CHAPTER SEVEN

Eureka

The next morning, I woke with a start. Angvard's words had been echoing in my head all night—a threat greater than Galbatorix. The very thought was a noose tightening around my resolve. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor, my fists clenched. I couldn't let this world fall, not now, not ever. I needed power, magic, and knowledge. I needed an edge that Galbatorix couldn't anticipate.

But how could I achieve it? The question gnawed at me until, like a flash of lightning, the answer struck. My thoughts froze in place, then cascaded into a torrent of clarity. Eureka! I shouted, leaping from the bed with a manic energy.

The door burst open as Horst, Baldor, and Elain rushed in, their faces etched with alarm.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt? Why are you screaming?" Elain demanded, her hands trembling slightly.

"I figured it out!" I exclaimed, pacing the room with wild excitement. "I figured it out!"

Horst, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow, asked, "Figured out what, son?"

"I'll explain later! I need to see Brom!" I blurted out before rushing out the door, leaving the three of them bewildered.

I sprinted through the village, ignoring the curious glances of villagers who had started to stir. When I reached Brom's house, I hammered on the door without pause until it finally creaked open. Brom stood there, his face a mask of irritation.

"What in the blazes is wrong with you, boy? Do you know what t—"

"I got it!" I interrupted, barging past him into the house. "I finally figured it out, a means for a self-replenishing energy source!"

Brom's annoyance melted into skepticism. "That's impossible. Countless minds, greater than yours, have tried and failed. What makes you different, boy?"

I grinned, undeterred. "I'm not from this world, old man. Remember that. In my world, we've already mastered the basics of harnessing energy from the sun. I just combined that knowledge with something this world already has—photosynthesis."

"Photosynthesis?" Brom asked, his brows furrowing in confusion as he closed the door behind him.

I took a seat, eager to explain. "Photosynthesis is the process plants use to convert sunlight into energy. In my world, we mimic this to create renewable energy systems."

As I detailed the process in simple terms, Brom's expression shifted from curiosity to astonishment. He sat down across from me, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Could Galbatorix be using something similar to augment his power?" Brom asked, leaning forward.

My excitement dimmed as I realized he didn't know about the Eldunarí. "Not quite," I said, my tone grave.

"What then," he asked. "I will tell you. But first, swear an oath of silence." I spoke.

Brom agreed and swore to silence in the ancient language.

"His power comes from a source far more insidious. Galbatorix uses the Eldunarí." I told him.

Brom froze, his eyes narrowing. "What is an Eldunarí?"

I explained it all—the heart of hearts, how dragons could expel them to preserve their consciousness, and how Galbatorix had enslaved countless Eldunarí to bolster his power. As I spoke, Brom's face drained of color.

"So, if a dragon dies after giving up its Eldunarí, it could live on?" Brom asked, his voice trembling. "If only my Saphira had—"

I cut him off gently, placing a hand on his arm. "Brom, her Eldunarí would have been too small. It would have driven her mad. She wouldn't have wanted that."

He nodded slowly, his eyes clouded with unspoken grief. "But a few dragon's Eldunarí shouldn't be enough to grant Galbatorix such power."

"Think Elda, how many dragons died by Galbatorix's hand in the Rider War?" I asked softly.

His eyes widened in realization. "Thousands," he whispered, slumping back into his chair. "By the gods, this is worse than I imagined."

I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Now you see what we're up against. And there's something worse coming. Angvard warned me—a threat greater than Galbatorix."

His head snapped up; his gaze sharp. "Angvard? The God of death?"

"Yes," I said. "But first, swear another oath of silence."

Brom swore, and I recounted my conversation with Angvard, his warning of a coming threat, and his permission to share this with trusted allies. When I finished, Brom's face was a storm of emotions—shock, fear, and determination.

"You are the champion of the god of death? That's the Deity that brought you here?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"And justice, and yes, he brought me here, to balance the scales of Justice." I added, giving him a faint smile.

Brom sat in silence for a long moment, then shook his head. "Eragon is out of his depth. I can't let him fight this."

