A/N: Content warning. At the last part of this chapter violence and intense emotional distress, which may be disturbing for some readers. Arya's struggle during the Shade's torture. Please read with caution. You have been warned.

The Treasure

For the first time in over a year, he found himself alone, far from the capital. He was free to traverse the vast plains, and free to reach out with his mind once more to those he cherished deep within his heart.

Warm memories of Nasuada and the precious hours he once shared with her filled him, whether during their practice sessions or their rare solitary encounters. Their conversations emerged from the recesses of his mind, rejuvenating his soul.

When he set out from the Varden with the goal of this mission, he had imagined the months without her differently. He believed he would quickly gain the king's acceptance, learn as many of his secrets as possible, and return to her before the onset of winter.

However, reality had other plans for him. Gaining Galbatorix's trust had proven not only difficult but also time-consuming. Nonetheless, Murtagh was determined to be patient and succeed. With the thought that each hour spent away from the young woman he loved brought them closer to the day they would reunite, he continued his journey.

Like the pale winter sun, the thought of Nasuada warmed him. It was akin to the memory of a sweet spring breeze, carrying the scents of blossoming orchards and gently easing the chill of winter.

After the intense emotions, his thoughts turned to his mission and its ultimate goal, which troubled him greatly. All that he had learned about the king's excessive armaments and his unexpected, dark servants—like the Shade and the Ra'zac—he was now free to convey to the leader of the Varden, especially the warning about the Twin mages, those vile traitors.

The Varden warriors were right to feel such contempt for the Twins. It was their warrior instincts acting preemptively, warning everyone about the magicians' true nature. The most prudent course of action for Murtagh was to seek the help of another sorcerer, one who could wield magic freely without Galbatorix's influence and convey the hard-earned information directly to Ajihad. After all, who else could Murtagh trust now?

His first priority once inside the walls of Dras-Leona would be to find a free and independent sorcerer. He didn't believe that the smaller towns, few villages, or isolated farms he spotted from a distance as he traveled along the highway could offer anyone better than an old healer.

Furthermore, he was still so close to Urû'baen, and Murtagh did not expect a sorcerer to live there and work unchecked by Galbatorix. If he hastily trusted someone and palace spies questioned the villagers, it would be easy for anyone to remember the lone traveler and provide a precise description of him and his horse. It was likely that the king would learn he was a Varden agent before he even got close to Dras-Leona.

He would need to be patient until he reached the city. Among the crowds that inhabited it, it would surely be easier to find the person he needed. Even when he found a discreet sorcerer who could communicate with the Varden, he would have to be very careful. He would seek to contact the witch Trianna and request that she relay the information directly to Ajihad. This way, the two traitors would not be able to learn either the knowledge he conveyed or his presence near Galbatorix.

Satisfied with his strategies, Murtagh repeatedly envisioned the moment he would communicate his findings. He would meticulously recount everything he knew to the leader of the Varden, certain that his services would be valued. A prestigious position by Ajihad's side would await him, one he would rightfully occupy upon his return.

All the additional knowledge he had gained in the capital near Lord Barst would be deemed not only useful but essential for the rebels. Ajihad would place him by his side as his deputy, allowing him to participate in all his councils as an indispensable assistant. All the ambitions that had found nourishment within him would be adequately fulfilled. Then, the time would come to officially ask for Nasuada's hand.

Ah, Nasuada... sweet and noble maiden! How he longed for her presence and her sweet words. Could it be possible, through the sorcerer, to exchange a few words or even just a glance with Nasuada?

Even a stolen glance at her face would make him happy. The moment her beautiful eyes met his through the magical surface, he would sense the emotions and innermost thoughts she hid for him in her heart. A single smile from her lips could touch his heart, lifting the unbearable weight of his bitter loneliness.

His entire being yearned for her presence. What wouldn't he give to turn his horse in the opposite direction right now, to gallop across vast fields, traverse mountains and plains, even the desert itself, just to be close to her again.

However, as things turned out, the position he would soon take alongside Galbatorix, spying for the benefit of the Varden, was more important than any desire burning in his heart. Thus, he suppressed his longing for the sake of a higher purpose and a secure future near her.

Then there was the dragon egg, the one with the vibrant scarlet color. The mysterious call he felt deep in his mind for this treasure of Galbatorix, and his desire to be close to the egg, were so strong that returning to the capital seemed worth it.

