CHAPTER TWELVE

The Test

The tension on the training field was palpable as Fredric turned to the twins with a furrowed brow. "Why can't someone else test Eragon and him?" he demanded, gesturing toward me. His voice carried the weight of someone unafraid to question authority, even when directed at the arrogant magicians.

The twins exchanged smug glances before one replied, his nasally voice grating, "Because no one else is strong enough to test them properly."

I tilted my head, a sardonic smile tugging at my lips. "Really? And what of Brom? Arya? I'm fairly certain both are stronger than us—and, more importantly, stronger than you."

Their smiles faltered slightly, but one twin quickly regained his composure, sniffing disdainfully. "Brom has opted to remain neutral, and Arya, while an ally of the Varden, is not a magician under Ajihad's command. That leaves us," he added with a victorious grin, his yellowed teeth flashing. "Ajihad has decreed it."

Well played, I thought grimly. Their smugness grated on my nerves, but I kept my expression carefully neutral. For now, I had to play along.

Eragon, Saphira, and I moved to an empty corner of the field, their eyes tracking us like vultures circling a wounded animal. One of the twins sneered. "So, Rider, how do you answer us?"

Eragon's jaw clenched before he said firmly, "No."

I knew this moment was coming—their futile attempts to recruit him were as predictable as they were irritating. Yet hearing them say it in front of us, in front of me and Brom, ignited a spark of anger that burned fiercely in my chest. I wanted to lash out, but I restrained myself. Antagonizing them now wouldn't gain the Varden's trust, no matter how satisfying it would be.

The next hour was a tedious exercise of their poorly disguised attempts to probe our magical abilities. The tasks were simple—childishly so—but it quickly became clear they weren't testing our strength; they were after knowledge. Brom's lessons came to mind. He had once told me that a skilled magician could summon a were light using the word for water if they were adept enough and could visualize the connection between the two. I hadn't mastered the technique entirely, but I understood enough to use minimal words and give away nothing.

Eragon caught on quickly. Together, we worked through their tasks, each using deliberately simple spell work. The twins' faces darkened with frustration as their ploy bore no fruit. Time dragged on, their irritation growing with each passing moment.

Then came the moment I knew would arrive.

One of the twins removed a silver ring from his finger and held it out. "Summon the essence of silver," he said, his voice a challenge wrapped in malice.

Eragon looked at the ring, confusion etched into his features. I, however, understood. I chuckled darkly, the sound carrying across the field like the prelude to a storm.

"You idiots just had to go there," I said, my voice low and even, laced with contempt. "You couldn't resist yourselves, could you? Where do you get the nerve to ask us to attempt what only a master magician can do? Are you trying to kill the only other Rider with your stupidity?"

I let my mind lash out violently against theirs, a mental battering ram that made them stumble back in fear. Their smugness melted away, replaced by wide-eyed terror.

I pointed at the ring and shouted, "Arget!"

The word thrummed with power as I felt a noticeable drain on my reserves. The silver shimmered, its essence ghosting into the air as a spectral image formed beside the ring. The twins turned and fled, nearly colliding with Arya as she approached. She paused, her gaze flicking to me, then to the retreating magicians.

Eragon stared at the spectral silver, his brows furrowed. "What was that?" he asked, his voice tinged with awe.

"I could explain it to you, but it would be better if it came from Brom. Don't attempt it until Brom teaches you," I replied tersely, still glaring after the twins.

Arya, now making her way to the center of the field, drew both Eragon's and Saphira's attention. Saphira tilted her head, growling softly. Eragon glanced at her, then back at Arya. "What's she doing?" he asked, puzzled.

I chuckled, folding my arms. "She probably wants to duel the Rider."

Eragon's eyes widened, but he followed her to the center. A circle of spectators began forming, warriors murmuring excitedly. Arya stood with her sword in hand, her posture regal yet poised for battle.

Murtagh joined me, sweat glistening on his brow from his sparring match with Orik. "Is Arya going to fight him?" he asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

"Yes," I replied simply.

"This should be interesting," Murtagh muttered, a faint smile playing on his lips.

