CHAPTER FOUR

Calm before the storm

The first light of dawn filtered through my window, the pale hues of orange and gold painting the horizon. I stirred from my bed, the cold of the morning air biting at my skin. Quickly, I dressed and set about preparing for the day, the anticipation of what was to come fueling my every movement. Today was the day—I was certain of it.

I completed my chores methodically, though my eyes were constantly drawn to the road leading into town. I wasn't sure when Eragon would arrive, but I knew it would be in the morning. The rhythmic sounds of my tasks—scrubbing, sweeping, tidying—did little to calm the anxious thrum of my heartbeat. By the time the sun had risen fully, casting long shadows across the village, I had finished everything and was preparing to step outside when I nearly collided with Horst in the doorway.

"Morning," he greeted, his voice warm but gruff as always.

"Morning," I replied, stepping aside to let him through. "Need a hand with anything today?"

He gave me a considering look, then nodded. "Could use some help. Got a few errands to run, might pass by Sloan's shop."

The mention of Sloan immediately brought my thoughts back to the books. This is it, I thought. I couldn't miss this moment. "Sounds good," I said, keeping my tone even.

We made our way through the village, the crisp morning air invigorating but heavy with the weight of what I knew was coming. As we approached Sloan's shop, the door creaked open, and Katrina emerged from the back. Her face was etched with worry, her brows furrowed deeply.

"Horst," she called, her voice tight with concern. "You need to come inside. Father and Eragon… they're arguing. It's about some blue rock he brought back from the Spine."

My stomach tightened. Here we go, I thought, steeling myself. Horst exchanged a glance with me before nodding and striding toward the shop. I followed closely, my heart pounding in anticipation.

The scene inside was chaotic. Sloan stood behind the counter, brandishing a knife, his face twisted in a mix of anger and fear. Eragon stood a few feet away, his expression one of shock and frustration, his gaze darting between Katrina, Sloan, and then, finally, to me. His eyes widened slightly when he saw me, but he said nothing.

"Sloan, what's the meaning of this?" Horst's voice was calm but firm, a tone that demanded respect.

Sloan faltered, lowering the knife slightly. His eyes flicked to Horst with a flicker of fear before he tried to explain. "I won't—" he began, but Horst cut him off sharply.

"Quiet." Horst stepped forward, his presence commanding. "Now, what's going on?"

Sloan's defensive attitude crumbled slightly. "It's nothing," he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction. "Eragon's the one bothering me."

Horst turned to Eragon, who straightened under the weight of the older man's gaze. "Is that true?" Horst asked.

Eragon shook his head firmly. "No. I offered the stone as payment for the meat I needed. But when I told him it was from the Spine, he refused to serve me and chased me out."

Sloan sneered. "I have the right to serve who I damn well please."

I couldn't help the scoff that escaped me. "Businessman of the year," I muttered under my breath, earning a sharp look from Sloan.

Katrina tried to reason with her father. "Father, it's just a rock! Please, stop this."

But Sloan wasn't budging. His stubbornness was infuriating, and I could see Katrina's patience fraying. Horst, however, remained calm and addressed Eragon again. "How much meat do you need?"

"As much as I can carry," Eragon replied, his tone cautious but grateful.

Horst reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Sloan, fill his pack with the best cuts you have."

Sloan hesitated, his eyes narrowing. "I—"

"Now," Horst said, his voice cold as steel, "or you'll regret it."

With a muttered curse, Sloan disappeared into the back room. When he returned, he carried the meat, setting it down with more force than necessary. Horst and I helped Eragon fill his pack, the tension in the air finally beginning to ease.

"Thank you," Eragon said earnestly, his gaze bouncing between us.

Horst waved him off. "No need. You can pay me back by joining us in the forge. Albriech's heading to Feinster soon, and we'll need an extra hand."

Eragon nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I'll do that."

Once we were outside, I turned to Eragon. "Want some help carrying that back home?"

He hesitated before nodding. "Sure. Thanks."

As we walked, the forest rising in the distance, Eragon began talking about Katrina. "I left a message for her," he admitted. "I just hope she gets it."

"She will," I assured him. "I'll make sure of it."

We fell into an easy rhythm, our conversation shifting to lighter topics, with Eragon sharing how he came about the stone he was holding, oblivious to it being an egg. But as we neared the farm, I stopped and turned to him. "Eragon, listen to me. Don't show that stone to anyone else."

He frowned, confusion etched across his face. "Why not?"

I hesitated, then lied. "It doesn't look natural. It looks… magical. And if it is, dangerous people might be looking for it."

His eyes widened slightly, the gravity of my words sinking in. "You think it's magical?"