He would first make sure to find the young thief that the king had ordered; he would arrange to gain his trust and then bring him back to Urû'baen. This way, the king would trust him completely, as he would have proven his loyalty and full dedication. Galbatorix's promise to bring him into direct contact with the red dragon egg upon his return had captivated him.

A new hope fluttered in his mind, whispering sweetly of a coveted trophy, tantalizing his senses. He wished the time would come quickly when, along with the other secrets he would deliver to Ajihad, there would also be a dragon egg.

With these thoughts in mind, the pale sun set below the horizon that day. It hid behind black clouds carrying a storm, leaving him and his horse in the cold. The last thing he saw in the fading light was a small building by the side of the road in the distance. He headed toward it.

By the time he arrived, darkness had fully covered the earth, revealing nothing more than an abandoned, half-collapsed barn. So be it! Even that was better than spending another night in the freezing countryside on the mud. He dismounted and led his horse inside.

Most of the roof beams were still in place, securing three of the four walls. Some bales of straw were stacked in a corner, forming a secluded, tolerable bed. On the other side, under the gaping hole in the roof and next to the crumbling wall, he could make out a small hearth, hastily constructed with flat stones gathered from the surrounding area. Surely, other travelers had used this small space before him.

Some dry planks and straw for kindling produced a lively fire that quickly lit and warmed the interior of the old barn. After feeding, watering, and preparing his horse for the long night ahead, Murtagh covered it with his blanket and then warmed his dinner over the fire.

As he finished his meager dinner alone, his thoughts flew unrestrained back to Aberon—to the two-story stone house that housed the fencing school on the ground floor and their modest household on the upper floor, and to the father who raised him, Tornac. He recalled once more Tornac's teachings in swordsmanship and their sparring sessions. It was to Tornac that he owed his unparalleled skill, heightened instinct for self-preservation, quick thinking, adaptability, and versatility.

Tornac had taught him not to rush, to know and respect his opponent, always weighing the pros and cons at the start of each confrontation. "An opponent is your best teacher," Tornac would say. "Never make the mistake of rushing or underestimating him. Let him reveal himself first; get to know him. Only when you know him do you have a hope of overcoming him."

Tornac was always better with the sword, always the one to win their duels. It wasn't until illness came in the final period of his life that Murtagh managed to prevail. Tornac, however, had a different view of his beloved son and student. He always believed in Murtagh and his abilities, hoping for and expecting the best from him.

How much he missed him! Living among the Varden and the daily intensity of the training field, so close yet so far from Nasuada, the thought of Tornac would often sink and be lost in the everyday life. The days in Urû'baen had already deprived him of everything beautiful and cherished he held in his heart. But now, he was alone again, free once more to turn to everything he had loved.

He would never forget the affection Tornac surrounded him with as a small child during the time they lived enclosed in Morzan's castle, when no one else was there to offer him love. Later, Tornac saved him. One night, they left secretly to travel the world. Through his example, Tornac taught him courage, honor, integrity, and self-sacrifice.

Tornac constantly reminded him to be honest and kind, to be patient, and to treat others with understanding and compassion. Whenever Morzan's wild blood spoke through his veins, presenting an arrogant character, Tornac was always there to ground him, even berating him when he went too far. How much he missed Tornac's presence, that precious man who no longer existed in the world except as a memory and a lingering thought.

The noise of the freezing storm outside drowned out the light crackling of the fire. Murtagh stood up and began to cover the openings as best he could with loose planks and handfuls of straw, which he stuffed between them.

Wiping the moisture from his eyes—not from the raindrops, but from his tears—he felt the need to share this deep emotion, stirred by the memory of Tornac, with someone else. Inevitably, he turned to the only living being by his side: his horse. The gray steed had finished its food and now stood still, warmed by the fire and the thick blanket, its bright, beautiful eyes fixed on him. Murtagh stroked its forehead and ran his long fingers through its thick mane.

"I haven't given you a name yet. What do you think—should I call you Tornac? You are proud and beloved, just like the man who bore that name," he murmured tenderly to the animal, which responded with a soft nicker.

The steed nudged him gently with its muzzle, and Murtagh grabbed its ear, sweetly whispering the name "Tornac" into it. "That is what I'll call you from now on," he said with a voice full of emotion. "Calling you by that name will be like having him close, the one who taught me how to be a good man. It will be like he and I are traveling the world together again."