The duel began. Eragon approached cautiously, Zar'roc steady in his grip. Arya moved like a blur, her blade flashing as she aimed a strike at his ribs. Sparks flew as Eragon parried, but the force sent him stumbling. Arya spun with elegant precision, her hair whipping like a banner as she struck again. Eragon barely deflected the blow, retreating in a frantic backpedal.

I shook my head. "He's holding back, seriously?" I murmured, more to myself than anyone else.

Arya's blade slashed toward Eragon's head. He blocked, his confidence growing as he realized she was testing him. His movements became more fluid, his strikes inventive, but Arya met every attack with effortless grace. Their duel was a fiery dance, their bodies twisting and turning, blades flashing like lightning.

The crowd watched in rapt silence, the sound of clashing steel reverberating through the air. Eragon's breaths came in gasps, his arm trembling with exertion. Finally, Arya sidestepped one of his lunges and brought her blade to his jaw in a blur of motion.

Eragon froze, sweat dripping down his face as Arya's sword rested against his skin. For a moment, silence reigned. Then Saphira bugled triumphantly, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

Arya lowered her sword, sheathing it with a quiet, fluid motion. Her voice, calm and measured, carried over the noise. "You have passed."

The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices a cacophony of admiration and disbelief. Even Murtagh, who was often stoic, leaned over and admitted, "Eragon is talented—more than I gave him credit for." Fredric clapped Eragon on the shoulder and praised him. "That was a fight worthy of the greatest songs and tales."

But before the noise could settle, Arya's commanding voice cut through the celebration. "You," she called, her finger extended towards me, her emerald eyes piercing. "You are next."

The crowd fell into a stunned silence. My heart thudded in my chest as I stepped forward, trying to mask my surprise. "I thought this test was for Riders," I said evenly, though my voice betrayed a hint of curiosity.

Arya's expression remained impassive, though there was an intensity in her gaze. "No human should be able to cast spells with such precision and power," she replied, her voice calm yet resolute. "I shall see how strong you truly are and if you are worthy to be an ally."

Her voice was a melody, rich and hypnotic, and I suddenly understood why Eragon was so entranced by her. She exuded both beauty and an unyielding strength. Her exotic features, framed by her dark hair, were striking, but she wasn't my type. Still, her presence demanded respect.

I unsheathed my sword, the weight familiar in my hand, and took a step closer. "Just swords, no magic?" I asked, meeting her gaze.

She nodded once, a subtle but clear confirmation.

I gave her a faint smile. "Don't hold back," I said, my tone both a challenge and a plea for fairness.

The fight began in an instant. Arya moved first, a blur of grace and speed, her sword slicing through the air with elegant precision. I met her blade with mine, our weapons clashing in a burst of sparks. Her movements were fluid, like a deadly dance, but I could tell she wasn't giving her all. She thought she was fighting a human—a mistake I was quick to exploit.

With a swift and calculated flourish, I disarmed her, sending her blade spinning from her grasp. The crowd gasped, and I stepped back, holding my sword at the ready. "Stop holding back. If it helps, pretend you're fighting a kull," I said, my voice calm but firm.

For the first time, Arya's composure wavered slightly, and a flicker of realization crossed her face. She retrieved her sword, her expression now one of focus and determination. This time, there would be no holding back.

When we engaged again, the shift in her demeanor was immediate. Her strikes came faster, her thrusts more precise, her movements a whirlwind of lethal elegance. Each attack flowed seamlessly into the next, like a predator weaving through its prey. I met her blade for blade, stepping into my own rhythm, my version of a sword dance. Overhead slashes turned into spins; parries became counters. I twirled my sword behind me in fluid arcs, attacking and defending in perfect synchrony.

The speed of our duel was beyond human. The crowd stared, wide-eyed and breathless, unable to look away. Even Eragon, who had seen me fight countless times, seemed awestruck, his gaze shifting between Arya and me as if struggling to process the exchange.

But Arya was a master. Despite my best efforts, she began exploiting the weaknesses in my technique, finding holes that I couldn't close fast enough. I adjusted, countered, and pushed back, but her skill was overwhelming. Her sword darted forward like lightning, and before I could react, the cold steel rested against my neck.

The fight was over.

Arya stepped back, lowering her weapon with effortless grace. "You have passed," she said simply, her tone calm but authoritative. Without another word, she turned and walked away, her movements as smooth as her fighting style.

