CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Departure
Olympia's POV
Life sucked, didn't it? Funny how it worked like that. I had everything anyone could ask for—a pair of loving parents who were proud of me, a bright future ahead of me in the military, and a seat in one of the top colleges in the country. On paper, I was golden. But deep down, where it really mattered, there was this hollowness I couldn't shake.
West Point had taken me fresh out of high school, just before I turned 18. The military was eager to put my so-called "genius mind" to work after my little escapade with Mark during the portal experiment. They wanted me to help save soldiers' lives on the front lines with my brain. It was flattering in a way, but... Mark.
Mark. My best friend, who had been gone for two years now. Missing, presumed dead. And while the world moved on, I couldn't. Not entirely.
I poured myself into advanced physics and space science at college, a double workload that should've been hell, but I loved it. Especially physics. Mark would've loved it too. I could almost hear his excited commentary as we worked through theories, his nerdy jokes about quantum mechanics. He should've been here. He would've joined me, no doubt. But he wasn't. And I had a good guess why.
His bloody parents.
No one really knew what had happened to him. That monster Steve, his step father, had a long history of abusing Mark, and I was terrified he had finally gone too far. I spent sleepless nights crying, picturing Mark's body in some unmarked ditch or shallow grave.
My parents, bless them, fought for justice when I didn't have the strength to. They petitioned the police to investigate. The arrest came, but Steve, that piece of human garbage, denied everything. Still, evidence poured in from teachers and students who had seen the bruises, the cuts, the endless cycle of pain Mark endured. The cops arrested him but released him for lack of concrete evidence.
Then Steve did the unthinkable. In one of his rage bouts, he nearly beat Mark's mother to death. Neighbors heard her screams—screams I imagined Mark must have echoed countless times. She survived, barely, but in that twisted moment of karma, I felt vindicated. She deserved to feel what Mark had felt. It wasn't enough, but it was something.
Steve tried to flee, of course. He didn't get far. The cops caught him at the airport. And Mark's mom? She still refused to tell the police what had really happened, insisting Mark had just disappeared one night. Lies.
Two years. Two long, empty years. I wondered constantly what I'd say to him if, by some miracle, he came back. He'd been more than a best friend—he was the little brother I never had. And then, he was just gone.
But I couldn't fall apart. I owed him that much. I promised myself I'd live for the both of us. I'd made it to college, aced my classes, and even landed on West Point's radar. Life was good. On paper.
Then came that day, my last day alive.
It was a dreary Saturday morning, the kind where the sky never quite brightened, and the rain was relentless. It had been pouring since Thursday, soaking the city to its bones. I dragged myself out of bed, threw on some jeans and a hoodie, and decided to do my weekend shopping.
The roads were slick, and visibility was terrible as I drove toward the mall. Everything felt muted—the gray sky, the rhythmic slap of windshield wipers, the sound of rain pounding against the car. It was all background noise until I reached the bridge.
That's when I saw it.
A car hung dangerously over the edge of the bridge; its front half having smashed through the barricade. The back tires barely clung to the wet pavement. It was a miracle it hadn't fallen already.
I pulled over, heart racing, and joined the growing crowd of onlookers. Most of them just stood there, phones out, filming. Typical. Always chasing likes and followers, even in a crisis. The woman in the car was screaming for help, her voice cutting through the rain. From the back seat, a baby wailed—a sound that clawed at my chest.
"Has anyone called 911?" I shouted over the noise.
"Yeah," someone replied. "Fire department's on the way."
Not fast enough.
The car rocked forward, teetering dangerously. Every second felt like a countdown to disaster. My mind raced. The baby's cries grew louder, and the woman's terror-filled eyes locked on mine.
Before I could think better of it, I ran.
Water splashed up around my sneakers as I sprinted toward the car. "Wait! Stop!" someone yelled, but I ignored them. My feet pounded against the slick pavement as I closed the distance. Without hesitation, I leapt onto the trunk, my weight slamming down and stabilizing the vehicle—at least for the moment.
"Hold on!" I shouted to the woman, my voice shaking.
The rain drenched me, soaking through my leather jacket and jeans. Every muscle in my body strained as I braced myself, trying to keep the car from sliding further. My fingers gripped the edges of the trunk, cold and slick with rainwater.
"Help's coming," I said, trying to sound confident. "Just stay still. Don't move!"
The woman sobbed, clutching the baby in her arms. The crowd murmured behind me, and I could hear distant sirens cutting through the storm. Relief flickered for a moment, but the car groaned under the strain, and the back tires began to skid.
