread across Galbatorix's face.
Yet even as he reveled in the thought, something nagged at him.
That weapon. The one from Mark's unusual ship.
It had fired a single shot—just one—and had shattered the enchantments protecting his own warship. The sheer power behind it had brute-forced its way through layers of magical defenses, killed the Eldunarí fueling them.
That should have been impossible.
Galbatorix frowned, setting his goblet down with deliberate care. What spell did he use? No known magic could produce such a result. And what of the ship itself? That strange, triangular construct that defied all known principles of flight. It did not seem to rely on magic, at least not in any way that Galbatorix could recognize.
What are you using to power that ship, boy? He tapped a single finger against his chin, his mind racing with theories. And where are you getting the energy to sustain such taxing spells?
His thoughts were interrupted by the hurried sound of footsteps. A moment later, the doors to the chamber burst open, and a servant rushed in, his breath labored, his face pale. He dropped to one knee before the throne, his head bowed so low it nearly touched the marble floor.
"My king," the man gasped, "apologies for the interruption—"
Galbatorix's voice thundered through the great hall, reverberating off the towering marble columns.
"What have I told you about interrupting me after midnight?" he roared, his piercing gaze locking onto the terrified servant kneeling before him.
The man flinched, his whole-body trembling as he pressed his forehead to the cold stone floor. The candlelight flickered wildly from the force of Galbatorix's fury, casting eerie shadows across the vast chamber.
The king's patience was razor-thin, and this fool had just made the grave mistake of testing its limits. The message had been made abundantly clear before—disturb him at this hour, and the consequences would be dire. Yet, it seemed an example needed to be made again.
The servant, his voice weak and unsteady, swallowed his fear and forced himself to speak. "M-my king… I—there is… a visitor. A mysterious one… He asks for an audience."
Galbatorix's expression did not soften, but something shifted in his dark, calculating eyes. He had not been expecting visitors—certainly not at this hour. Who would dare?
Galbatorix turned his glare back onto the servant, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You know the rules. You broke them. And so you know what must be done."
The servant's eyes widened in sheer horror, his lips parting as a choked plea escaped him. "P-please, my king—!"
But his words were cut short.
Galbatorix murmured a single, commanding phrase in the Ancient Language, and the air itself seemed to shudder with power. The servant stiffened instantly; his voice stolen from him. His breathing came in ragged gasps as silent tears streamed down his ashen face.
The king pointed behind him without another word.
The servant's knees buckled, his legs weak beneath him, but he obeyed. His feet dragged against the polished stone floor as he walked toward the towering shadow at the far end of the hall.
A deep, guttural rumble filled the chamber. The ground quaked slightly, dust and debris shivering from the grand chandeliers above. Shruikan stirred, the massive dragon shifting in the darkness, his enormous eyes gleaming with hunger.
The last thing the servant saw before his world ended was the maw of the beast opening wide.
A sharp, agonized scream rang out—only to be silenced almost immediately by a sickening crunch. Flesh tore. Bones snapped. Blood splattered against the polished floors, a gruesome contrast to the pristine gold and silver that decorated the throne room.
The hall vibrated as Shruikan released a satisfied growl, the scent of fresh death heavy in the air.
Galbatorix did not spare a glance behind him.
Instead, he waved his hand once more, signaling the remaining servants—who stood frozen in terror—to show the visitor in.
The man stepped forward, striding with an ease that bordered on arrogance. He moved like a man who had never once feared for his life. That, alone, was intriguing.
Galbatorix observed him closely, noting the confidence in his posture, the way he carried himself with an air of superiority. Yet there was something else—a presence about him that spoke of years beyond what his youthful features suggested.
The stranger's eyes flickered to the pool of blood behind the throne, to the mangled remains of the unfortunate servant.
There was no shock. No disgust. No fear.
Instead, the man simply looked back to Galbatorix and approached further, stopping just short of the dais where the king sat. Then, with calculated precision, he bowed.