I let out a slow breath, the sting of defeat settling in. My first real loss, excluding my losses to Brom. It wasn't just a blow to my pride—it was a reminder of how far I still had to go. I sheathed my sword, shaking my head slightly. "Damn," I muttered under my breath. "Guess that was bound to happen, she's way older than me, after all."

The crowd erupted into murmurs and cheers again, but I barely heard them. All I could think about was the fight, every move, every exchange, every flaw I'd shown. Arya's skill was on a level I could only aspire to reach. And yet, despite the loss, a part of me felt exhilarated. For a brief moment, I had fought an elf warrior—one of the greatest—and I hadn't been found wanting.

The roar of the crowd still echoed faintly behind us as Arya motioned with a subtle flick of her finger, her gesture almost imperceptible to anyone but us. A mile away from the bustling practice field, she had pointed to a discreet rendezvous point, and Eragon, Saphira, and I quietly excused ourselves from the throngs of admirers. Murtagh, meanwhile, had crossed paths with Roran, and the two of them began sparring with a focused intensity that drew its own small audience.

We made our way through the winding paths, the distant noise fading into a tranquil hum of nature. When we arrived, Arya stood beneath the shade of a towering tree, her presence regal and serene. She greeted Saphira in the ancient language, her voice resonating with reverence and grace.

"Skulblaka, eka celöbra ono un mulabra ono un onr Shur'tugal né haina. Atra nosu waíse fricai."

Eragon blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but Saphira shuffled her wings and hummed deeply, her blue scales catching the sunlight as she nodded in acknowledgment.

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. Of course, she liked it. Dragons can't resist a good compliment

Eragon broke the brief silence, his voice warm. "I'm glad you've recovered, Arya."

I echoed his sentiment, offering a respectful nod. Arya inclined her head slightly, her emerald eyes shimmering with sincerity. "I owe both of you a debt that can never be repaid. You risked everything to save me, and I will never forget."

Eragon fumbled with his words, his cheeks coloring slightly. "It—it was nothing, really."

He quickly pivoted, perhaps to mask his nervousness. "How did you come to be in Gil'ead?"

Arya's expression turned somber, shadows flickering in her gaze. She began recounting her story, detailing how she had been transporting Saphira's egg, how they had been ambushed, and how she had watched her companions fall, one by one, until she had been captured. Her voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable weight in her tone, the grief carefully veiled beneath her composure.

Eragon hesitated before asking, "What are your plans now? Will you return to Ellesméra?"

Arya's gaze flicked between the two of us before settling on Eragon. "Yes, I will return to Ellesméra," she said, her voice calm. "With both of you."

I raised an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued. "Wait. What do you mean by 'both of us?"

Arya turned her attention to me, her expression unreadable. "Brom and I spoke briefly. We agreed that Eragon is ready for the next stage of his training. And you—" she paused, studying me with an intensity that felt almost invasive. "—you are an anomaly. A human stronger and faster than an elf. The queen must see this for herself."

Her words landed heavily. My mind raced with protests. I had plans—important ones. The Varden needed to be fortified, our forces prepared for the Burning Plains. Yet, Brom and Arya had already decided my path.

Reluctantly, I nodded. "Fine. I'll go to Ellesméra. But first, there are things I need to take care of."

I excused myself, my thoughts swirling as I made my way to Ajihad's office. When I arrived, the room was dimly lit, maps and scrolls spread across the table. Ajihad and Brom looked up as I entered.

"Ah, Mark, perfect timing, we have a problem. The Urgals," Ajihad began without preamble, "are amassing in the Beor Mountains. If they find their way into the cave systems, they could reach Tronjheim in two or three days."

I swore under my breath, my mind already formulating a plan. "I can slow them down, and if what I'm thinking works, I'll thin their numbers while I'm at it," I said. "I'll take my airship and hit them hard."

Brom's eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering across his face. "Your ship? How do you plan on achieving that?"

I met his gaze evenly. "Trust me. It will work, I'll be back in a day. I'll take Eragon and Saphira for backup."

After a moment, Brom nodded, though the suspicion didn't entirely leave his expression. "Just be careful."

I nodded, turning on my heel and heading out. If this mission was my last chance to tie up loose ends before Ellesméra, I intended to make the most of it.