Time slowed.
I knew what was coming, but there wasn't a chance in hell I was going to let that car fall without a fight.
The shattered rear window was a mess of jagged glass and twisted metal, probably from the crash. Convenient, I thought grimly as rain pounded down, the relentless drumming muffling the chaos around me. The baby's cries cut through it all, sharp and desperate. There was no time to waste.
I leaned into the broken window, ignoring the way shards of glass bit into my leather jacket. My fingers stretched toward the baby, bundled in her cradle basket, but just as I reached her, my jacket sleeve snagged on a sharp edge of the frame.
"Crap," I muttered under my breath. "Just bloody great."
The car rocked slightly beneath me, the weight of the situation pressing down. I took a slow breath, forcing myself to stay calm. Panic wouldn't save anyone. Carefully, I reached in with my free hand, my movements deliberate. The mother was hysterical, her voice trembling as she called out to her child.
"It's okay," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, soothing. "I've got her. She's going to be fine."
With painstaking care, I undid the restraints holding the baby in place, my hand trembling slightly. The rain streamed down my face, making it harder to see, but finally, I freed her. The cradle basket was heavier than I expected, but I managed to lift it through the broken glass.
"Here!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the downpour. A man—a rare helpful bystander—stepped forward, his arms outstretched. He wasn't filming, wasn't gawking, just doing what needed to be done.
He took the basket from me, holding the baby close to his chest and shielding her as best as he could from the rain. Relief washed over me as the baby's cries softened, muffled by his jacket.
"Thank you," I said, my voice rough but sincere.
Turning back to the mother, I tried to keep her calm. "Okay, ma'am, listen to me. You need to come out slowly, through the back seat and out the door. Don't rush—just take it one step at a time."
But panic does terrible things to people. The moment she saw her baby in the arms of a stranger, the mother's fear overtook her. Screaming for her child, she clambered through the car, her frantic movements making everything worse.
"Wait! Stop!" I yelled, but it was too late. Her weight shifted the car violently, and it began to teeter on the edge.
"Shit, shit, shit," I whispered, my heart pounding as the metal groaned beneath me.
I tugged at my trapped sleeve, adrenaline surging through me. The jacket wouldn't budge. The car tilted further, the edge of the bridge creaking ominously. The helpful stranger was back, his face pale but determined. He handed me a Swiss knife, his hands steady despite the chaos.
"Cut yourself loose," he said, his voice firm.
I nodded, clutching the knife with trembling fingers. "Thank you."
As I began sawing through the thick leather, he climbed onto the car to help stabilize it. For a moment, I thought we might actually make it. But then the bridge gave way.
The sound was deafening—a thunderous crack as the section of the bridge collapsed. The car lurched forward, and in that split second, I knew we were going over.
"No!" the man shouted, his arms scrambling for something to hold onto.
Instinct took over. In one desperate move, I shoved him off the car and onto the bridge's edge. He hit the pavement hard, but he was safe. The knife slipped from my hand, clattering away into the abyss as the car plummeted.
The stranger's scream echoed through the storm. "NOOO!"
The fall was a blur of chaos and noise, the wind tearing at me as the car crashed into the raging river below. The impact knocked the air from my lungs, sending shockwaves of pain through my body.
Then came the water.
Ice-cold and unrelenting, it swallowed me whole, the weight of it pressing down like a vice. My lungs burned as I struggled, pulling at my sleeve with frantic hands. But the jacket wouldn't give.
Panic clawed at the edges of my mind as my chest tightened, the need for air becoming unbearable. The river's current tugged at me, relentless and uncaring.
I thought of my parents. Would they be proud? Would they find comfort in knowing their daughter died saving lives? Or would this break them? No parent deserved to see their child die before them.
And then, my thoughts raced to Mark.
If I died, maybe I'd get to see him again. My best friend, my little brother. The thought brought an unexpected calm, a bittersweet acceptance. If anyone deserved heaven, it was him.
The fight drained out of me, replaced by a quiet resignation. The icy water filled my lungs, the pain sharp and all-consuming. My vision darkened, and the world faded away.
In my last moments, I smiled.
I had done something good. I had saved a mother and her child. And now, just maybe, I was going to see Mark again.
The riverbed rose to meet me, cold and unforgiving. As darkness enveloped me, I let go, ready for whatever came next.
Mark's POV
I stood within the vast expanse of my mind, a place I controlled entirely thanks to my role as Angvard's champion. The space was fluid and ever-shifting, a reflection of my innermost thoughts and memories. Today, it was darker than usual, suffused with an oppressive weight.