Not a deep bow. Not one of reverence or submission. It was a mockery of the gesture—a casual nod, as if he were humoring the king rather than honoring him.
Galbatorix's eyes narrowed slightly.
I will change that soon.
He did not bother with pretense, nor did he waste time with false pleasantries. "What do you want, visitor?" His voice was low, smooth, but carrying the weight of an unspoken threat. "I have graciously lent you my ear—something I refuse to do for others at this time of night. Curiosity alone has earned you this opportunity. Consider yourself fortunate. Now, speak your purpose."
The visitor remained where he stood, calm, composed. His hood was lowered, revealing a handsome face with sharp, well-defined features. A smirk curled at the edges of his lips—dangerous, knowing.
Then he spoke, his voice rich with amusement.
"My, my, dear king… Is thisthe famed hospitality of the great Galbatorix? The slayer of the Riders? The man who brought an empire to its knees? I must say, I expected more. I was told you were a gracious, well-mannered, and powerful ruler. And yet… I find myself disappointed."
A sharp, deathly silence fell over the hall.
The tension in the air thickened, nearly suffocating in its intensity. The remaining servants in the chamber visibly recoiled, their faces drained of color, their breath caught in their throats.
No one—no one—spoke to Galbatorix like that and lived.
The king's face remained impassive. He did not flinch, did not so much as shift in his seat. But deep within, fury coiled like a serpent, waiting to strike.
Who does this fool think he is?
Who dares step into his palace and mock him?
A part of him—an ancient, primal part—wanted to unleash his wrath then and there. Shruikan was still hungry, after all.
But another part of him—the wiser part—was intrigued.
There was something different about this man.
Galbatorix tilted his head slightly, his black eyes studying the visitor with renewed interest. Then, with a single click of his fingers, he spoke in the Ancient Language once more.
At the far end of the hall, a great wooden table, previously tucked neatly against the walls, suddenly scraped forward, dragged across the floor by invisible hands. A set of chairs followed, aligning themselves perfectly as servants, still trembling from the display moments ago, hurried forward to lay out food and drink.
Galbatorix gestured toward the table. "Fine, stranger. Speak your piece."
His voice was measured, unreadable.
Then his gaze sharpened, and his next words were laced with cold authority.
"But first, you will tell me your name."
A slow, almost amused chuckle echoed through the great hall as the visitor reclined in his chair, swirling the goblet of wine in his hand. He took a sip, letting the rich liquid roll over his tongue before setting the goblet down with deliberate ease. Then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he finally spoke.
"Oh no, my dear King," he drawled, his voice smooth, taunting. "No names. Such powerful things they are. But if you must call me something, you may call me… the Herald."
Galbatorix's expression darkened, irritation flickering behind his cold, calculating gaze. This insolent wretch stood on a knife's edge, teetering dangerously close to an untimely demise. Few men dared to show such defiance in his presence, and fewer still lived to boast of it. His fingers flexed slightly against the armrest of his throne, the urge to crush this fool beneath his will growing stronger. And yet… he did not act.
Instead, he leaned forward ever so slightly, his piercing black eyes boring into the man before him. His voice was low, measured, but carried the weight of unspoken threats. "Well then, Herald, what is it you are the herald of, if I may ask?"
The Herald did not answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the golden platter in front of him and tore a piece of pheasant from the bone, taking his time as he chewed, utterly unbothered by the tension that gripped the hall like a vice. When he did speak, his tone was light, conversational, as though they were discussing the weather rather than matters of kings and gods.
"I am the Herald of Chaos."
A hush fell over the hall. Even the ever-silent Shruikan shifted slightly in the shadows, his massive form barely perceptible in the dim candlelight. The remaining servants, still trembling from the fate of their fallen companion, dared not move, their fearful gazes flitting between their king and the enigmatic visitor.
Galbatorix's fingers drummed against the armrest, his mind churning.
"Chaos?" he mused, tilting his head. "A vague and poetic answer. And who, pray tell, is your master? What does Chaos seek from me?"
The Herald smiled, a slow, knowing grin.