When I found Eragon and Saphira, they were finishing their conversation with Arya. I explained the situation to them as we walked, detailing the Urgal threat and the plan to strike them before heading to Helgrind.

We found Roran wrapping up his sparring session with Murtagh, who had already moved on to duel Orik. I explained the mission to Roran, who immediately understood the urgency.

"It's time," I said simply.

Roran nodded, determination hardening his features. I handed him Brom's power vest, which I had borrowed, and gave my own to Eragon. We made our way to the ship, where Baldor was waiting. Saphira soared gracefully onto the deck, settling herself with a low hum.

Gathering everyone together, I laid out the mission. "An army of Urgals has been spotted close to Farthen Dur. We shall fly towards them and we'll stealth-bomb the Urgals to thin their numbers. Then we'll head to Helgrind to rescue Katrina. If everything works out, we will be back in a day."

They exchanged confused glances at the mention of bombing. I smirked faintly. "You'll see."

I pulled out a bowl of water, speaking the ancient language to scry Katrina's location. The water rippled before revealing the dark, forbidding spires of Helgrind. Katrina was there, her form faint but unmistakable.

Roran's face contorted with a mix of desperation and resolve. His hands clenched into fists, his eyes locked onto the image. "We'll rescue her," I said firmly, meeting his gaze.

As we moved toward the control deck, a familiar voice echoed from the shadows.

"Hello Eragon, Mark. I hope you're not planning to leave me behind," Angela said, stepping into view with her trademark smirk.

The atmosphere in the Cargo Bay was tense but alive with anticipation. Eragon and I exchanged a meaningful glance, and I nodded, signaling that I was ready. Baldor, standing by one of the viewing screens, crossed his arms and frowned.

"This mission is dangerous," Baldor said with a hint of disapproval. "A young woman such as yourself has no place here, lady."

Angela let out a low chuckle, and I couldn't help but laugh at the irony. "Brother, this young woman," I said, gesturing toward Angela, "is older than all of us combined."

Roran scoffed, his skepticism clear, but his expression shifted quickly to shock as the weight of my words sank in. "You can't be serious," he said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and curiosity.

Angela smiled serenely, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "At least some of you are wiser than you look," she said, her tone carrying a playful edge.

Eragon, ever the polite one, asked, "What brings you here, Angela? If you don't mind me asking."

"You know me, I like to be where interesting things happen," she replied enigmatically. Solembum, her ever-present companion, padded silently out of the room and headed for the top deck, no doubt to join Saphira. His feline form moved with fluid grace, his tail swaying like a pendulum.

We followed shortly, moving to the control room on the top deck. I activated the cloaking spell, the ship's shimmering silhouette fading into the backdrop of the Beor Mountains. The vast expanse of craggy peaks stretched out before us, bathed in the pale light of the morning sun.

Roran had taken to the top deck, testing the limits of his newfound strength and speed granted by the power vest. He moved with a fluidity that was almost startling, his punches slicing through the air with audible force. Above him, Solembum lounged lazily on Saphira's back, the dragon humming softly in approval of the warm sunlight on her scales.

Angela, Eragon, and I remained in the control room. Angela's presence was a paradox of ease and mystery; she had an uncanny ability to draw you into conversation while keeping her own secrets closely guarded.

"Your world must have been fascinating, Mark, would you mind telling me about it?" Angela asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. Her voice was light, but there was an unmistakable curiosity in her eyes.

I blinked, caught off guard. "How on earth do you know about that?" I asked, my tone sharper than I intended.

Angela's smile widened, though she offered no explanation. "I have my ways," she said, her words as frustrating as they were intriguing.

Even Eragon looked impressed. "You've been holding out on us," he said, his tone teasing but tinged with genuine curiosity.

Grumbling under my breath, I relented. "Fine," I said. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," Angela said simply, leaning forward with her usual enigmatic enthusiasm.

I gave her a summarized version of my past life. It was a story I hadn't revisited in a long time, and as the words spilled out, a mix of nostalgia and unease settled over me. I told her about the world I came from, the technology, and the chaos of my previous life.

When I finally finished, Angela nodded thoughtfully. "Tell me, don't you miss anyone from your old world?" she asked, her tone quieter now, almost empathetic.