Durza's lingering memories swept past me in chaotic flashes, like a film reel stuck on a nightmare loop. They were grotesque and vile, a symphony of horrors that clawed at the edges of my sanity. Each scene burned with hatred, violence, and despair—a collection of the Shade's atrocities.
For a normal person, these memories would be insurmountable, their sheer darkness enough to crush the soul. But I wasn't a normal person. I was Angvard's chosen, and within this space, I wielded the power of a god's champion, in my minds core, I was damn near invincible.
I closed my eyes and centered myself, focusing on the glowing core that represented my essence. It pulsed steadily, a beacon of who I truly was—my memories, my will, my very identity. I clung to it, letting it anchor me against the storm of Durza's remnants.
With deliberate effort, I began to separate myself from the torrent of memories. I visualized them compressing, shrinking into a single point until they coalesced into a pale, distorted figure—the shadow of Durza himself.
The twisted apparition stood before me, its form flickering like a faulty hologram. It was grotesque and incomplete, a pale imitation of the malevolent Shade it had once been.
I strode toward it, each step resonating with the certainty of my dominance in this realm. As I moved, a spectral blade materialized in my hand, its edge shimmering with a soft, otherworldly light.
"One thing I love about this, spirit of Durza," I said, my voice cold and resolute, "is that I get to watch you die twice."
The shadow hissed, a shrill and guttural sound that cut through the silence. It writhed, attempting to flee, but here, in the confines of my mind, I was the master. There was no escape.
I lifted the blade lazily, pointing it directly at where its heart would be. My movements were unhurried, almost casual, as if this was merely a chore I had grown used to.
"Let's not do this again, Shade," I said, my tone sharp as steel.
With a swift motion, I drove the blade into its chest. The shadow let out an unearthly scream, the sound reverberating through my mindspace like a crashing wave. Its form began to dissolve, consumed by a blinding light that grew brighter with every passing second.
And then, it was gone.
The silence that followed was profound, a stillness that felt like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. I lowered the blade, letting it dissipate into nothingness.
"Well," I muttered to myself, running a hand through my hair. "That was interesting."
The oppressive weight lifted, and my mindspace began to shift back to its usual calm state. But before I could bask in the relief, a new presence surged into my consciousness.
It was sudden and overwhelming, like a tidal wave crashing into a serene shore. Instinctively, I raised my defenses, pushing the most vital parts of myself deeper into my mind's core, shielding them from the intruder.
Then, the voice came.
It was not one voice but a chorus—a dissonant collection of tones that reverberated like the echoes of countless souls. It spoke with a weight that demanded attention, each word resonating with a sense of ancient power.
"Champion of Death," it intoned, the voices blending into a single, haunting melody. "Your patron has spoken. You will come find us at our place of sorrows. Come find us in the Vault of Souls. We await your arrival. Come to us."
The presence faded as quickly as it had arrived, leaving me alone once more. But its message lingered, etched into the fabric of my thoughts.
I knew who had summoned me. The Eldunarí on Vroengard. Their collective voice had been unmistakable, yet it carried the faint undertone of Angvard's influence. The god had spoken to them, directed them to call for me.
"Fine," I murmured, exhaling slowly. "I'll deal with that soon enough."
For now, the summons would have to wait. There were more pressing matters at hand. Ajihad's life hung in the balance, and I couldn't afford to let him fall victim to the ambush. At the same time, I needed to ensure Murtagh was taken by the Twins without arousing suspicion.
It was a delicate balancing act, one that required precision and cunning. But I had a plan, and it was time to put it into motion.
The mindspace began to dissolve around me, fading into a swirling void as I willed myself to wake.
"Let's get to work," I whispered, steeling myself for the trials to come.
I woke abruptly, blinking against the faint glow of the cabin's light panels. The familiar scent of my ship's wooden walls permeated the air, earthy and soothing, but my thoughts were anything but calm. As I sat up, my gaze darted around the room.
"How did I get here?" I muttered under my breath, confusion settling over me.
A soft snore broke the silence, drawing my attention to the armchair near the wall. There, curled up with a blanket draped over her, was Nadara. Her face, serene and unguarded in sleep, caught me off guard. Her mixed heritage was subtle but distinct—the small, horn-like protrusions curling from her temples and the faintly tusked lower fangs peeking from her lips. But otherwise, her features leaned more human, soft and expressive.
For a moment, I simply stared, the chaos of recent events fading as I took in the sight of her peaceful rest. It felt… grounding, in a way I hadn't expected.