"Chaos seeks nothing. It merely is."
Galbatorix narrowed his eyes. He despised riddles, yet something in the man's tone, in the unwavering confidence he exuded, made him pause.
The Herald took another bite, savoring his meal before continuing. "But I have been sent to offer you aid, mighty king. Aid against the one you know as the Hornbreaker."
At that, Galbatorix stilled.
His grip on the throne's armrest tightened, the wood creaking slightly beneath the pressure of his fingers. His expression remained unreadable, but a dangerous glint sparked in his dark eyes as he studied the Herald with renewed scrutiny.
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned back into his throne and let out a low, mirthless chuckle.
The sound grew, rising into a full-bodied laugh that echoed throughout the vast chamber, filling the air with cruel amusement. The servants flinched at the sound, exchanging uneasy glances, but the Herald merely continued eating, unfazed by the display.
Galbatorix's laughter faded as he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. His smirk returned, but this time, it was razor-sharp.
"And what makes you believe that I—the most powerful Rider to ever walk this continent—would require help against that whelp? That hatchlingwho has yet to reach his eighteenth name day?"
The Herald chuckled, his expression one of pure amusement. He wiped his hands clean with a silken cloth and set the half-eaten pheasant leg down before rising to his feet.
Then, without warning, he snapped his fingers.
A ripple of red light burst forth from his palm, consuming the table, chairs, and food in an instant. The feast, the goblets, the golden plates—all vanished into nothingness, as if they had never existed.
The air crackled with energy, and for the first time in a long while, Galbatorix felt a rare flicker of something he had not felt in centuries.
Surprise.
His eyes narrowed, his mind racing. He had seen powerful magic before—had wielded power that could shake the very foundations of the world—but this… this was different. This was not the Ancient Language.
What in the blazes was that?
The Herald's demeanor had shifted. Gone was the leisurely arrogance, replaced by something colder. More calculating. His voice, when he spoke again, carried an ominous weight.
"You have no idea what has been unleashed upon you, dear king."
The torches along the walls flickered violently, casting erratic shadows across the chamber. The very air seemed heavier, thick with an unseen force.
The Herald stepped forward; his gaze locked onto Galbatorix's. "You stumble in the dark, thinking yourself a beacon of absolute power. But you are blind to what lurks beyond your reach." He smiled, though there was no warmth in it. "I come on behalf of my master, offering you a torch to light your way. A means to make your dreams… a reality."
Galbatorix's eyes bore into him, a silent battle of wills waging between them. His instincts screamed at him to destroy this man, to make an example of him for daring to speak with such irreverence.
And yet…
Something stayed his hand.
There was something off about this man. Something unnatural.
Something dangerous.
The Herald's smirk widened, as if he could hear the thoughts racing through the king's mind. "Ah, my dear King… I see the questions in your eyes."
His voice dropped, rich with amusement. "You wonder why I speak of the boy as if he is more than a mere thorn in your side."
Galbatorix's fingers twitched.
The Herald took another step closer. "The boy—like me—is a champion of a god. He has been blessed. He wields the power of a demigod. And he has not even begun to scratch the surface of what he can do, When he reaches you, there is nothing in this world you can do that will stop him from killing you."
The words rang through the hall like a death knell.
The servants held their breath. Even the air itself seemed to pause.
Galbatorix stood abruptly, his cloak billowing from the force of his movement. His voice thundered through the chamber.
"You doubt my power, stranger?" His fury ignited, his presence swelling with raw energy. "I am the great Galbatorix! The Oath breaker! The Bane of the Riders! And you—"
He never finished his sentence.
The Herald raised a single hand.
Galbatorix froze.
His body locked in place, his muscles unresponsive, his mouth silenced mid-rant. His breath hitched as his limbs refused to obey him.
What—
The Herald floated forward, his feet never touching the ground. He moved with an eerie grace, his hands still tucked behind his back. His lips curled in a slow, deliberate smile.
He had not spoken a word in the Ancient Language.