The question hit harder than I expected. At first, my mind was blank. Then, like a floodgate opening, memories of Olympia, my best friend, came rushing back. A wave of guilt washed over me. I had spent two years in Alagaësia and hadn't thought of her once.

"Olympia, She was my best friend," I said, my voice soft. "The only person who made life bearable back home. Olympia was three years older than me, and was brilliant, smarter than anyone I've ever met. She made me feel like an ordinary guy in comparison."

Eragon chuckled. "Hard to believe there's someone out there smarter than you."

I laughed at that. "Well, she was. If she were here, Galbatorix would've been in trouble from day one. We met in the science club at school. She once tried to build a portal generator in her garage. Ended up draining power from the entire neighborhood and catching the attention of the military. I guess by now she would be in college, probably pursuing a career in the department of Defence."

Eragon tilted his head, clearly lost, but Angela's understanding smile deepened. She knew more than she let on. I couldn't help but wonder—was she like me? Another outlander?

My musings were interrupted by Baldor's sharp voice. "We've found them!" he called from his position near the viewing screens.

I snapped to attention, standing and moving to the control wheel. On the scrying mirrors, we could see a massive warband of Urgals marching through a narrow pass, their brutish forms silhouetted against the rugged terrain. The sight of them filled me with grim resolve.

"Time to go to work," I muttered to myself.

As the ship glided toward the target, I initiated the mechanism to open the bay doors. Below us, the Urgals were oblivious to the danger looming overhead. My mind, however, lingered on Olympia. Was she safe? Was she happy? And would she ever forgive me for leaving her behind?

The thought stayed with me, a quiet ache in the back of my mind, even as I prepared to rain destruction upon the enemy below.

The scrying mirrors shimmered with the image of the Urgals below, their ranks a sea of dark figures moving through the craggy landscape. My grip on the controls tightened as I maneuvered the ship into position directly above them. The airship hummed faintly, cloaked in its magical disguise, invisible to the oblivious warriors below.

"They have no idea we're here," I muttered, half to myself, half to the others in the control room.

Eragon nodded grimly, his eyes fixed on the scene in the mirrors. "Let's make it count."

I reached for the button that would release the improvised explosives. The moment my finger pressed it, the devices dropped from the bay, whistling through the air like falling stars. The sound caught the Urgals' attention. They looked up, puzzled, their brutish faces twisting with confusion. They didn't have time to react.

The explosions tore through their ranks with a deafening roar. Fire erupted in waves, engulfing their bodies and throwing many into the air. The ground below turned into a chaotic inferno. Smoke billowed upward, thick and acrid, as screams of pain and panic filled the air.

"Impressive," Angela said, her tone both light and sincere. She leaned back against the control panel, arms crossed, and regarded me with her usual enigmatic smile. "I must commend your ingenuity, Mark. What exactly went into making those?"

I glanced at her, momentarily distracted from the destruction unfolding below. "Gunpowder," I explained. "It's a mixture of sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter. Then I created shells with primers and fuses. When the fuse ignites, it sets off the charge upon impact."

Angela raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And this idea… was it yours?"

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Not entirely. It was actually Olympia's. She came up with it when we were kids. She was always thinking ahead, always tinkering with something."

Angela's gaze turned thoughtful, her smile faint. "It seems her influence on you runs deep."

Below us, the scene remained chaotic. The flames consumed a significant portion of the Urgal forces, nearly a quarter of them, but the survivors appeared unharmed by the fire. They regrouped quickly, their guttural roars echoing as they searched for their unseen assailant.

"Some of them are protected," Eragon noted, his voice low. "Magic?"

"Probably Durza," I said grimly. "He has to be down there."

I didn't dwell on it. Instead, I turned my focus back to the controls, setting a course for Dras Leona. The ship's magical thrusters flared to life as I pushed them to their limit. The golden heart—the core of the airship—hummed in harmony with the energy it drew from the sun, which still blazed high in the sky.

Angela turned to me again, her curiosity unquenched. "Tell me Mark, this ship of yours," she said, gesturing around her, "what inspired its design? And how does it… float?"