The quiet creak of the bed as I shifted broke the stillness. Her eyes fluttered open, amber irises catching the light as she stretched, shaking off sleep.
"You're finally awake," she said, her voice groggy but warm.
"Good morning, Nadara," I replied, running a hand through my shoulder length hair. "Did you sleep here all night?"
She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Yes. I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"You know you didn't have to do that, right?" I said, shaking my head. "There are plenty of rooms on this ship. You can take whichever one you want. This is your home too."
Her smile grew as she sat up straighter. "Thank you, Mark. I will pick one soon. Kargvek has already claimed one for himself. I showed him how to use the shower and that thing you call a toilet, earlier, you should have been there to watch."
She giggled, the sound light and infectious, and I couldn't help but laugh with her. The thought of her instructing the hulking Kull teenager on the intricacies of human plumbing was too absurd not to find amusing.
"I wish I'd seen that," I said, chuckling.
Her laughter faded into a gentle smile. "Yes, I do to. It was an experience, to say the least."
A question tugged at my mind, and I finally asked, "Um, Nadara. How did I end up here? In my quarters?"
Her expression softened. "Brom and Angela carried you here after the battle. You were exhausted, and Angela told me not to disturb you. She said you needed the rest."
I nodded slowly, fragments of the recent battle flashing through my mind like jagged shards of glass. The exhaustion I'd felt before passing out now seemed like a distant memory, replaced by a faint ache in my muscles and the weight of all that had happened.
Nadara continued, her tone more serious. "You must be curious as to how the Battle went after you passed out. After Eragon killed the Shade, the Urgals retreated into the tunnels. The Varden are hunting them down now as we speak."
I exhaled sharply, the tension in my chest easing slightly. "That's some good news, at least."
Her gaze lingered on me, a trace of concern in her eyes, and something else I could not place my fingers on. "Angela told me how you fought in the battle, how your battle prowess was on display. you're being hailed as one of the heroes of the battle. Alongside Eragon, Saphira, and Brom."
I raised an eyebrow at that, unsure how to feel.
"They have even come up with names for you all. Eragon is being called the Shadeslayer," she said, watching my reaction closely. "And you… they are calling you the Hornbreaker, because of the feats you performed."
The name hit like a slap, and I flinched involuntarily. Nadara noticed immediately, her brows knitting together.
"The name, does it bother you?" she asked softly.
"It does, I was just trying to survive and save my friends, not go on an Urgal killing spree." I admitted after a pause.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice gentle but insistent, as she put a hand gently on my shoulder. "Listen to me, Mark, do not feel bad for the Urgals you killed in battle, if the roles had been reversed, they would be celebrating as we speak, while you lie dead on the battlefield. Besides, now they will respect you and fear you. If the Urgals ever sought peace with humans, you'd be a well-respected ally among them. They'd see you as an equivalent to a warlord—a legend for your strength in battle. I would even wager a few of the dams would want to mate with you," she added, her tone lightening as a mischievous smile crept onto her lips. "They would even look past you being human."
I laughed nervously, scratching the back of my neck. "That's… quite an image," I said, eager to steer the conversation elsewhere. "So, Kargvek—how's he doing?"
Her smile softened. "He is restless. He's been asking to speak with you. He's on the top deck if you want to see him."
I nodded, standing and stretching. "I'll go talk to him now, and thank you for your words, Nadara."
She rose as well, brushing her hands down her tunic. "There is no need to thank me, Mark, i enjoy our talks. Now, I need to prepare something for us to eat. I'll leave you to it."
"Okay, and again, thank you, Nadara," I said, meaning it.
She nodded, her horns catching the light as she turned and left.
The ship's corridors were quiet as I made my way to the top deck. The familiar hum of the engines was a comforting backdrop, the cool metal walls and soft glow panels making the space feel both vast and intimate. My thoughts were a mix of curiosity and anticipation as I climbed the stairs.
Kargvek awaited me under the open sky, his massive silhouette framed by the stars above. Whatever he wanted to say, I was ready to hear it.
The cool night air greeted me as I stepped onto the top deck of the airship, the gentle creak of wooden planks beneath my boots blending with the low hiss of the helium balloon above. The massive structure loomed overhead, its sheer size a testament to the ingenuity of its design, though I couldn't help but feel it lacked the speed and power I truly envisioned.
Someday, I thought, I'd rebuild this ship. Sleek, fast, and brimming with raw power. But not here—not in Tronjheim. The confines of the Varden's mountain stronghold stifled the creativity needed for such an undertaking. No, this was a project for Vroengard, where ancient secrets whispered through every stone.