Galbatorix's mind reeled. His magic—his command over the world—was bound to his ability to speak, to will reality into obedience. But he could not move. Could not speak.
His only recourse was a mental attack. His mind lashed out, a roaring storm of raw force—
And then he felt it.
An overwhelming presence.
It crashed down upon him like a tidal wave, immense, suffocating, vast beyond comprehension. A force far greater than anything he had ever encountered.
And for the first time in centuries…
Galbatorix felt something alien. Something that burned at the edges of his being, gnawed at the unshakable foundation of his soul.
Fear.
The air in the grand throne room of Urû'baen grew thick, pressing down like the weight of an impending storm. Galbatorix had felt power before. He had wielded it, shaped it, bent it to his indomitable will. He had shattered the spirits of mighty warriors and broken the backs of dragons. Yet, this presence—this vast, incomprehensible force—was unlike anything he had ever encountered. It was oppressive, suffocating, a primordial abyss that threatened to drown him whole. It bore down upon his mind, vast as the endless sky, yet heavy as a mountain. The hurricane of willpower he had amassed through centuries of conquest, fortified by the countless Eldunarí bound to his mind, flickered and waned before it, as fragile as a lone candle caught in a maelstrom.
Impossible. The thought barely formed before it was crushed under the weight of the presence pressing upon him. Nothing could do this to him. Nothing in Alagaësia. He had reached heights no Rider before him had attained. He had conquered the strongest, outlived the wisest, mastered magic to its very peak—and yet, in this moment, he felt something he had not felt in centuries.
Powerlessness.
His body was not his own. Muscles refused to obey his will, frozen as though cast in unbreakable stone. He raged against the unseen bonds holding him in place, but it was like trying to part the sea with his bare hands. His mind, the fortress he had spent centuries fortifying, reeled against the onslaught of the overwhelming presence, yet found no purchase. His thoughts scattered like leaves in a violent storm.
The Herald levitated forward, his movements smooth, unhurried, almost leisurely. His dark cloak billowed ever so slightly, though no wind stirred within the hall. The expression on his face remained one of quiet amusement, as though he were watching a child struggle against the inevitable. He stopped just a breath away from the immobilized king, gazing at him with something that resembled pity, yet was laced with condescension.
"Do you understand now, dear king?" The Herald's voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet it carried through the vast chamber like the tolling of a bell. "You are powerful, yes. But power is relative. You sit upon this throne, believing yourself a god among men. Yet, beyond the veil of your knowledge, beyond the narrow boundaries of your understanding, there exist forces that would see you as little more than an insect to be crushed beneath their boot."
The words burned like acid, searing into Galbatorix's mind. His fury roared within him, hotter than dragonfire, yet he could do nothing. He was a caged beast, his wrath impotent before the might pressing down upon him. He had never been helpless. Not when his first dragon was slain. Not when the Riders cast him out. Not when he carved his path through the corpses of his enemies to seize the throne of Alagaësia. But now—now, he could do nothing but listen, his body locked, his mind ensnared.
The Herald leaned in slightly, his unnerving eyes gleaming with something unfathomable. "Your reign is not as unshakable as you believe, child. The boy is not an ordinary foe. He is a champion of a god, a being whose will bends reality itself, my master's rival. And you, oh mighty king, are but a man who stole power through tricks and treachery. You do not stand a chance. You never did."
Galbatorix wanted to deny it, wanted to scream, to bellow in rage, to tear this man apart with his bare hands—but the suffocating weight kept him silent. Kept him still. Kept him powerless.
And then, as suddenly as it had come, the presence vanished.
Galbatorix staggered back, his breath ragged, uneven. Sweat dampened his brow. His limbs, once locked in place, were his own again. His mind was his own again. The suffocating pressure was gone, leaving only the ghost of its immense weight. His fury surged, burning away the remnants of his paralysis. Without hesitation, he reached deep into the wellspring of his power, his magic flaring to life as he wove together a spell in the Ancient Language—one that would reduce this wretch to ashes.
But before he could utter a single syllable, the Herald raised a single finger.