"I don't know," I said, keeping my voice calm but firm. "But better safe than sorry."

After a moment, he nodded reluctantly. "Alright. I won't show it to anyone."

"Good." I clapped him on the shoulder, forcing a smile. "Take care of yourself, Eragon, see you soon."

We parted ways shortly after, the farm fading into the distance behind me. My steps quickened as I turned toward Brom's house, the weight of what had just transpired settling heavily on my shoulders. The game was truly in motion now.

The morning air was still cool as I approached Brom's house, the small structure tucked away at the edge of the village. The wooden boards of the porch creaked under my weight as I stepped up and knocked on the door. One knock. Two. Three. Just as I raised my hand for a fourth, the door swung open abruptly, revealing Brom, his gray hair disheveled and his expression as cantankerous as ever.

"Damn it, boy," he grumbled, his voice rough from sleep. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

I didn't wait for him to finish or for an invitation. I pushed past him into the house, ignoring his protests. "I have something important to tell you," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument.

"It better be important," he snapped, closing the door with a sharp click. "Or there'll be hell to pay."

I turned to face him. He was fumbling with his pipe, attempting to light it with trembling fingers. The faint scent of tobacco filled the room as I took a deep breath and dropped the bombshell. "Eragon found a dragon egg in the forest."

The effect was immediate. Brom froze mid-motion, the unlit pipe falling from his hand and clattering to the floor. He coughed violently, choking on air and sputtering as he steadied himself against the wall. His weathered face was a mixture of disbelief and something deeper—fear, maybe, or reverence.

"I beg your pardon?" he finally managed; his voice hoarse.

I repeated myself, slower this time, my words deliberate. "Eragon found a dragon egg. In the Spine. He told me about it this morning."

Brom stared at me, his lips parted as though he were about to speak, but no sound came out. He shuffled to the table and sank into a chair, his hand gripping the edge as though to anchor himself. I followed, sitting across from him, giving him the space to process what I'd just revealed.

For several minutes, the room was silent except for the occasional creak of wood as Brom shifted in his seat. His pipe lay forgotten on the floor. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and strained.

"There are things I haven't told you, Mark," he began, not meeting my gaze. "Things about my life before… before I became a storyteller. I was part of the—"

"The Varden," I interrupted, leaning back in my chair. "Yeah, I know."

Brom's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized me. "How the hell do you know that?" he asked, suspicion thick in his voice.

I decided to stick to my cover story, one I'd rehearsed for this exact moment. "I don't know," I said, feigning confusion. "I've been remembering things. Bits and pieces of information, but I have no idea where it's coming from. I just… know stuff."

Brom scoffed, but his sharp gaze lingered on me, assessing. With a grunt, he bent down to retrieve his pipe, lit it, and took a long puff. Smoke curled lazily around his head as he leaned back in his chair, visibly relaxing. "Alright," he said gruffly. "Let's assume you're telling the truth. The egg… whoever sent it must have been in grave danger. It was meant for me, I'm sure of it. But somehow, it ended up with Eragon."

I leaned forward, locking eyes with him. "Because he's your son."

The words hung in the air like a physical weight, and for a moment, Brom looked as though I'd struck him. His eyes widened, and his pipe faltered in his grip. "How do you know that?" he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I know almost everything about you, Brom," I said softly, my tone steady but insistent. "I am a friend." Switching to the ancient language, I added, 'I mean you no harm, and I will aid you in stopping Galbatorix.'

The effect was immediate. Brom visibly relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing as he regarded me with a newfound sense of trust. "So, you really do know everything," he said, his voice tinged with resignation.

I chuckled lightly. "And you know everything about me too, so, it's only fair."

Brom allowed himself a faint smile before returning to the matter at hand. "We have to prepare," he said, his tone growing serious again. "The king will send his agents for the egg. Eragon must be protected, and the egg… it should be taken somewhere safe."

"No," I said firmly, holding his gaze. "I have a feeling the egg will hatch for him. We need to give it time."

Brom's eyes narrowed. "How can you be so sure?"

I hesitated, then answered, "Destiny. The egg didn't just fall into his lap by accident. It was meant for him."

He studied me for a long moment before nodding, albeit reluctantly. "Alright," he said. "We'll see how this plays out. But if you're wrong…"

"I'm not," I said confidently, standing up. "Trust me, Brom. Its best if it hatches for him."

Brom nodded again, his gaze distant as he puffed his pipe, the weight of my words settling heavily on him.