And then there were the weapons. My mind wandered to the forge. I wasn't Rhunon, the legendary elven smith, but I had apprenticed under Horst for two years and gained more than a fair grasp of the craft. Combined with hours of research back home—thank you, YouTube—I had ideas brewing. The Japanese sword smithing process fascinated me, and I dreamed of applying it to a meteorite, singing enchantments into the molten metal as I forged it.
A self-regenerating energy source to imbue the blade with limitless power. That would be something, wouldn't it? And maybe, just maybe, I'd craft Roran a hammer worthy of legend—a weapon like Mjolnir, one that could shake mountains. But I'd need the right materials. Meteorites rich in rare earth metals, the bright steel of legend. I'd need to go to space to collect more of it someday. A far-off dream, but a dream nonetheless.
Ahead, Kargvek's towering form caught my eye. He was in the middle of a training session, his chipped axe slicing through the air with precision and power. His movements were fluid, his grip steady. I couldn't help but wonder—had he been trained, or was this skill born of survival and instinct?
As I approached, he stopped mid-swing and turned to face me, his tusks catching the moonlight. He greeted me with a nod, his massive hand outstretched. We shook hands, his grip firm but respectful.
"Hello, Kargvek," I said, glancing at his prosthetic leg. "How's it fitting?"
He smiled, revealing sharp teeth, and gave a small nod. "Greetings Mark, it fits perfectly. I walk, I run, I fight. It is good."
"Good," I said, meeting his gaze. But there was a shadow of regret in his eyes.
"But…" he began, his voice quieter now. "I do not feel good about sitting out the last battle, I wish I could have fought with you."
I sighed, folding my arms. "I understand. But fighting your own people, even if they're enemies, would have caused problems for you and Nadara with the other tribes in the future. The consequences could've followed you both for years."
He mulled over my words, nodding slowly. "You are right," he said at last. "Still… it was hard to watch."
As he stepped closer, the faint scent of soap reached me, a surprisingly pleasant change from the usual musk of sweat and leather. Nadara's influence was unmistakable.
Kargvek lowered his voice further, his expression earnest. "I have a request. Will you train me?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "Why me?"
"You are a capable warrior, the men of the Varden speak of your prowess in combat," he said simply, his amber eyes unwavering. "And you have been a friend to me and my sister and have treated us fairly, as if we were your own, where others see a beast, you see a person."
His words struck a chord. For a moment, I hesitated, thinking of the responsibility of taking on a student. But then again, allies were a necessity in this world, and I'd need powerful ones for what lay ahead. Why not start shaping one now?
But I wouldn't just teach him to fight. Oh no. Kargvek was going to learn everything I could offer—combat, yes, but also science, math, languages, history. All the knowledge from my world and this one. Alagaësia's prejudices ran deep, and I intended to shatter them.
Where others saw a savage beast, they would see an educated warrior, a scholar who could match wits with any elf or human. Kargvek would be my answer to the ignorance that plagued this land.
"Okay, Kargvek, I'll teach you," I said at last, meeting his gaze. "But not just how to fight. You'll learn everything I know."
He nodded solemnly, understanding the weight of my words. "I will learn everything you offer me," he said, his voice steady. "I look forward to it."
We stood there for a moment under the stars, the hum of the engines and the faint rustle of the helium balloon the only sounds. We talked, our conversation easy and unguarded, until finally, I excused myself.
"We will speak more later, for now, I have work to do," I said.
Kargvek nodded. "Thank you, Mark," he said simply, his gratitude evident in his tone.
I descended into the ship, making my way to my workshop. The tools and materials scattered across the benches were a comforting sight, the possibilities endless. My mind raced with plans for the future, a future I intended to build one step at a time.
The forge was alive with the hum of magic as I worked, my voice steady as I sang ancient enchantments into the gleaming band of silver I shaped beneath my hands. Sparks flew as the hammer struck metal, but my focus never wavered. Each strike carried intent, every word in the ancient language weaving spells of healing into the ring's core. This wasn't just a trinket; it was a lifeline, a talisman that could stave off death itself for the wearer. My plan was bold, perhaps even reckless—Ajihad would walk into the ambush wearing this ring. He'd be injured, yes, but not killed, allowing the twins to carry out their betrayal and kidnap Murtagh.
When the ring was complete, I held it up to the light. Polished silver caught the glow of the forge, the purple gem atop it gleaming like a captured star. Its beauty belied its purpose. Satisfied, I pocketed the ring, feeling the comforting weight of its potential.