"Ah, ah, ah," he chided, his tone light, almost amused. He shook his head. "We both know how this will end. Do not be so hasty, dear king. If I wished you dead, you would not be standing now."
Galbatorix's fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, nearly drawing blood. The throne room was deathly silent. His servants, his loyal attendants, stood frozen in terror. They had never seen him like this. Never seen their god-king humbled, humiliated before another.
The Herald smiled knowingly. "My master offers you a gift, a means to even the battleground with the mighty Rider you face."
He lifted a hand and waved it through the air. Instantly, the space beside him darkened, warping and twisting as tendrils of black and blue energy crackled with unearthly lightning. A vortex of swirling smoke coalesced, a deep, unnatural hum vibrating through the chamber. The unnatural portal twisted reality itself, a sick mockery of the magic Galbatorix understood.
How? The king's mind raced. How is he doing this without speaking the Ancient Language?
From the shifting abyss, a figure emerged.
He stepped forward with measured precision, his form clad in strange armor the likes of which Galbatorix had never seen. It was sleek, foreign, the black material form-fitting yet reinforced with golden plates upon the chest and shoulder. His right arm was encased in an imposing golden pauldron, intricate and polished. A black mask covered his nose and mouth, hiding his expressions behind a veil of metal and shadow. A peculiar weapon was gripped firmly in his hands—a modified crossbow, yet unlike any Galbatorix had ever encountered. Upon his back rested a sword, its hilt peeking over his shoulder like a silent promise of death.
But what caught the king's eye was neither the man's shoulder length blonde hair nor the eerie, soulless blue eyes that stared unblinking. It was the crest emblazoned upon his chest.
An eagle, its talons gripping both a trident and an anchor.
The man's eyes flickered towards the Herald and, with cold, mechanical precision, he spoke. "Ready to comply."
The Herald chuckled, turning to Galbatorix. "You follow his orders now. Do you understand, soldier?" His voice held no room for negotiation.
The armored man nodded once.
And with that, the Herald stepped back into the swirling portal, his form dissolving into nothingness. The vortex collapsed in on itself with a sharp crack, leaving the great tyrant of Alagaësia alone in his throne room.
Seething.
And, for the first time in centuries—afraid.
Mark's POV
I stood among my friends—Eragon, Arya, Nasuada, Nadara, Angela, and Brom—my gaze fixed on the three leaders presiding over the war council. Ajihad, King Hrothgar, and King Orrin sat on their lavish thrones at the head of Ajihad's grand tent, their presence commanding the attention of all within. The air was thick with the mingling scents of parchment, wax, and the lingering musk of sweat and steel. The tent, illuminated by torches and enchanted lanterns, glowed with a flickering warmth that barely offset the cold tension saturating the room.
It had been a day and a half since the battle, and I had finally reunited with my companions—Brom, Arya, Eragon, and Saphira. I had recounted my adventures to them, carefully omitting the truth about the Vault of Souls. Instead, I told them I had discovered the Eldunari in a hidden cache within the Spine, a lie wrapped in enough plausibility to avoid suspicion.
The revelation of the Eldunari had shaken my friends to their core. Arya, composed as she always was, had been unable to restrain her emotions; her emerald eyes glistened with unshed tears as she whispered words of reverence in the ancient language. Brom, ever the scholar and warrior both, had studied the Eldunari with a mixture of awe and sorrow, as if witnessing both the salvation and the tragedy of his fallen brethren.
Saphira had been overwhelmed with joy, her presence radiating a warmth so potent that it was felt even through our mental bond. To know that other members of her race existed—free, untouched by Galbatorix's cruel enslavement—had lifted a weight from her heart. But among all the developments, perhaps the most amusing was the friendship that had quickly blossomed between Saphira and Olympia.
"Dude, this is awesome, I've always wanted a younger sister," Olympia had mused one evening, her mental voice thrumming with quiet amusement.