I knelt beside him, meeting his gaze. "Brom, I know it feels hopeless, but Eragon has greatness in him. He's a prodigy. His dragon is special too. They can rise to this challenge if we prepare them."

Brom's expression softened, and he nodded reluctantly. "You are wise beyond your years, boy, sometimes I forget you are the same age as Eragon," he said with a faint smile.

I chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment, Elda."

Brom stood and began pacing. "We need to plan, factoring in everything you've told me. This changes everything."

I nodded. "And we don't have a moment to lose."

The morning sunlight filtered through the small window of Brom's house as we huddled around the rough-hewn table, the weight of our plan pressing heavily on our shoulders. We had spent hours deliberating, tossing ideas back and forth, weighing the risks and rewards of each move. Finally, we came to an agreement.

"We'll train Eragon and Saphira in the Spine," Brom concluded, his weathered hands resting on the table. "It's isolated enough to keep them safe while giving them the space they need to grow stronger."

I nodded. "Meanwhile, we'll prepare to evacuate the villagers. We can't risk staying here when the Ra'zac will inevitably return—and with reinforcements. We need to start moving now."

Brom rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "Logistics will be our greatest challenge. How do you propose we move an entire village without drawing attention?"

A grin tugged at the corner of my lips. "I can build an airship," I said, the word rolling off my tongue with a mix of excitement and certainty.

Brom raised an eyebrow. "An airship? The designs you showed me a while back? You yourself said the energy it would take to keep something like that afloat was astronomical,' it's not feasible."

I leaned forward, determined to make him understand. "I'm not talking about relying on magic alone, Brom. I'll use helium—a gas lighter than air. Back in my world, we used it in blimps and other crafts to achieve lift."

His eyes narrowed; his curiosity piqued. "Helium? What in the name of Alagaësia is helium?"

I launched into an explanation, describing how helium was formed through the natural decay of radioactive materials and how it could be extracted from underground reserves. Brom listened intently, his initial skepticism giving way to cautious intrigue.

"And you can extract this…helium?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"With the right spell, yes," I said confidently. "The ancient language is like coding, and while I'm no master programmer, I'm good at finding sneaky, creative solutions."

Brom chuckled, a rare sound that lightened the air. "You truly are a strange one, boy. Very well. Build your airship. I'll train Eragon and Saphira while the preparations are underway."

With our plan set, we left the house. I cast a spell to locate a source of radioactive decay. The words came haltingly at first, the ancient language resisting my commands until I found the right phrasing. The spell hummed to life, and a faint glow pointed me toward a source buried deep beneath the earth. Relief flooded me. The materials I needed were within reach.

The first hurdle was cleared. Now came the harder part—convincing the villagers to leave their homes.

When we returned to Horst's house, the air was thick with tension. Voices rang out in heated argument.

"I deserve an answer, boy!" Garrow's voice boomed from within, raw with anger and grief. "Why were those monsters after you? Why was my farm burnt to the ground?"

We stepped inside to find Horst and Elain trying to calm Garrow, while Eragon stood rigid, guilt written across his face. Garrow turned to me as we entered, his expression a mixture of gratitude and fury.

"Young lad," he said, his voice trembling. "Thank you for saving my life, but why in the blazes didn't you save my farm too? That was all I had. Now, I have nothing!"

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to me. I met Garrow's gaze, my voice steady but tinged with empathy. "Garrow, the loss of your farm wasn't Eragon's fault, it was mine, I fought them, and to answer your question, If I'd focused on the fire, those strangers—the Ra'zac—would have killed you. I had to make a choice."

Garrow's shoulders sagged, but the fire in his eyes didn't dim. "Why were they after him?" he demanded, jabbing a finger in Eragon's direction. "What has my nephew done to bring this curse upon us?"

I looked at Eragon. "He needs to know," I said softly.

Eragon nodded reluctantly, and after extracting a sworn oath of silence from Garrow, I explained everything—the dragon egg, Saphira, and the Ra'zac's hunt for them. Garrow's face shifted from disbelief to shock as he processed my words.

"This...this is madness," he muttered, shaking his head. "Dragons? Riders? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Because I wanted to protect you," Eragon said, his voice cracking. "I never meant for this to happen."