"Once the egg hatches, we should set off for the Varden immediately," Brom said, his voice heavy with conviction. "The longer we stay here, the more danger we invite. Galbatorix's agents will come. They'll hunt the egg and the Rider. We need to reach the Varden—and the elves—before it's too late."

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "And leave Carvahall defenseless? The people here will suffer if anyone comes looking for the egg. You know how ruthless the Empire is."

Brom's jaw tightened, and he puffed his pipe, the smoke curling around his furrowed brow. "I'm not blind to the dangers, boy. But the longer we stay, the greater the risk to everyone. Better to move quickly and draw attention away."

"And run headfirst into the unknown?" I countered, leaning forward. "We don't know who or what might already be tracking the egg. If we leave now, we risk walking into a trap—or worse, leaving the village to face the Empire's wrath without even knowing it's coming."

His eyes bore into mine, a mixture of frustration and concern. "Do you think I don't care about these people? I've lived here for years, Mark. I've protected them in my own way."

"And you can protect them now by staying," I pressed, my tone steady but insistent. "At least until we're sure the egg is safe. Leaving without knowing the full scope of the threat could cost more lives than staying and preparing."

Brom sighed heavily, setting his pipe down and rubbing his temples. The morning sun caught the gray streaks in his hair, making him look older, wearier. Finally, he nodded, though reluctance lingered in his gaze. "Alright," he said gruffly. "We'll stay. But we can't wait indefinitely. The longer the egg remains here, the more danger we're all in."

"Agreed," I said, relieved he had seen reason. "We'll monitor the situation and act when the time is right."

The rest of the morning was spent discussing contingencies, routes, and how best to prepare Eragon without drawing attention. Brom's wealth of knowledge was invaluable, but I kept certain details to myself—like the Vault of Souls and my growing arsenal of enchanted equipment. There were some things even Brom wasn't ready to hear.

By the time I returned home, the sun was high in the sky. Elain greeted me warmly, her belly slightly rounder now. She tried to insist that she could handle the chores herself, but I waved her off and took over, much to her mock indignation.

"Men and their stubbornness," she muttered as she sat down to rest. "You're as bad as Horst."

"And proud of it," I replied with a grin, earning a soft chuckle from her.

The day passed uneventfully as I cleaned, prepared food, and washed clothes. The rhythm of the chores was soothing in its simplicity, a stark contrast to the weighty discussions of the morning. But even as I worked, my mind buzzed with ideas and plans.

Later, in the quiet of my room, I focused on the gemstones embedded in the armors I had crafted. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I held one of the pieces in my hands, pouring energy into the stones until they glowed faintly. The sheer amount of energy it could store now was staggering, a testament to months of refinement.

But the process was exhausting. The energy I deposited was finite, drawn from my own reserves. It left me vulnerable, and that vulnerability was unacceptable. There had to be a better way—a way to make the armor self-sustaining.

The idea had struck me weeks ago: what if I could harness heat or sunlight to replenish the energy, similar to how plants absorbed sunlight for growth or how the Eldunarí sustained themselves? The concept was tantalizing, but the execution was another matter. Brom, for all his knowledge, wouldn't have answers about the Eldunarí. That knowledge was locked away in Vroengard—or, more specifically, in the Vault of Souls.

Strangely, I remembered the Vault with startling clarity, the spell of forgetting that was placed on its name in the books not affecting me. That in itself was intriguing. For now, though, the Vault was out of reach. Without my true name, there was no way to enter, it might as well have been a myth. So, I set the thought aside, focusing on what I could accomplish in the present.

As the evening deepened, my mind wandered to the intricate web of events I needed to navigate. Arya was still in Gil'ead, held captive by Durza and awaiting rescue. Eragon, unaware of the gravity of his destiny, would need training—not just with Brom, but with me as well. Carvahall had to be fortified against potential threats, and Garrow had to be saved. Brom's survival was non-negotiable, and ensuring it would require careful planning.

And then there was Murtagh. His arrival would be another turning point, one I would have to handle delicately. Each step forward was a balancing act, one that demanded precision and patience.

Sitting in the dim light of my room, I clenched my fist, determination hardening my resolve. The path ahead was treacherous, but I wasn't walking it blindly. I had a plan. And I intended to see it through, no matter the cost.

The following day, the clang of hammers against metal filled the crisp morning air as I stood beside Horst in his forge, sparks flying with each strike. Sweat trickled down our brows despite the cool breeze from the Spine as Baldor and Albriech wrestled a heavy wooden frame into place. Together, we had spent days crafting two carriages, the fruits of careful planning and determination.

The first carriage was sturdy and comfortable, designed specifically with Elain in mind. Its spacious interior could accommodate her and the growing family once the time came for Carvahall to make its perilous exodus. I had kept those plans to myself.