The irony was not lost on me. Technically, Saphira was the older of the two, but Olympia had once been an adult human reincarnated as a dragon. Did that make her the elder in wisdom, if not in years? Regardless, their bond deepened with each passing hour, a silent testament to the unbreakable camaraderie of their kind.
Now, as I stood within Ajihad's tent, my thoughts drifted to where they were now. Outside, Olympia and Saphira lingered aboard the ship, their telepathic presence brushing against the edges of my mind like the whisper of the wind. What they were up to, I did not know, but I resisted the urge to pry. Some things were better left as mysteries.
Meanwhile, Kargvek was among the Urgals and Kulls, celebrated as a hero for his valor. The freed Eldunari remained on the ship, working tirelessly to help mend the fractured minds of those who had suffered under Galbatorix's enslavement. The sheer magnitude of their task was daunting, but they undertook it with a quiet, solemn determination.
Inside the tent, the council was in full swing. The murmurs of war-hardened warriors and seasoned strategists filled the air, weaving together a symphony of discussion and diplomacy. Then, a shift—a figure moved forward, stepping into the firelight.
Fadawar.
A powerful warrior and a proud man, Fadawar was a leader among the Wandering Tribes—the same tribes from which Ajihad himself hailed. He was a man of dark skin, adorned in battle-worn finery that spoke of countless victories and a lineage of fierce warriors. He moved with the measured grace of one accustomed to commanding respect.
He knelt before Ajihad, his deep voice carrying the weight of his people's history. "Ajihad, we congratulate you on your victories against the mad king's armies, and we acknowledge the strength of the alliance you have forged. We, the Wandering Tribes, your people, wish to stand beside you in this war against the Mad King."
A chorus of murmurs and gasps filled the tent, followed swiftly by cheers. This was history in the making—a powerful new alliance cemented in the fires of war. I, however, could not help but smirk to myself. Had Nasuada been in Ajihad's place, as she had been in the original timeline of the novels, things might have unfolded differently. I knew well enough that, in that version of events, Fadawar had sought to usurp her through the brutal trial of the long knives. Clearly, his respect for Ajihad ran too deep for such treachery.
As the tent erupted in applause, I reached out through my mental link, seeking the presence of one particular individual.
"Hey, wanna leave this boring tirade and go have some real fun?" I projected to Nadara, my voice laced with amusement.
A gentle chuckle resonated through my mind, the sound like a beautiful melody that sent butterflies fluttering through my stomach. "Patience, Ragzak," she replied, her voice rich with playful warmth. "We will be done with these tedious affairs soon enough."
That word again—Ragzak.
She had begun using it during the battle, and ever since, it had remained, a private name shared between us. I did not know its meaning, not fully, but the way she said it—the way it rolled off her tongue with such smooth, effortless grace—stirred something deep within me.
For now, I would wait. But once these matters were settled, I intended to find out exactly what Ragzak meant… and why it made my heart race every time she spoke it.
The weight of the meeting lingered heavily in the air as the three leaders continued their discussions. I had resolved to ask Kargvek about the meaning of the word Nadara had been calling me after this was all over. He had promised to teach me the Urgal tongue, and I figured now was the time to collect on that promise. The curiosity gnawed at me, twisting in my gut every time she uttered it with that mesmerizing lilt to her voice.
Before I could dwell too much on it, Olympia's voice chimed in through our mental link, thick with amusement.
"You'll have to endure it, little brother. You are the great hero returned, the savior of the Varden, the warrior who turned the tide of battle. Of course, they will parade you around like a prized stallion."
Her tone was light, teasing, but the truth of her words was inescapable.
"You can't just slip away. If you do, it'll make Ajihad, Hrothgar, and Orrin look weak before their people, as though they do not have your support. They need you here, whether you like it or not."
I exhaled through my nose, glancing around the tent. Dozens of eyes were on me, some filled with admiration, others with something colder—fear. I had grown accustomed to such looks, to the whispers that followed in my wake like shadows. But the gazes that unsettled me most belonged to Nar Garzvhog and another towering Kull standing beside him. Their yellow, predatory eyes were locked onto me, unreadable, but filled with something unspoken.