The air outside the ship was crisp, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the camp. I stood still for a moment, letting the world settle around me, before murmuring an incantation. The ancient language rolled off my tongue like a prayer, and the earth responded. Gold veins deep below trembled, yielding a fist-sized nugget that rose from the soil. With a flick of my wrist, the gold was severed from the ground, smooth and gleaming. I pocketed it and began walking.
The battlefield stretched before me like a scar on the earth, raw and painful. The air was heavy with smoke from the pyres set to burn the Urgal dead, the acrid scent mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood. Varden and dwarven women moved among the fallen, their tears carving paths through the grime on their faces as they gathered the bodies of their sons, husbands, and fathers. Their grief was a silent, suffocating force, and I felt like an intruder in their sorrow. These were the true heroes—the ones who gave everything without hesitation.
Farthen Dûr's towering ceiling loomed overhead, barely visible through the columns of smoke. As I walked toward Tronjheim, its majestic form rising from the center of the vast cavern, the weight of the battle pressed heavier on my shoulders.
At the entrance to the city, I encountered Jörmundur. The man bowed deeply; his respect palpable. "Hornbreaker," he greeted me, the title laced with reverence. Nadara's words echoed in my mind: They call you Hornbreaker, because of the feats you performed.
I shifted uncomfortably. "Jörmundur," I said, inclining my head.
"Brom and Ajihad request your presence in Ajihad's study," he said, his tone formal but warm.
"Thank you, I will go see him at once," I replied, setting off toward the study.
As I moved through Tronjheim, soldiers and dwarves alike paused to salute me. "Hornbreaker!" they called out, their voices filled with admiration. I nodded each time, trying not to let my discomfort show, but the weight of their expectations gnawed at me. By the time I reached Ajihad's office, I was ready to be rid of the attention.
The study was lit by the warm glow of lanterns, their light dancing across the walls lined with maps and books. Ajihad stood behind his desk, engaged in a quiet conversation with Brom. Murtagh lingered nearby, leaning against the wall with a faint smirk on his lips. As soon as I entered, the conversation ceased, and all eyes turned to me.
Ajihad spread his arms in welcome. "Ah, here he is, one of the heroes of Tronjheim," he said, his voice rich with approval. "The men speak of your feats on the battlefield, The tavern maids sing of your prowess in battle, Mark. Tell me—did you truly rip the horns off an Urgal with your bare hands?"
Before I could respond, Murtagh chuckled. "He did," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "I saw it with my own eyes, and I could scarcely believe it, and this was after killing a Kull and two Urgals and planting them on his spear like some battle standard."
Ajihad's eyes widened, clearly impressed. "Truly remarkable," he murmured.
I rubbed the back of my neck, shuffling nervously. "I got carried away," I admitted. "Besides, the army fought valiantly. They're the true heroes."
Ajihad nodded, his expression softening. "Indeed, they did. But your contributions cannot be understated. We would have lost were it not for Eragon killing Durza. What a thing the boy did; he has surpassed all my expectations. I am fortunate to have allies like you, Eragon, Brom, Arya, and Murtagh. For the first time in decades, it feels like we can truly threaten the king."
Brom remained silent, his sharp eyes fixed on me. Always the teacher, I could feel his scrutiny, as if he were already planning a lecture on how I could better carry myself in such moments.
The conversation lingered for a while, touching on plans, strategies, and reflections. But Brom's gaze never left me, a silent reminder that my lessons were far from over.
Ajihad leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "And what of Nadara and Kargvek?" he asked, his tone low but firm. "What are your plans for them? When are they leaving?"
I straightened, my resolve hardening. "They'll stay with me; they are my friends."
Brom's lips tightened as he leaned forward, his pipe hanging from his fingers. "The Varden and the dwarves will not stand for that," he said sharply, his voice tinged with exasperation. "You saw how the Kull fought, how they ripped men and dwarves apart like rag dolls in the battle. The Varden and Dwarves lost many to their brutality. They will not forget that anytime soon. Their presence will undermine our authority and demoralize the Varden."
I met Brom's gaze evenly, the weight of his words pressing against my chest. "That won't be an issue," I replied, my voice steady. "Because I'll be leaving tomorrow with them."
The room froze, the silence palpable. Brom was the first to react. He slammed his hand down on the table, his pipe clattering against the wood. "What in the blazes do you mean, boy?" he barked, his face flushed with anger. "You've seen it yourself, seen what we are up against—we have work to do! You and Eragon need to train with the elves. We must be at our strongest to challenge the mad king! Not off gallivanting to protest the mistreatment of two individuals! Think of the bigger picture, Mark!"