.*.*.*.

The round flame-that-lights-without-burning had risen several wingspans. It rolled within the blue sphere-that-circles-everything. Sometimes it hid playfully behind the rain clouds, casting long shadows that stretched across the green-yellow-brown pieces of land below.

The creeping-blue-water-snake that the two-legs-rider called the Ramr River appeared noticeably smaller from up here. The strong sound of the water masses it carried didn't reach his ears, except as a long and vague whisper, like the weak, unintelligible murmuring that the two-legs-round-ears servants dared to whisper before the ironclad-rider-on-the-throne.

The dragon sharply tilted his right wing down while raising the other, executing a sideways, abrupt maneuver that allowed him to turn more easily, slicing through the opposing wind. Below his massive belly, the dark green of the treetops gave way to the faded yellow of the dried grass around the riverbanks and the dark brown of the clumped soil of the wastelands.

The great dragon was sated and quenched. The two-legs-round-ears-servants had met his needs early in the morning with fresh meat and clean water, replenished daily in the dragonhold. However, if he happened to spot a herd of swift-footed red deer or gray roes in the distance—those that usually roamed around the riverbanks—he would have no hesitation in killing them.

He would leave their bodies lying torn apart, allowing the black earth to greedily drink their blood. He would let them thrash on the ground, immersed in the agony of death to come. No animal would be allowed to taste them; instead, he would abandon the rotting flesh, leaving it hanging in shreds around the bleached bones.

He would do these things anyway, even now, when he had no desire to taste their flesh. Was there a better feeling in the world than killing the weak?

Using a thermal updraft that inflated the membranes of his wings, he soared even higher above the winding river. The interplay of sunlight and shadows remained below, and the light glistened as it fell upon the obsidian-colored scales that covered his massive body, making him marvel at his own strength and majesty.

Using his tail as a rudder, he guided his massive body parallel to the curves of the long river, scouting for potential gray-furred prey. His eyes, the color of northern glaciers, examined every change in the variety of colors and every movement along the banks. At the same time, his long, forked tongue hung out from the double row of his sharp teeth, tasting the scents that the wind brought his way.

Today had begun strangely full of events. In fact, it was one of the few times in a century when the great dragon had an opportunity to feel something akin to joy. The two-legs-round-ears rider, bound-with-him-with-magic, had visited him in the dragonhold while he was tearing flesh from his live-food-animal. He had wanted to share with him up close, not just from a distance with his mind, the two big pieces of news.

Not only had the stolen egg hatched for someone, signifying that the mother of the entire new generation of dragons had already been born into the world, but additionally, one of the other two stored eggs—specifically the red one—had apparently recognized Morzan's hatchling as its potential 'chosen one.'

The news could initially be considered good. The two-legs-bound-with-magic appeared doubly and triply pleased, recounting how the new circumstances were forming and the various possibilities stemming from them. The stolen dragoness would soon return to them, and another new pair of their kind would be born.

Upon hearing of the birth of the only existing female, the black dragon felt in his belly the fragments of a half-forgotten desire, born of intense yearning. However, the recklessly spoken word "chosen one" awakened in the depths of his soul and mind images and feelings he preferred to remain forever dormant. That was the reason he immediately left the dragonhold to fly over the wilderness of the land.

For over a century, every day of his life began as if he were born anew, without keeping memories of emotions from yesterday or the previous years. He had decided that this was the best, the only way for him to survive. His whole life had once been split in two: the happy, brief 'before' and the unbearable, vast 'after.' The first one, the brief period of happiness, from the moment he felt his chosen one inside the egg until...

...No, he would never speak of it... He couldn't even bear to remember it...

...he had suppressed it deep within his mind and soul. The magic of the dark rider might have contributed to this, so his life wasn't lost or scattered along with that of his chosen one. The pain of his soul was covered by an impenetrable wall, from which any images, sounds, or scents that slipped through uninvited always resulted in disturbing his psyche, stirring up bouts of unspeakable madness.

At these hours, if the two-legs-on-the-throne allowed it, the dragon could surge across the realm, burning cities and villages, fields of crops and forests, tearing apart everything that walks, crawls, flies, or swims in the land of Alagaësia.