I glanced at Nadara. She had not acknowledged either of them, her back rigid, her gaze fixed ahead with unwavering indifference. Whatever their stare meant, she refused to give them the satisfaction of a response.
The discussions stretched for another hour, the weight of the tent growing stifling with the press of so many bodies, the murmurs of war councils and politics filling the space like a steady drumbeat. But at last, the time came for Ajihad to address us.
"Riders," he intoned, his voice rich with authority. "Would you be so kind as to step forward? We would speak with you."
Eragon glanced at me and offered a smile, one of camaraderie, of shared purpose. We moved forward together, but before we could reach the three rulers, something unexpected happened.
Nar Garzvhog stirred, stepping forth with the controlled power of a mountain shifting. His massive frame dwarfed the humans in the room, his deep voice rolling through the tent like distant thunder.
"Nightstalker," he addressed Ajihad, his tone thick with barely restrained emotion. "We have stood by your side as allies since the day we joined your cause. We have fought, we have bled, we have given our lives. And never have we asked for anything beyond what you could grant us. Yet now, we stand here, wronged. Our honor has been spat upon by the Hornbreaker."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the tent like wind through dry grass. People exchanged uncertain glances, confusion clouding their faces. Even Ajihad, Hrothgar, and Orrin shared brief, questioning looks, trying to decipher what the Urgal leader was accusing me of.
I stiffened.
Oh, come on! What the hell did I do now?
I ran through my memories, trying to find any transgression that could warrant such a statement. Was it the Urgals I had killed during the battle beneath Tronjheim? Had I unknowingly insulted their customs? What slight had I committed against them?
Brom's piercing gaze landed on me, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disappointment. His voice filled my mind, sharp as a dagger's edge.
"Angvard's beard! What have you done now, boy?"
I barely had time to consider a response before Olympia's voice rippled through my consciousness, rich with amusement.
"Well, it certainly took him long enough."
Her mental laughter, light and knowing, sent an uneasy shiver down my spine.
"What do you mean?" I mentally asked warily, my fingers tightening at my sides.
She only chuckled again, a sound full of mischief and secrets.
"Wait and see. You're going to love this."
A deep sense of unease settled over me. Whatever was about to unfold, I had the distinct impression that I was the last one in the tent to understand what was truly happening.
Summoning every ounce of patience I possessed, knowing that any misstep could alienate the Urgals from the coalition, I met Nar Garzvhog's burning gaze and spoke in a measured tone. "Nar Garzvhog, I do not know how I have wronged you. Would you be so kind as to enlighten me on how I have offended you and your people?"
The massive Kull's scowl deepened; his tusks bared in barely contained rage. "You, Hornbreaker, dare to speak as if you have done nothing wrong? You hold my niece prisoner, flaunting her before me and my kin as though she were some war prize! I will not stand for this insult!"
A ripple of tension spread through the tent like a coming storm. The whisper of steel filled the air as hands instinctively went to weapons. My body moved without thought, shifting into a defensive stance, every muscle coiled and ready. But before the situation could explode into violence, a new voice rang out—clear, sharp, and filled with defiance.
"Oh, so now you finally acknowledge me as family, Uncle?" Nadara's voice cut through the growing tension like a honed blade. She stepped forward, her dark eyes flashing with fury. "And what gives you the right to assume I am his prisoner? Did you even bother to ask me? No, you simply presume that my savior, my friend, my Ragzak, has taken me against my will!"
Gasps echoed through the tent, and all eyes snapped toward Nadara and me. Murmurs spread like wildfire among the gathered warriors, especially the Urgal guards protecting Ajihad, the weight of her words settling upon them. Even Nar Garzvhog looked momentarily stunned, his anger momentarily replaced with shock.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Angela's delighted smirk. The seeress had a gleam in her eye, as though she had just been given the juiciest secret in all of Alagaësia. But before I could reflect on the sudden shift, another deep, guttural voice rumbled through the space.