"It's powered by sunlight," I said, keeping my eyes on the controls. "The energy from the sun is converted into magical energy that then fuels spells that keep it functioning—floating, cloaked, everything. The golden heart, that huge gemstone over there, converts solar power into magical energy."

Angela's eyes widened slightly, a rare reaction from someone so unflappable. "Do you realize what you've created?" she asked, her tone brimming with awe. "A means to convert sunlight into magical energy. That's not just extraordinary—it's revolutionary. You're a special one indeed, Mark."

Her words made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn't quite explain. Angela had a knack for cutting through to the truth, for seeing what others didn't—or couldn't. Before I could respond, she tilted her head slightly, her expression turning mischievous.

"Would you like me to cast your fortune?" she asked. "I'm curious to see what destiny has in store for someone like you."

I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to know. But Angela's gaze was steady, expectant. Finally, I nodded reluctantly. "Go ahead."

Angela retrieved her pouch of bones, shaking them gently before casting them onto the table. They scattered with a soft clatter, and her brow furrowed as she studied the patterns.

"Your future…" she murmured, trailing off. Her frown deepened. "It's difficult to read. Even harder than Eragon's. Your path is like a tree—branches splitting in all directions, leading to countless outcomes."

"Anything certain?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

"A few decisions," she said, pointing to one of the bones, "are set in stone. Look here—this symbol. A horizontal line with a circle resting on it. It represents infinity. Or long life." She glanced up at me, her expression unreadable. "Curious, since you're neither an elf nor a Rider."

I nodded, already aware of this peculiarity. She moved on, her hand hovering over another bone. "This one signifies power—unimaginable power. But these three…" Her voice softened as she indicated two specific bones.

"The first," she said, "is an epic romance. Like Eragon, you'll love someone deeply. She will be the illegitimate child of nobility, hated by all. But together, you'll weather the hatred and discrimination."

I blinked, confused. "Hated by everyone? Who could that be?" Part of me prayed that Galbatorix did not have a secret daughter hidden somewhere.

"The second," she said, "Is betrayal by blood." I stared at her confused, all my blood relatives were back on earth, my old world, who would betray me when there was no one of blood in this world.

Angela didn't answer, moving instead to the last significant bone. "This one," she said, her tone tinged with finality, "means you will regain a piece of your heart—someone you thought lost."

I stared at the bones, my thoughts a whirlwind. The cryptic nature of Angela's words left me with more questions than answers.

"I see why people hate fortune-telling," I said bitterly. "It's maddening."

Angela chuckled, her amusement genuine. "Don't fret over the future, Mark. It hasn't happened yet. Focus on the present—on what you can control."

Her words were wise, but they did little to quiet the storm in my mind. As I adjusted the ship's course, the sun began its descent, casting the Beor Mountains in deep, golden hues. Dras Leona loomed on the horizon, its dark silhouette stark against the fiery sky.

I couldn't shake the thoughts swirling within me. Who was this hated love? What part of my heart was lost, waiting to be reclaimed? And what kind of power awaited me? The questions gnawed at me as the ship sailed onward, leaving the answers shrouded in the unknown.

The ship hovered quietly in the distance, its silhouette blending with the deep blues and blacks of the night sky. Dras Leona loomed in the horizon, its jagged towers and shadowy streets stark against the faint glow of the waxing moon. Below deck, we gathered for dinner—a meal shared not just for sustenance but to solidify our resolve for the task ahead.

The air inside the dining area was thick with tension, the flickering lamplight casting shifting shadows across the table. Plates of simple food sat mostly untouched as we mulled over our plan.

Angela broke the silence first, her tone brisk but tinged with concern. "So, the three of you will be going in to face the Ra'zac. While Baldor and I remain behind on the ship, yes?" She tapped her fingers against the table, her sharp eyes flitting between us. "You do realize this is incredibly dangerous, don't you?"

Eragon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "We don't have a choice. Katrina's life is at stake. And Roran's already made it clear—he's not leaving her with the Ra'zac any longer than neccesary."

Roran, sitting beside him, nodded grimly. His fists were clenched tightly on the table, his knuckles pale. "I don't care what it takes," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Katrina will be saved. But Sloan…" His lips twisted into a sneer. "He doesn't deserve the same mercy."