The dragon could wipe out the entire world to ease the memory of images escaping from the 'after.' Two-legs-round-ears, two-legs-pointed-ears, dragons, unborn eggs-in-nests, bodies torn apart, broken, burned, and melted under the orders of the dark-rider-bound-with-magic. And he would do all this with one single hope: that perhaps he could hasten the turning of time and finally reach the redemption hiding behind the wall, where his chosen one might still be waiting for him, to be reunited.

The dragon beat his wings harder as these thoughts filled his mind with agony. "My name is Shruikan," he mentally cried out to whoever might hear his voice. "I am bound with magic to the dark-rider-on-the-throne, and no one has ever endured my torment. No one has ever been forced to serve the one who... no... I won't say it... I can't even let the thought of my own demise cross my mind!"

A massive wave of fire surged from the depths of his belly toward the heavens, driven by the despair of his soul. His powerful roar made the mountain peaks tremble. Everything in nature—running, crawling, and flying—hurriedly and tremblingly sought refuge in the darkest hiding places.

"I am Shruikan," he repeated in a thunderous voice, "and I am supremely strong, fast, and great. I think that if they let me, I could destroy the entire world, because, I believe, no one and nothing deserves to live in it. But one thing I am absolutely certain of: I do not want, nor will I tolerate, a pair named 'dragon-and-his-chosen-one' living beside me."

.*.*.*.

He never managed to reach Dras-Leona. He spotted the two Ra'zac and their steeds flying low over the plain and quickly hid among the clusters of trees north of the road leading to the city. Without dismounting, he calmed his horse. Hidden among the dense vegetation, he would go unnoticed. There, he patiently waited.

The sun had set for some time, and darkness had covered the barren, cold land. Murtagh had galloped determinedly that day, avoiding stops, hoping to reach the city gates before dusk. However, his calculations had failed, and as he was to spend yet another night in the freezing countryside, he no longer hurried his horse forward.

A strange, unseasonal southern wind was blowing, dragging dust and the scents of a distant storm into the electrified atmosphere. The Snow Moon—the moon of January—appeared suddenly among the clouds, pouring its abundant light over the desolate plain. Then, he clearly discerned the shadows of the black-clad riders, darkening the sky beneath the moonbeams.

He watched them from a distance, observing the areas around the city. Silently, the two Lethrblaka sliced through the night with their bat-like wings. He saw them hastily heading south, towards the untouched peak of Mount Helgrind, visible among the clouds. He had identified the two servants of the king. Perhaps the target, who had to be delivered safe and sound to Galbatorix according to the recent order, was nearby.

Murtagh emerged from his hiding place and hurried to follow the path of the Ra'zac. With no obstacles ahead, he galloped uncontrollably across the plain, while time flowed endlessly beside him, minute by minute, hour by hour. Despite the wind and the cold in the air, sweat droplets trickled from his forehead into his eyes as he felt the time for action had come. The Ra'zac were close, and so was the thief of the royal treasure. Galbatorix had ordered him to observe without intervening, but Murtagh's desire was to personally deliver the treasure to the king and win his favor.

He must have traveled far from Dras-Leona, for the night had advanced significantly, and the constellations in the sky had shifted positions. As the clouds thickened again, obscuring the moon, and the wind intensified, lifting dust from the parched earth that blurred his vision, he could still discern the two dark shapes flying low in the distance ahead of him. It even seemed to him that they had descended very close to the ground—something they would surely only do if they had spotted a target.

Despite the howling wind, Murtagh made sure to slow his gallop, guiding the horse through areas where the soil seemed rich and soft. He carefully avoided the rocky patches scattered here and there, thus reducing the chance of the horse's hooves clattering against the stone.

In the middle of nowhere, he noticed a glow on the frozen plain, whipped by the wind, next to a boulder that reflected its light. Could the thief be there? Hadn't the dark pursuers also headed that way? Was he so foolish as to have lit a fire with the Ra'zac so close? Perhaps he didn't even suspect that he was being watched, which might explain why he had acted so recklessly.

Murtagh approached on horseback until he deemed it safe to dismount. Leading the horse among the rocks, he hobbled it for safety and left his other belongings behind. He also discarded his heavy cloak to move freely, uncertain of what might happen at any moment. Continuing on foot, he held a bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows in the other. Always prepared, he had his sword strapped to his waist and a dagger in his boot for emergencies. However, against the Ra'zac, these would be useless—his arrows and bow would suffice.