Garrow ran a hand through his graying hair, his fingers trembling. "And Roran? He needs to be brought back. If we're to leave, he has to be here to come with us. I will not leave my son behind."

Horst stepped forward. "Albriech has already gone to fetch him," he assured Garrow. "He'll bring him back safely."

For a moment, Garrow seemed lost, his anger waning into weariness. Horst placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "You'll stay with us," he said. "We have plenty of room here."

It took considerable convincing from Eragon and Elain, but Garrow finally relented, agreeing to move into Horst's home.

With the immediate crisis resolved, it was time to address the villagers. Rumors had already spread about my supposed victory over the Ra'zac, and I knew I could leverage their trust to get them to listen.

"Horst," I said, turning to him, "you have influence in the village. Can you gather everyone? We need to speak to them about what's coming."

Horst nodded; his jaw set with determination. "Consider it done."

As he left to rally the villagers, I took a deep breath. The stakes had never been higher, but for the first time, I felt like we were taking the right steps.

The entire village stood gathered in the town center, their faces a mixture of curiosity and irritation at being summoned. The headman, a grizzled, stout man with a perpetually skeptical frown, stepped forward from the crowd and planted his walking stick firmly in the dirt. His tone was sharp as he asked, "Why have we been called here, Horst? What's this nonsense about danger?"

Horst, standing tall and unshaken, raised his hands to quiet the murmuring crowd. His voice was firm and carried an edge of urgency. "We've called you here because you deserve the truth. Garrow's farm wasn't destroyed by misfortune or carelessness. It was attacked—by the strangers, the same ones who came asking questions a few days ago."

The crowd stirred uneasily, whispers growing louder. "Strangers? What strangers?" a man near the front asked.

Horst's jaw tightened. "The ones who burned Garrow's home and tried to kill him, and failed because of Mark."

The headman scoffed loudly, his laugh dry and mocking. "Are we to believe that a fifteen-year-old boy drove off four grown men? Is this some kind of jest, Horst?"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, some chuckling in disbelief. Horst's face darkened. "They weren't men," he snapped. "They were Ra'zac."

The words hit like a thunderclap. Audible gasps swept through the villagers, followed by stunned silence. The tension in the air was palpable as people exchanged wide-eyed glances, their skepticism now tinged with fear.

"Ra'zac?" the headman said, sneering despite his pale complexion. "Myth and ghost stories to frighten children. They're no more real than dragons. Stop trying to spread panic Horst."

Before Horst could respond, Garrow stepped forward, his face etched with grief and rage. His voice was rough but commanding. "They're no myth. I saw them with my own eyes. Black cloaks, voices like a blade scraping bone, and the stench of death. They came for my nephew, they fought this boy, and burned my farm to ashes without a second thought."

The crowd leaned in closer, hanging onto Garrow's words. He spared no detail in describing the attackers but carefully omitted any mention of magic or Saphira. The villagers murmured nervously, their skepticism eroding under Garrow's grim testimony.

The headman's face twisted in annoyance. "This is absurd," he spat, his voice rising. "Horst, this has gone far enough! You're making fools of us all, trying to elevate this boy with wild tales. And you—" he jabbed a finger toward me "—you've spun enough nonsense. You're no savior, just a boy with a big imagination."

Sloan, the butcher, stepped up beside the headman, his disdain evident. "Horst always was good at making his sons seem larger than life. This is just another ploy to make himself look important."

Horst bristled, his lips parting to retort, but I touched his arm gently, stopping him. "Let me handle this," I said softly.

I stepped forward, meeting the headman's glare with calm confidence. "You want to know how I defeated the Ra'zac?" I asked, my voice loud enough to carry over the crowd.

The villagers nodded hesitantly, their curiosity overriding their doubts. The headman's mouth twisted in a mock smile as he said. "Please do, little savior, show us your might."

Raising my hand to the sky, I drew a deep breath, summoning my will. I focused on the ancient word, letting it vibrate through me as I spoke: "Brisingr!"