I raised a hand, stopping him before his emotions could spill over further. "Sloan must face justice," I said firmly, locking eyes with both Roran and Eragon in turn. "Not vengeance. If you kill him in cold blood, then you're no better than he is."

Roran scowled, but he didn't argue. Eragon, on the other hand, nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Mark's right," he said. "We can't let hatred cloud our judgment. Sloan must be brought to account, not slaughtered."

Angela, observing the exchange with her usual air of detached amusement, interjected, "I hope your high-minded ideals don't get you killed. Justice is noble, but the Ra'zac aren't exactly known for their adherence to moral principles."

"We'll manage," I replied, though even I couldn't completely hide the doubt in my voice.

With the plan settled, the tension in the room eased slightly. The conversation turned to lighter topics—stories from our pasts, shared moments of laughter amidst the looming darkness of our mission. Baldor recounted tales of his family's travels, his voice warm and steady. Angela, ever the enigmatic presence, shared a few cryptic but amusing anecdotes about her own adventures, though she avoided specifics as always. Even Eragon and Roran managed to crack smiles, their usual intensity giving way to a rare moment of levity.

When the meal concluded, we all retired to our respective quarters. Exhaustion from the day's preparation quickly claimed me, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. But before long, I found myself in the realm of Angvard.

The dream-world was vivid and otherworldly. The air shimmered with a faint golden hue, and the throne of Angvard rose before me, impossibly grand and imposing. The god himself sat upon it, his form both regal and ethereal. His eyes, piercing and all-knowing, met mine as I approached.

I bowed deeply. "My lord."

Angvard inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Mark. What brings you here tonight?"

I straightened, hesitating for a moment before speaking. "I have questions about my destiny."

His expression softened slightly, though his eyes retained their inscrutable depth. "I know."

I took a deep breath and continued. "Angela foretold certain things. My love life, a missing piece of my heart… Do you know what she spoke of?"

Angvard's demeanor shifted subtly, his tone firm but not unkind. "I do. But I cannot tell you."

"Why not?" I pressed, frustration creeping into my voice.

"Because your destiny is yours to shape," he said. "Revealing too much would rob you of the choices that define you."

I clenched my fists, my frustration mounting. "Then what about the threat I'm meant to face in the future? Can you tell me anything about him?"

At this, Angvard's expression darkened. His gaze bore into me, heavy with the weight of unspoken knowledge. "You are not ready to know about him," he said, his voice low and grave.

"What difference does it make?" I demanded. "If I'm going to face him, shouldn't I be prepared?"

"You have a more immediate task," Angvard replied sharply. "You must help Eragon defeat Galbatorix. Only after that can you turn your attention to what lies beyond."

I exhaled heavily, the weight of his words settling over me. Reluctantly, I nodded. "Fine. But can you offer me any help?"

Angvard's stern expression softened, and a hint of a smile played at his lips. "I already have," he said cryptically. "Your assistance will arrive soon."

"What kind of assistance?" I asked, but Angvard only chuckled, a deep, resonant sound.

"That," he said, "is a surprise."

Before I could press further, he waved a hand, and the realm around me dissolved into nothingness. I woke abruptly in my bed, the first rays of dawn filtering through the window. The dream lingered in my mind, heavy with unanswered questions.

Pushing aside my swirling thoughts, I went through my morning rituals—washing, dressing, and preparing myself for the day ahead. By the time I stepped into the control room, the sun was just cresting the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. Dras Leona awaited, dark and foreboding in the distance.

It was time to enact the plan.

Angvard's POV

As my champion faded from my sight, his presence slipping from my realm back onto the mortal plane, I allowed the cloaking spell to dissolve. The golden mist that had blanketed my realm dissipated, revealing the splendor of my dominion. My city of eternal twilight came into full view, its radiant towers of gold and silver floating weightlessly above a sea of luminous clouds. The horizon burned with hues of amber and violet, casting everything in a divine glow. It was a realm that only gods could call home, a place where time and mortality held no dominion.

I sat on my throne in the Hall of Justice, a grand chamber of celestial marble and flowing light, where the air itself seemed to hum with power. As the mists cleared, my fellow gods came into focus. To my right sat Sylvana, my wife and queen, her beauty radiant and untamed like the wilds she governed. The essence of life and nature emanated from her, her emerald-green gown shimmering like the forest canopy under the sun.