Murtagh approached cautiously, using the rocks to conceal himself. He quickly realized that the glow he had mistaken for a fire was nothing more than a lit oil lantern. Abandoned on the ground, it illuminated the interior of a small, hastily set-up campsite among the boulders.

Truth is, if someone didn't know what they were looking for, the boulders would hide the campsite from the eyes of any potential traveler. However, the Ra'zac had discovered their quarry from above. Despite the king's orders to deliver the wanted person unharmed, Murtagh saw with disgust that the young thief lay beaten and bound, probably unconscious, on the ground. His belongings were scattered around the empty bags, a sign that the Ra'zac had tried to appropriate the treasure.

Murtagh already had the first arrow ready, strung on his bowstring for some time now. Angrily, he hurried to shoot, releasing two more consecutive arrows, saving the elderly companion of the thief, whom the two Ra'zac held kneeling in the center of the campsite, ready to slit his throat.

What angered him the most, however, wasn't the disobedience of the king's servants—Galbatorix would never have sent him if he wasn't certain of their defiance—but the deception in the king's words.

..."Deliver the thief safely to your king, Murtagh, and likewise untouched the treasure he carries"...

..."And what is the treasure, Your Majesty?"...

..."That, son of Out ally and friend, will be easy to ascertain once you see it"...

On the opposite side of the campsite, under the last, pale light of the setting moon, sat a magnificent blue dragon on his hind legs. His fearsome jaws, lined with deadly teeth, were bound by a leather muzzle. His four limbs were securely hobbled, and a thick chain wrapped twice around his body, securing his folded wings. The lamplight made his silver horns gleam, and the dragon's scales sparkled, reflecting the light multiple times over.

Murtagh ran swiftly to the other side, cursing as he unleashed as many arrows as he could upon the Ra'zac, who hastily fled. Certain that his arrows had seriously injured one—the would-be murderer—and superficially wounded the other, and confident that the king would be furious if he ended their lives, Murtagh allowed them to escape. The Lethrblaka were nowhere nearby to assist them.

His attention turned entirely to the treasure that Galbatorix sought—none other than the blue dragon. This was presumably a third egg that the king once possessed, stolen years ago. The young 'thief' was, in fact, the rider for whom this dragon had hatched.

With great discontent, Murtagh thought about how he had promised to lead both to Dras-Leona, having sworn to deliver them into the king's hands, who would make the journey for this unique occasion.

.*.*.*.

"Answer what I'm asking you, she-elf. The longer you insist on keeping your mouth shut, the worse your situation will become."

The Shade waited for a response for a moment. When none came, he nodded sharply at the torturer, who wore a leather hood. The torturer grabbed the handle of the iron with his gloved hand, its tip glowing hot from the furnace's coals.

The thin fabric of her shirt burned almost instantaneously, glittering at the edges of the wound, and the smell of scorched flesh filled the small cell. The woman pressed her eyes tightly shut, her lips parted in a silent scream, without a sound of pain or protest escaping them.

The Shade laughed maliciously at her effort to hold back her screams. Neither her tears nor her pleas would have moved his heart in the slightest. In fact, it was even better that she didn't scream, for her pain became more intense that way. With his crimson eyes full of satisfaction, the Shade allowed the process to be repeated again and again.

Her eyes darkened as their light faded, and the whisper on her lips died away. All the while, the fire of the glowing iron touched her mercilessly. Only one image drove away the fluttering wings of death, which would not tarry long.

... Fäolin's calloused hand gently held hers as he guided her through the lush green paths… His lips never ceased whispering sweet words, whenever they lay at night on the grass in the middle of the clearing, enjoying the light of the stars…

"You're very stubborn, she-elf." The Shade's rough hand, with its sharp nails, plunged savagely into her hair, pulling it forcefully and wounding her scalp. He forced her head to rise until her eyes met his blood-red ones. "If you don't submit to me and my will, know that even worse hours than these await you."

The darkness enveloped everything around her, as if she had been lowered into a deep pit in the ground and forgotten there. Her whole body ached, lying on the hard wooden bed…

…wood from a dead tree…"

...she was parched, and the stench of burnt fat stung her nostrils. She struggled to suppress the wave of nausea that rose up to her throat, only to feel her mouth fill up immediately after.