The second carriage was more utilitarian, built to store the goods and resources we would need for the journey ahead. Every inch was meticulously designed, from hidden compartments for weapons to reinforced walls for protection against stray arrows. Horst had not noticed me adding enchanted mechanisms to the undercarriage—a backup plan, should we find ourselves without a horse the carriage would be able to move on its own. It was crude and would drain one of my crystals in mere hours, but it was better than leaving us stranded.

In the evenings, after the day's labor, I poured myself into a notebook filled with sketches and blueprints I was planning to leave with Horst. The pages were a testament to everything I had learned and adapted for Alagaësia's people. Crossbow designs, instructions for fortifications, diagrams for traps—anything and everything that could help Horst defend Carvahall against Galbatorix's forces.

The Ra'zac were a different matter entirely. Their speed and lethality required a strategy far beyond mere defenses. I needed to devise something decisive, but the answer continued to elude me.

The traders arrived in town on a bright, bustling morning, their wagons rolling through Carvahall's muddy streets, bringing with them the hum of excitement and the scent of spices. As usual, I set up my small stall of inventions. Though primitive by Earth standards, the tools and contraptions I offered were nothing short of revolutionary to the non-magical folk of Alagaësia.

A man named Merlock approached, his greedy eyes gleaming as he fingered one of my devices—a collapsible hunting trap. He haggled and cajoled, but when the deal was done, his satisfied smirk left me uneasy. I pocketed the money and watched as he sauntered away, my instincts prickling.

Later that day, as I passed by Merlock's tent, my heart sank. There, standing in the entrance, were Eragon and Garrow. Eragon held the "blue stone" in his hands, showing it off to the man like a prize.

"Damn it, Eragon," I muttered under my breath, clenching my fists. "Why couldn't you just listen?"

I had warned him to keep the stone hidden, to trust no one with its secret. But there he was, obliviously handing it over to the one man I suspected would spread rumors like wildfire. My chest tightened with frustration, but there was nothing I could do without drawing unwanted attention.

That evening, back at home, I busied myself in the kitchen, helping Elain prepare a feast for Garrow, Eragon, and the other guests. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the aroma of roasted meat grounded me, offering a moment of reprieve from the growing storm of my thoughts.

When dinner was served, I found myself seated next to Eragon. His face was flushed, and I could tell from his fidgeting that he was avoiding my gaze. I leaned in, my voice low so as not to draw the attention of the others.

"So," I said casually, "what's the latest with the stone?"

Eragon froze, the tips of his ears turning red. "I... uh..." He hesitated before sighing, his shoulders slumping. "I tried to sell it to Merlock earlier, but he wasn't interested."

Of course, he tried. I kept my expression neutral, though inside I was seething. "Probably for the best," I said evenly. "Keep it close. You never know its true worth until the right moment."

He nodded, guilt flashing in his eyes, and I let the matter drop—for now.

After the meal, we made our way to the traders' tents. The firelight flickered against the canvas walls, casting long shadows as the villagers gathered to listen to the traders' tales. A wiry man with a sharp nose and a theatrical voice regaled the crowd with rumors of a supposed pact between the Varden and the Urgals.

Murmurs of disapproval rippled through the crowd, and I caught Brom's eye. He shook his head slightly, a silent warning not to engage.

But Eragon had other ideas.

"That's ridiculous," he said, his voice cutting through the noise. "The Varden would never align themselves with Urgals."

The trader raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the challenge. "Oh? And what makes you so certain, boy? Do you have spies among their ranks?"

Before Eragon could respond, Brom stepped forward, his presence commanding silence. "Enough of this drivel," he said soothingly. "If you're so keen on tales, let me tell you one worth hearing—the tale of Galbatorix and the Riders."

The crowd fell silent as Brom spun his story, his voice low and hypnotic as he recounted the betrayal, the fall of the Riders, and the rise of the mad king. Even I couldn't help but be drawn in, despite having heard it all before.

As Brom finished, the crowd dispersed, their earlier skepticism replaced with unease. I shook my head, muttering to myself, "And he tells me not to draw attention to myself."

Brom, overhearing, gave me a wry smile as he lit his pipe. "Do as I say, not as I do, boy."

I snorted, shaking my head as I followed him back to the house. The night had been eventful, and I had a sinking feeling it was only the beginning.