I held his fiery gaze, refusing to be cowed. "I am thinking of the bigger picture, Elda," I said, my tone calm but resolute. "I need to gather allies. It seems like I am abandoning the Varden, but it will all make sense when I return. I can't tell you where I'm going, but I promise you—when I come back, everything will be clear."
Brom's shoulders sagged slightly, and he averted his eyes, puffing on his pipe with a disgruntled huff. His disappointment was evident, but he said nothing more.
Ajihad's voice broke the tense quiet. "And how do we explain this to the people?" he asked, leaning forward, his hands clasped on the table. "You're their hero now, Mark, a symbol of hope. If you leave now, the Varden's morale might not recover."
I sighed, the weight of his words settling heavily on me. "The Varden can cope without my presence Ajihad, you know this. I was planning to leave in a few days anyway, along with Eragon," I explained. "This doesn't change anything."
Ajihad's brows furrowed. "It does now. You've become more than just a fighter—you're a symbol. Even King Hrothgar has requested an audience with you."
I raised an eyebrow at that. The political games had already begun. If I accepted Hrothgar's summons, he would likely propose an alliance, possibly even adoption into his family, just like he offered Eragon in the book—a connection I wasn't interested in, I already had a family here. But ignoring him would insult the dwarves, potentially costing us their support. I weighed my options, then decided. "No, I won't answer his summons," I said firmly. "Tell him I'm needed elsewhere and can't be delayed, he will hate me, but all will become clear when I return."
Murtagh, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. "If you're leaving, then I'm coming with you, Mark." he said, his expression resolute.
I placed a hand on his shoulder, meeting his eyes. "You can't, Murtagh," I said softly. "But remember this: wherever we go, whatever happens, you're my brother in arms, and I will never turn my back on you, no matter what happens. never forget that."
His grip tightened on my forearm, his voice low and sincere. "Nor I you. Now travel well, brother."
I nodded, a lump forming in my throat, and turned back to Ajihad. From my pocket, I pulled out the silver ring I had forged earlier. Its polished band gleamed in the light, the purple gem atop it glowing faintly with the numerous healing enchantments I'd woven into it. "Wear this," I said, handing it to Ajihad. "And never take it off. Promise me that, in the ancient language."
Ajihad's eyes narrowed as he made the promise, and took the ring, slipping it onto his finger. "What does it do?" he asked warily.
In response, I pulled out my dagger and took his hand. With a swift motion, I cut his palm. Blood welled up for only a moment before the wound sealed itself, leaving no trace of the injury. Ajihad stared at his hand in shock, then at the ring. "By the gods," he breathed. "Thank you, Mark."
I bowed slightly. "Promise me you will not reveal its workings to anyone else, even the twins," I said firmly.
He nodded, his expression solemn.
I turned to Brom and handed him the gems from my old power vest. "These are packed with enough energy for another battle," I explained. "Use them sparingly and keep adding energy as you can. I'll be gone for a month or two."
Brom accepted the gems with a nod, his stern expression softening slightly. "I'll make sure of it. And Eragon—?"
"When he comes to, tell him I'm sorry I couldn't wait for him to wake up," I said, my voice tinged with regret. "And tell Horst and Elain that I'll return in two months, and that im thinking of them."
Brom nodded again, his eyes searching mine for any hesitation. Finding none, he said, "I'll pass on your message."
I reached into my pocket one last time, pulling out a fist-sized gold nugget. I handed it to Brom. "One last thing. Please give this to Helen, Jeod's wife," I instructed. "She'll know what to do with it."
Ajihad, listening intently, spoke up. "What does she have to do with anything?"
"She comes from a family of traders; she is good at generating income. Work with her," I advised. "She can help secure funding for the Varden's campaigns. Also, you might see Nasuada as your little daughter, but she is a young woman who has the potential to become a great leader, work with her, trust her wisdom, should anything happen to you, she should be ready to shoulder the responsibilities of your office."
Ajihad nodded thoughtfully, and Brom gave a curt nod of agreement.
With that, I turned to leave. As I stepped out of the room and into the corridors of Tronjheim, the weight of my decisions pressed heavily on my shoulders. But I knew this was the path I had to take. It was time to leave for Vroengard.
The journey back to the airship was quiet, the weight of the task ahead pressing heavily on my shoulders. The villagers of Carvahall had left their food stocks on the airship. It still had enough provisions, mostly dried meat, to last six months. With only three of us aboard now, those supplies would stretch much further. As I approached the ship, its sleek form gleamed faintly under the afternoon light, a marvel of both engineering and magic.