"The prison guards prepare their own food," his voice whispered maliciously into her ear. "Won't you taste it?"

She is strapped to the dead wood... The agony of death touches her eternal life... The barren stone cell that encloses her existence feels suffocating... The very air she breathes carries the stench of decay. Her wounded back leans against a dead tree... The odor of dead animals—skinned and burnt—mixes with the stench of congealed blood. Everything around her cries out for the end of life... Everything screams of 'Death!'...

"The same fate awaits you as well. Just like the one that has already consumed your two comrades." He knew these words would hurt her, filling him with a fleeting satisfaction. But the relentless hatred and passionate fury within him quickly prevailed. Because of the foolish Urgal, two forest elves had been lost in vain. He imagined having those two under his control, imagining the tortures he would impose on them. How the presence of all three would amplify each one's suffering.

His voice sounded harsh and inhuman to her ears, but she could never forget that he was not human. The whip had wounded her flesh, but it was her other senses that suffered the most. The cause was the pieces of dead animals they brought every day to her cell, in the bowl made of dead wood, which they called her food bowl. The stench of their burnt flesh and fat caused more pain than the hot iron pressed against her chest. She had forgotten the fragrance of damp earth and the scent of blooming pines. Everything around her was death. Even the water they gave her to drink, instead of bringing life, held her demise. Her senses gradually faded.

...She can hear his voice... Singing the song of love with his high tones... They sit side by side at the Menoa tree, and Fäolin recites to her the old story of Linnëa...

She had heard many of her people narrate this myth. She had read it herself once. But Fäolin told it better than anyone. For a few seconds, she felt her breath fill with the scents of the forest. If only the Shade's harsh voice hadn't interrupted her...

"If you don't tell me what I want to hear, you will surely say it in front of the king himself." The Shade was overjoyed at the prospect of tormenting her in such ways. If she were human, she would have broken. But the she-elf endured still. And she would endure more, for he had many tortures planned for her.

His rage boiled, overflowed and poured out from the depths of his being like poison contaminating the world. And, along with the venom he dripped onto her body, he forced her to taste dead flesh and blood.

"Skilna Bragh kills your magic. It poisons your very blood as it flows through your veins. If I wish, you will die a thousand times within every hour, enduring unbearable pain and wounds that devour your body."

He grabbed her hair, lifting her head and bringing his mouth close to hers. His sharp teeth gleamed in the torchlight, and his breath reeked of death.

"Only I possess, elf, the doses of the antidote you need. You need me if you want to survive." He smiled wickedly at her, his face twisting, and beneath his translucent skin, veins filled with blood and darkness emerged. "I know well how much you eternal ones value life. How superior you consider your precious selves. Nothing like these wretched humans." His expression filled with contempt. He let go of her hair, and her beautiful head dropped abruptly, hitting the wooden bed.

…The dead wood…

Then again, she was alone in the cold, covered in vomit from unchewed, rancid flesh. The pain from the red-hot iron gnawed fiercely at her skin. But what she couldn't stand was the smell of pus from the deep wound.

The stench reminded her of the forest on the night of the fire...

Steeled to endure and withstand, she turned deep within herself. There, however, a more painful memory awaited her. The image of her fallen comrades, lying like two corpses on the ground, not after an honorable duel but an ambush. The fire that had consumed their beautiful bodies... And what the flames had not devoured... Their flesh rotting on the earth, filled with worms. The wild beasts would come later to tear apart what remained, stripping the bones, dragging strips of entrails through the mud and ashes.

No one would find them to wash and adorn the bodies of her lost comrades. Neither to comb their long hair and spread it like cascades over their broad chests, nor to sing the song of sorrow in front of their graves. No tree would be planted above their covered pits, to become their passage to the abyss, the beginning of a new life, a new start.

The smell of pine needles had faded from her memory once again.

"Tell me, men, have you ever bedded an elf?"

His hand grabbed a curl from her loose hair, twisting it persistently between his fingers. The walls of the cell echoed with vulgar laughter and unspeakable whispers from her guards.

"Elves are by nature so different from humans," continued the voice of the Shade, "with all those delicate manners, gentle touches, and graceful movements."

He let go of her hair and turned to the three men he had brought into the cell.