The moment I returned to my room, I felt the weight of the day press down on me. The air was still, save for the faint crackle of the torch outside my window. I sat on the edge of my bed and focused my thoughts, reaching for the armor laid neatly in the corner. Each gem embedded in its surface glimmered faintly, awaiting the energy I had stored up throughout the day. Closing my eyes, I extended my mind toward the gems, feeling the warmth of my power flow into them like a river meeting the sea. It was routine by now, a necessary precaution to ensure I wasn't left vulnerable should the need arise.

When the last of my energy had been deposited, I collapsed onto the bed, my body heavy and my mind adrift. Sleep claimed me quickly, but this time, there were no dreams. Instead, I found myself standing in a void—a dark, endless realm filled with flowing mist that swirled around my feet like sentient shadows.

Before me loomed, a massive figure seated on an imposing, jagged throne. The man—if he could be called that—was enormous, his gray skin resembling weathered stone, and his crown a twisted assembly of cruel spikes that shimmered faintly in the gloom. His eyes, deep and piercing, seemed to hold the weight of eternity. A cold shiver ran down my spine.

"Well, this isn't creepy at all," I muttered under my breath, attempting to maintain a semblance of composure.

The figure raised a hand, his movements slow yet deliberate, as though he commanded the very fabric of this strange place. His voice echoed through the void, deep and resonant, carrying an undeniable authority.

"Come, my champion," he said, the words vibrating in my bones. "Step forward, for I would speak with thee."

My feet moved almost of their own accord, the mist parting as I approached him. When I stood before the throne, I hesitated, gathering my courage before speaking. "Who are you?" I asked, my voice steadier than I expected.

The man chuckled, a sound like distant thunder. "Impatient, are we? You have much to learn, young one. Patience and respect are virtues you would do well to cultivate."

His words stung, but I inclined my head. "I apologize," I said earnestly. "Please, continue."

He nodded, his expression softening slightly. "I am Angvard, god of death and justice. And you, young Mark, have been chosen as my champion in Alagaësia."

My mind reeled at his declaration, and I instinctively raised my hands, signaling a time-out. "Hold on," I said quickly, my tone laced with a mix of disbelief and caution. "What does being your champion even mean? And let me be clear—I'm not about to go on some killing spree just to satisfy your hunger or whatever."

Angvard laughed, a rich, booming sound that filled the void. "I require no such thing from you, child. Contrary to the tales of your world, death is not evil, nor does it hunger. It is but a part of life, as natural as the breath you take."

I crossed my arms, my skepticism fading slightly. "Fine, but how is this even possible? How are you here? How do you exist in both my world and this one?"

"Death is universal," he replied, his tone measured. "It has no beginning, no end. I exist where life exists, and I watch where life ceases."

His gaze grew heavier, more intent. "This world is fractured, young one. Galbatorix has twisted justice, betrayed the legacy of the Riders, and enslaved the souls of dragons to fuel his perverse ambitions and in the name of what he believes to be justice for his lost dragon. Well, true justice demands that he answer for these crimes, and it is you who will aid the new Rider in achieving this goal."

"And how am I to achieve this goal?" I asked warily.

" By any means necessary, so long as it stands for justice," he confirmed. "Your path is yours to forge. Your destiny remains open, but you must not alert others to the extent of your purpose. Sensitive knowledge will be stored in a locked part of your mind—unreachable even to those who wield the Ancient Language, including Galbatorix himself."

I nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling on my shoulders. "And the... abilities I've noticed? Enhanced strength and speed, the magic? That's your doing?"

"It is," Angvard said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Physically, you are already as strong and swift as an elf. With time and effort, you will grow even stronger. Magically, your potential is vast. Push yourself, and your reserves will expand. Like the elves, you are now immortal. Old age will not claim you."

The revelation left me momentarily stunned. Immortal. The word hung in the air, a heavy yet exhilarating burden. "So, you've given me all this power, but what about knowledge?" I asked after a moment, my curiosity piqued. "I've been working on a theory to convert sunlight and heat into magical energy, like the plants or Eldunarí do. Could you help with that?"

Angvard chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "That is your journey to undertake, young one. I have given you the tools. The rest, you must earn on your own."

I sighed but nodded, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Fair enough. Thank you for answering my questions, and... for trusting me with this."

Angvard inclined his head, his expression grave. "I will be watching, young champion. Go forth and fulfill your purpose. May justice guide your path."

As his voice faded, so did the dark realm. I awoke in my room, the faint light of dawn creeping through the window. The memories of the encounter remained vivid, as clear as if they had been etched into my mind.

I sat up, a quiet laugh escaping me. "Champion of death and justice, huh?" I murmured, the enormity of it all sinking in.

I glanced out the window, the horizon glowing with the promise of a new day. "Watch out, Alagaësia," I said with a grin. "Here I come."