I entered the control room to find Nadara and Kargvek waiting. Nadara stood near the control wheel, her golden eyes sharp and curious, while Kargvek lounged in one of the chairs, his imposing frame oddly at ease.
"Where to?" Nadara asked, her voice steady but tinged with a note of curiosity. She moved closer, her graceful steps almost silent.
I turned to her, meeting her gaze. "The place we're headed is enchanted," I explained. "If I told you its name, you'd likely forget it—that's how the magic works. The place is also poisonous, so To be safe, we'll fly close to the island and leave the ship in orbit nearby. I'll be gone for a few days, but when I return…" I glanced at Kargvek. "We'll begin your lessons. So be ready."
Kargvek nodded solemnly, his deep voice rumbling as he said, "I will be." He settled further into his seat, his large hands resting on the armrests as though bracing himself for the journey ahead.
Nadara slid into the co-pilot seat next to me, her curiosity bubbling over as she began asking questions about the ship. "Can you please explain how your ship works. How does it fly without wings? And this 'cloaking' you mentioned—how does it work?"
I smiled faintly, engaging the cloaking device as the ship began to hum with a subtle energy. "The ship uses a combination of enchantments to mimic technology from my home. It's cloaked by using an enchantment to bend light around it, making us invisible to the naked eye, and another enchantment to prevent magical detection." As I spoke, I adjusted the controls, guiding the ship out of Farthen Dûr and into the open skies.
The ship rose steadily, piercing through the clouds, and I pulled the wheel to climb higher. The rush of air and the faint hum of the engines filled the cockpit. Above, the endless expanse of the sky stretched before us, painted in hues of orange and gold by the setting sun.
For two days, we traveled. The three of us took turns piloting, the routine offering a quiet rhythm to the journey. Nadara proved to be a quick learner, her natural curiosity driving her to ask insightful questions. Kargvek, on the other hand, spent much of his time observing, his sharp eyes missing nothing as he absorbed the workings of the ship.
On the second evening, the ship finally approached its destination. Vroengard loomed in the distance, its silhouette dark and foreboding against the horizon. The island was a scarred wasteland, soaked in the remnants of powerful, ancient magic that radiated like a toxic miasma. This was Alagaësia's Chernobyl, a place no one visited lightly.
I activated the ship's protective wards and turned to Nadara and Kargvek. "Listen carefully," I said, my tone firm. "The ship is cloaked, and no one will be able to see you or scry you while it's here. For your safety, you must not leave. The radiation on the island is deadly, even with the ship's protections. I'll be gone for a while, but I'll return."
Both of them nodded, their expressions serious. "We'll wait for you, be safe, Mark," Nadara said softly, her voice steady but touched with concern. Kargvek gave a grunt of agreement, his sharp claws tapping idly against the armrest.
"I will be, take care of yourselves." I gave them a small nod and headed to the cargo bay. The massive doors groaned open, revealing the sprawling wasteland below. Without hesitation, I stepped to the edge and jumped.
The wind roared in my ears as I plummeted, the cold air biting against my skin. The wards I had placed earlier began to strain as I descended closer to the island, the oppressive magic of Vroengard pressing against them. The ground rushed up to meet me, and I whispered, "Letta," slowing my descent just before impact.
I landed softly in front of a massive, weathered stone—the Rock of Kuthian. Its surface was worn and pitted, yet it pulsed faintly with ancient power. I placed my hand against the stone, its cold surface vibrating slightly under my touch.
"This is it," I murmured to myself, my heart pounding. The vault of souls lay beyond, and with it, the Eldunarí—the true beginning of my fight against Galbatorix.
Closing my eyes, I began to recite my true name, the words spilling forth with a power that resonated deep within my core: "Malthinae-dröttning skolir freohr, wyrdfell-vodhr un du grimstborith, Angvard-finiarel vrangr-vodhr, ebrithil du rauthr, du malabra älfr weohnata arget."
The ground trembled, and a deep rumble echoed as the massive stone began to shift. Slowly, lines appeared in the solid rock, in the shape of a door, and when they were done appearing, the rock swung open like double doors, revealing a dark tunnel that plunged deep into the earth. The air around me was heavy with magic, thick and cloying as I took a steadying breath.
"Well," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Here goes nothing."
With one last glance at the sky above, I stepped forward into the darkness. Behind me, the stone shifted back into place with a resounding thud, sealing the entrance. There was no turning back now.