To my left stood Moranna, my daughter, the Judge of the Damned. Her sharp, calculating eyes studied me intently as if weighing my every word before I spoke it. Draped in black and crimson, she exuded a somber authority befitting her role as my right hand. She carried the weight of judgment, her presence a reminder that even gods answer to justice.

The other gods of our pantheon formed a semicircle around the chamber, each embodying the domains they governed. Lexanar, the Keeper of Knowledge, stood out among them. His aura was one of wisdom and skepticism, his golden robes marked with runes of ancient languages long forgotten by mortals. He was the first to speak, his voice measured but probing.

"So that is your champion?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The boy is weak but… has potential. I see why you chose him, my king, yet I fail to understand why you continue to deceive him."

I met his gaze steadily, the weight of his words rolling off me like water against stone. "The truth is a burden he is not yet prepared to bear," I said, my voice calm but firm. "If I reveal too much too soon, it will overwhelm him. When the time is right, and he proves himself worthy, then and only then will he unlock the full extent of the power destined for one of his stature."

Lexanar tilted his head, the light of curiosity flickering in his gaze. "And what if your brother's champion, the Herald, attacks him before that time comes? Will you leave him to falter, or will you intervene?"

A ripple of unease passed through the assembly at the mention of my brother's champion. Even the gods, immortal and omnipotent as they were, harbored apprehension about the Herald's growing strength.

I leaned forward, the golden light of my throne casting sharp shadows across my face. "If the Herald forces my hand, then yes, I will unlock Mark's power—but only as a last resort. He must earn his strength through his own trials, or it will mean nothing. Power unearned is power misunderstood."

Moranna's voice broke the momentary silence, sharp and direct. "You spoke of a 'surprise' for your champion," she said, her tone laced with suspicion. "What did you mean by that, Father?"

Before I could answer, Sylvana spoke, her voice as soothing as a summer breeze but carrying the authority of creation itself. "All in good time, daughter. The boy will need help, and we know just the right ally to send him—someone he will truly appreciate."

I nodded in agreement, the faintest trace of a smile curving my lips. "The plan is perfect," I said. "He will not face his trials alone."

Lexanar raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "And who is this aid you speak of? Another mortal champion? A divine emissary?"

"Something along those lines," I said, my voice firm with purpose. "I will also speak to the Eldunarí."

A ripple of surprise passed through the gathered gods. Even Moranna's steely composure faltered for a moment. "The dragon hearts," she said, her voice a mixture of awe and skepticism. "The ancient ones hidden beneath Vroengard? They are reclusive, guarded. They will not heed our commands; they believe themselves to be the highest power in Alagaësia."

"They will not need to," I replied. "A vision in their shared Mindspace will suffice. They will sense the importance of this task. They have slumbered too long, watching the world decay without their guidance. It is time they awaken and lend their strength to my champion."

Sylvana nodded approvingly. "A wise choice. The Eldunarí hold unmatched wisdom and power. If they aid the boy, he may yet survive what is to come."

Lexanar frowned slightly, stroking his chin. "You place a great deal of faith in mortals, my king. The Eldunarí may offer their assistance, but they are as stubborn as they are wise."

I met his gaze, unyielding. "Mortals are the crucible through which destiny is forged. Mark will prove his worth to them, just as he must prove it to himself. The Eldunarí, and all others who will stand with him—this is the path he must walk."

As I spoke, my mind turned to the Herald and the growing darkness of my brother's influence. Each day brought us closer to the inevitable confrontation, the cosmic battle that would shape the fate of countless worlds. The weight of my duty bore heavily on me, but I knew my champion was the key.

With a final glance at my gathered kin, I rose from my throne, my voice commanding. "The time approaches. Prepare yourselves. The balance of the Multiverse hangs on what comes next."

The gods nodded, their forms shimmering as they began to depart. Only Sylvana and Moranna remained by my side. As I gazed out into the twilight of my realm, Crownhaven, I allowed myself a fleeting moment of hope.

Mark would not face this journey alone. I would ensure he had every ally, every tool, every chance to succeed. And when the time came, he would stand ready to face both Galbatorix and the shadows beyond.