"You dare, Dam?" The unfamiliar Kull stepped forward, his massive frame casting an imposing shadow. His words were thick, clumsy in the common tongue, yet they carried venom. "You dare spit on my honor as your betrothed? You are mine, you stupid dam. I own you."
A growl of pure fury rumbled in Nar Garzvhog's chest as he turned his glare toward the Kull. "Watch your tongue, Khagrak! She is my blood, and I will not tolerate such disrespect."
But Khagrak only laughed, his lips curling in a sneer. "You forget, Nar Garzvhog. You gave me permission to wed her. She is mine in all but name. That will change soon, once I claim her fully." His dark eyes gleamed with cruelty as he added, "You know the law. If you wish to take her back, you must fight me for her."
The tent fell into hushed silence, all awaiting Nar Garzvhog's response. The older Urgal's face twisted with rage, his massive hands clenched into fists, but before he could speak, I felt something inside me snap.
This bastard, Khagrak—the butcher of Yazuac. He was responsible for the massacre at Yazuac.
The monster responsible for the massacre I had read about in the books, the carnage that had painted Nadara's nightmares red. And now, he had the audacity to claim ownership over her, to reduce her to some prize to be won?
I sent a mental probe to Olympia. "Did you know who he was, what he done?"
Her response came swiftly. "I did, from what Nadara had told me, but I had no idea what he had done."
Nadara's voice cut through my haze of fury. "I refuse to marry you, Khagrak. You are a vile creature, and I will never bind myself to you. Ever."
Khagrak's face twisted with unbridled rage. "You spit on our culture! You whore! You throw yourself at a human, choosing him as your mate! Tell me, dam, will this weakling fight for your honor? Or will he abandon you as your sire abandoned your mother?"
Nadara let out an anguished cry, tears streaking her cheeks. With a furious snarl, she lunged, but Arya caught her, restraining her before she could attack.
My mind reeled.
The way Khagrak had spoken of Nadara's parents… The way he assumed I was her lover… The blatant disrespect and cruelty dripping from his words…
I could not let this stand; I was going to kill this bastard.
I stepped forward, my voice dangerously calm. "Who the hell do you think you are, speaking to her like that?"
Khagrak snorted, towering over me like a mountain of muscle and arrogance. "I am her betrothed, human. I will speak to her as I please. Unless, of course, you wish to challenge me for the right?"
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the crowd. My gaze flickered to Nadara, who stared at me with shock… and something else. Hope?
Ajihad looked bewildered, still struggling to make sense of the unfolding drama.
Then Olympia's voice slithered into my mind. "This is your chance. Make him pay for Yazuac. Free Nadara from him."
I exhaled slowly, my decision made. I sent a mental probe to Nadara. "I'm challenging this bastard. The least I can do is free you from him."
Her response was hesitant, uncertain. "Are you sure? You might not like the outcome…"
Was she afraid for me? Or… was there something more?
I chuckled mentally. "Come now, Nari. You've seen me fight. Khagrak is nothing to me."
She hesitated, then whispered through our link, "I know, its just tha—never mind. Fight well, Ragzak."
She withdrew, and I turned my full attention to Khagrak. My voice was cold, unwavering. "I accept your challenge; I will fight you for Nadara."
Nar Garzvhog immediately interjected. "This is not good. A challenge of this nature takes days to prepare. The human must be prepa—"
I cut him off with a dark chuckle. "Days? I don't need days. I just need him and a place to fight, stop stalling and let's get this over with."
Khagrak's laughter rumbled through the tent. "Hornbreaker is eager to die. You think that just because you've slain lesser Urgals, you are my equal? I have been fighting longer than you have been alive, boy."
I smirked. "I've killed warriors older and greater than you, you yellow-bellied coward."
Khagrak seethed. "Then let us see if you have the strength to back up your words. No weapons. Only our fists, and we fight in front of everyone, let them see the might of Khagrak the slayer."
My grin widened. "I accept your terms, coward."
The challenge was set. The fight would begin soon.