A roaring torrent of flames erupted into the sky, their light illuminating the shocked faces of the crowd. Heat washed over them, making some stumble backward, shielding their faces with trembling hands. Others fell to the ground in fear, their eyes wide with terror.

I held the spell for a moment longer, letting its power sink into their minds, before cutting it off. The flames vanished as suddenly as they had appeared, leaving only the faint scent of smoke in the air.

"That," I said, my voice calm but firm, "is how I drove them off."

The headman stood frozen, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to form words. His skepticism was gone, replaced by stunned silence. I seized the moment.

"The Ra'zac will return," I said, addressing the villagers directly. "And they'll bring reinforcements stronger than I can handle alone. If you stay here, I won't be able to protect you. We need to leave."

The murmurs of fear began to rise again, mingled with reluctant acceptance. A woman near the front raised her hand. "Where would we go? How can we be sure we'll be safe?"

"The Varden," I answered. "They're fighting the King and looking for allies. They'll take us in."

More murmurs spread as people considered the possibility. "And how do you know they'll take us?" another man asked skeptically.

"Because I'll make sure of it," I said, my voice unwavering. "I'm willing to fight the King, and they'll welcome anyone who stands against him."

The crowd nodded, some still uncertain but swayed by my conviction. The headman, still pale and silent, did not interrupt.

"How will we get to the Varden?" a voice called out from the back.

I scanned the crowd. "Are there any carpenters with shipbuilding experience?"

Fisk, a tall man with calloused hands, stepped forward. "I've done some work with boats and small crafts," he said cautiously. "What do you need?"

I pulled out the diagrams I had drawn and showed them to him, describing the dimensions and features of the airship. Fisk's eyes widened as he studied the sketches.

"You want this to fly?" he asked incredulously. "That's impossible."

"Not for me," I replied with a faint smile.

He frowned thoughtfully. "Even if I could believe that, building the frame alone would take at least a year—if not longer. We'd need to prepare the wood, shape it, and that's before assembling everything."

I bit back a curse. A year was far too long. Before I could reply, I felt a gentle nudge against my mental defenses. Turning, I saw Brom gesturing subtly toward his temple. Understanding his intent, I let him through. His voice echoed in my mind.

"You could sing it into existence," he suggested. "Use the ancient language to shape the ship directly from the trees."

I nodded, silently thanking him for the idea. Turning back to Fisk, I said, "Okay, I'll take care of the construction of the ship. For now, I need the village to help Horst prepare for our exodus."

The crowd began to disperse, murmuring among themselves. Though doubt lingered in some faces, most now carried a spark of hope, tempered by fear. As they moved to follow Horst's instructions, I exhaled deeply. The first step had been taken—but the road ahead would be long and fraught with challenges.

The weeks had passed in a blur of activity, sweat, and progress. Saphira had grown immensely, her wings now spanning wide enough to easily carry Eragon as she took to the skies above the Spine. She had become a natural flyer, her instincts sharp and her movements fluid. Brom's lessons, though not as refined as those taught by the legendary Glaedr, proved invaluable. He drilled her and me alike in aerial maneuvers, battle strategies, and the ancient knowledge of dragons and Riders.

Meanwhile, Brom had also begun training Eragon rigorously. At first, Eragon balked, grumbling about the intensity of the regimen and his sore muscles. But Brom's blunt explanation of the stakes—the Razac, the King, and the fate of Alagaësia—cut through the complaints like a knife. Eragon's reluctance melted, replaced by a fierce determination that burned in his eyes as he threw himself into his lessons.

One evening, after a grueling sparring session, Eragon had collapsed to the ground, panting. His voice had trembled with frustration as he said, "I feel so weak. How can I ever hope to stand against the Razac or Galbatorix?"

I had crouched beside him, gripping his shoulder firmly, and channeled my inner Kenobi. "You're still new to this, Eragon. Strength and skill come with time and effort. Remember, even the mightiest oak starts as a sapling. Trust in the process."

That seemed to settle him, and Brom nodded approvingly from where he leaned against a tree, pipe in hand.