"You are not like that at all," he said to them. "Make her suffer! The more savagely and harshly you treat her, the better."

He exited the cell, closing the iron door behind him. His heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor as he walked away.

And they made her suffer, but not in the humiliating way they had planned earlier.

Despite her weakness and exhaustion, she still kept enough strength within her to deaden their lustful, beastly desires. However, they became enraged when they realized that the beauty of her body had no impact on their senses. They called her a 'witch' who bewitched them and made them impotent. They dragged her around, beat her, and insulted her in every way they could think of. Until, when they grew tired, they left her lying on the cold floor, drenched in blood.

And there she remained motionless, contemplating Fäolin's dead eyes, which were fixed on the silver light of the stars, no longer seeing them. The pain from the whip was strong and stung her skin, but a worse torment was that she could no longer remember the scents of the forest.

…the fallen pine needles… the wet soil… the bright, green sprouts… brooks and streams… the chirping of the birds… the deer's velvet eyes…

Until oblivion came to embrace her on the cold stone, beside the dead wood of the lifeless tree, which humans called 'a bed'.

When she later came to, the smell of urine and feces hit her nostrils. The rancid air, with its bitter taste, suffocated her, and she could no longer breathe. She thought she would die right then and there.

Trying to survive, she grasped the memory...

…Fäolin's cool fingers spread over her face, touching her thirsty lips... His hand holds hers, guiding her beside the brook... deep within the forest... where not even the silver moonbeams can reach... His delicate fingers stroke her silky hair, and his warm lips gently touch her fevered forehead... The palm of his hand tenderly rests low on her bare back... He whispers words of love close to her ear...

The sweet memory breaks the steel that has clothed her soul. Tears roll down her angular face from her feline eyes. The noble Fäolin, who had convinced her of how special she was to him with the subtle nuances of his voice. His spirit was so close to hers that he had wanted to share with her the greatest adventure and responsibility of her life.

Their other comrade, the sweet mimic of the birds, Glenwing, would never let a faithful friend go alone, so he joined their company as well. She led them away from Ellesméra, heading to dangerous places. She guided their steps through the wildness and harshness of the world.

Following her faith in her mission, they ventured beyond the edges of the forest, where the magic of the elves weakens and fades away. It was she who determined and directed their path each time. It was she who led them straight to their deaths.

"She hasn't eaten or drunk anything again." The Shade extended the full bowl towards the guard. "Make sure she eats well and drinks all her water tonight," he said. "I want her strong tomorrow." He motioned for the man to leave the cell, his presence no longer needed. Turning back to the elf woman, he continued, "As you well understand, tomorrow is finally the big day I promised. At dawn, we begin our journey to the capital. I will accompany you to Urû'baen with my guards and deliver you to the king."

The Shade circled around her weakened body, which hung loosely from her wounded wrists. He stopped and watched her, laughing maliciously. This journey was undoubtedly what the elf woman feared the most. So far from the forests of her ancestors, yet so close to Galbatorix...

With a simple movement of his hand, the chains opened, and her body collapsed in one piece onto the dirty, stone floor. The Shade bent down, lifted the woman into his arms like she was as light as a feather, and placed her onto the rough wooden planks of the bed. Dark drops of blood began to flow from her slender fingers, forming a clotted stain on the floor. Her long eyelids fluttered, and her coral lips parted. Despite her dire state, her eyes fixed fearlessly on his face, revealing their bright emerald color.

Stepping back, the Shade remained for a moment to observe her. The rare beauty of this forest creature had no effect on him. In his fire-red gaze, the only thing that stood out was malicious wickedness.

"Galbatorix has countless ways to extract from your elf mind all that he needs," he threatened, his voice colored with a tone of uncontrolled spite. "You may have resisted me and perhaps even think you tired me out. But in reality, I enjoyed your interrogation more than anything else."

He abruptly turned his back to her and left the underground cell. For a moment, he paused in front of one of her two guards. "Do not hang her by the chain again. I want her hands free, so she can eat all her food. Make sure her cup is emptied."

The elf woman closed her eyes in despair. The green forests faded from her memories, and their scent was lost forever. Her body weakened without food, clean water, and fresh air. Day by day, the Shade's poison was killing her, biting into her flesh like a venomous snake. She stretched the remaining power of her mind, seeking help from wherever it might come.