At home, life had found a semblance of peace. Garrow, now healed, lived with us. The reunion with Roran had been a joyous occasion; Roran returned with Albriech and had been overjoyed to find his father alive and well. The bond between us deepened as the story of Garrow's rescue spread through Carvahall. Roran, ever practical, approached me one night and asked, "Why did you risk so much for my father?"

I met his gaze. "Because family matters, Roran. And because it was the right thing to do."

After weeks of rebuilding trust and camaraderie, I confided in him the truth. I made him swear an unbreakable oath to secrecy before taking him to meet Eragon with Saphira. His reaction had been a mix of awe and disbelief. When Eragon told him what Saphira had said, he was shocked.

"She talks?" he'd exclaimed, his voice tinged with wonder.

Saphira, her tone playful, had replied, directly into everyone's minds, "Indeed, I do Did you think me as mute as a rock?"

Roran had taken a step back, but his shock quickly turned to respect. "Apologies, Dragon, I meant no disrespect, I never knew dragons were so intelligent," he'd murmured.

The villagers, too, were transforming under the weight of new knowledge and preparation. Horst led the charge, utilizing the inventions from the book I'd shared with him. Pitchforks and crude farm tools gave way to enhanced crossbows, swords, and even rudimentary cannons powered by gunpowder. The sight of farmers training in proper battle formations, clad in armor crafted from Gedric's leather, was both surreal and inspiring.

Amidst all this, I poured my energy into a personal project. I sought to create a sustainable power source—a gem imbued with enchantments to harness sunlight and convert it into usable energy, mimicking the process of photosynthesis. The process was grueling. Extracting the massive yellow gemstone from underneath the Spine nearly killed me; I collapsed from the sheer effort. It took a week to recover, but I pressed on, shaping and polishing the gem, then painstakingly weaving the enchantments. When it finally worked, the gem glowed faintly, drawing energy from the sun, and storing it into itself. Exhausted but triumphant, I named it the Golden Heart. The gem was the size of a boulder.

With Brom's help, I moved on to the airship. The construction was nothing short of monumental. Using the Golden Heart as a power source, Brom and I sang the ship into existence. It took two weeks of chanting, weaving spells into every plank and joint, but when it was done, the ship was a marvel.

It spanned 250 meters in length, with a sleek, narrow hull inspired by Earth's naval battleships. The top flat deck was designed to hold Saphira comfortably, the entire ship was capable of carrying a crew of six hundred people and a lot of cargo. Above it, an enormous helium-filled balloon made of enchanted leather provided lift, protected by wards. Spells enhanced buoyancy and propulsion, with magical thrusters that could propel the ship forward using bursts of fire. The Golden Heart was embedded into the flat deck, where the control room and Saphira's perch were, drawing sunlight to power the enchantments.

The first flight was breathtaking. As the ship rose into the sky from Garrow's old farm, the villagers of Carvahall gathered, their faces a mix of awe and fear. The shadow of the massive vessel cast a chill over them as it floated gracefully overhead. Whispers filled the air, their disbelief palpable.

a month and a half later, Brom declared Eragon and Saphira ready to leave for the Varden. Eragon, however, had been distracted. He spoke often of a vision—a beautiful woman appearing to him, bound and in distress.

Brom dismissed it at first. "Dreams are just dreams, Eragon," he said gruffly.

But I knew better. That was the Vision of Arya I had been waiting for. One evening, I pressed the issue. "Let him scry her, Brom," I urged.

Reluctantly, Brom allowed it. Eragon's trembling hands traced the spell, and an image formed—a beautiful elven woman, restrained in a dark cell. Brom's face turned pale. "Arya," he whispered.

Recognition struck me like lightning. "She's been captured," I said, my voice tight with urgency. "We have to save her."

Brom nodded, his expression grim. "Agreed. She looks to be in Gil'ead. We'll need a plan. We will go to Teirm to visit an old friend of mine for information."

We stayed up late into the night, devising a strategy. The airship would carry us to Teirm to see Jeod, then Gilead. We would, gather intelligence from Jeod, rescue Arya, and then head for the Varden. For the first time in months, the path ahead felt clear—but fraught with danger.