Authors Notes

Hello readers!

How are you? I hope you have been enjoying the story. A reader reached out to me and asked if I could highlight the story arcs, so as to know the direction the story will be heading in. so I will list them out.

Rider war arc (we are currently in)

Alalea Arc (rebuild the order and exploring new lands)

First contact arc (a new race. magic vs technology)

Ascension Arc (the final Arc. Main villain will finally be revealed)

I'm planning to create a discord server where we can all communicate freely, and will post details in the next chapter.

Also, I am working on an original story, and will post the details in the next chapter, and if you would like to support me, as an aspiring author, you can support me by subscribing on my for early access of my stories. I will post details in the following chapter.

As promised, my replies to the reviews,

Halex00—Thank you for the compliment, it means a lot that you are enjoying. I hope you enjoy the direction the story is headed in.

Warmaiden777—Haha, I'm glad I'm not the only one who thought they would be a great combination. Glad you are loving it, will try to release more chapters soon.

Drakena— Thank you for the compliment, I hope the future arcs keep you glued to the story.

More replies in the following chapter.

Enjoy the story, and feel free to leave a review if you have any comments or questions; this will help the story get better.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Battle of the Burning Plains part 1

The Achilles soared silently above the jagged peaks of the Spine, its cloaking enchantments rendering it invisible against the backdrop of a star-streaked sky. The airship's hull gleamed faintly in the moonlight, an ethereal beacon of power and purpose as it made its way toward the Burning Plains. The tension on board was palpable, each breath thick with the weight of the coming battle. This fight promised to be unlike anything we had faced before—more grueling, more chaotic, and more pivotal than the clash in Tronjheim.

As the ship approached its destination, we gathered around the scrying table in the cockpit. The soft hum of the ancient runes carved into the table resonated with the chant I spoke in the ancient language, activating its magic. The mist swirling above the table parted, revealing a stark bird's-eye view of the battlefield below.

The scene was devastating. The Burning Plains, true to their name, smoldered with fiery chaos. The battlefield stretched endlessly, a sea of clashing bodies, smoke, and the glint of steel under the dim sunlight. Kargvek let out a low, guttural groan, his frustration mirrored in the tension in his shoulders.

Nadara's voice broke the silence, steady but grim. "That looks bad," she murmured, both verbally and mentally, her sharp eyes scanning the carnage. She gestured toward the Varden's position, a cluster of determined warriors pressed hard against a relentless tide of Empire soldiers. "The Varden look overwhelmed," she added, her tone heavy with concern.

Her finger moved across the table, pointing toward a section of the battlefield where two figures stood out: a dragon, sapphire in its brilliance, and its Rider, their strikes a whirlwind of destruction. Arya's swift, lethal movements complemented their assault. "Eragon, Arya, Brom, and the Urgals are the only ones keeping the Varden from being completely overrun. Without them…" She trailed off, her expression dark.

Finally, Nadara's hand moved to the Empire's airship, a massive behemoth bristling with war machines—catapults, onagers, and ballistae—all raining death upon the beleaguered Varden. "That airship," she said, her voice hardening, "is the linchpin of their attack. Even with all of the Varden's allies, they won't hold out much longer if it keeps firing."

I studied the scrying image, my gaze narrowing on the monstrous vessel. "Chances are," I said, my voice heavy with reluctant conviction, "it's powered by a few Eldunarí. That means we don't destroy it completely unless there's absolutely no other choice. I refuse to sacrifice them—they're victims, not enemies."

Erukar's voice resonated in my mind, his presence as steady as a mountain. "Wise words, hatchling. The Eldunarí aboard must be spared if at all possible. But remember—there is also the matter of the new Rider you warned us about. Murtagh, son of Morzan, is likely a force to be reckoned with. If Galbatorix has had his way, expect him to surpass even his father."

I nodded mentally, acknowledging the gravity of his words. Olympia's voice joined the conversation, her tone laced with confidence. "Master, Murtagh and his dragon are no match for us. My only concern is the other surprises Galbatorix might have prepared for the Varden."

Valinor's mental voice cut through like a sharp blade. "Then let us ensure we have surprises of our own. Kargvek, Nadara, and Mark will engage the enemy directly. Once the Empire reveals its full strength and their soldiers' morale peaks, Olympia shall make her grand entrance, crushing their spirits in one fell swoop. Victory will be ours."

A quiet ripple of agreement followed. It was a sound plan—one that relied on timing and precision. There was no room for error.

Moments later, the Achilles began its descent. In the cargo bay, we prepared for the fight. The air was heavy with anticipation, the silence broken only by the muted hum of the ship's engines. The metallic scent of polished armor mixed with the faint aroma of the garden above, a strange juxtaposition of war and tranquility.

Kargvek stood apart, his brightsteel axe gleaming in the dim light. He held it upright before him, its edge razor-sharp and shimmering faintly with enchantments. His deep, resonant voice filled the space as he recited an ancient Urgal prayer:

"Wise and powerful Svarvok, grant that I may be shielded from misfortune and death. We call on you here to go against our enemies. We call on you here to fight with us. Protect us so that we can be victorious in this battle and earn the favor of the gods."

His words carried a solemn reverence, the kind that demanded silence. Nadara and I stood still, honoring the ritual as Kargvek's prayer reached its conclusion. The final words hung in the air, a promise, a plea, and a declaration all at once.

We exchanged a glance—silent, resolute, and ready. The battle awaited.

As Kargvek finished his prayer, he spun his brightsteel axe in a flourish, the blade catching the dim light in a dazzling display of skill and precision. His grin was wide, his tusks gleaming as he declared, "Today, we become legends, today the world will shake as we make our greatness known."

I couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "Save some for us, little brother," I teased. "Don't get greedy and hog all the glory for yourself."

Nadara laughed, the sound warm and grounding in the tension of the moment. She stepped forward, her boots thudding softly on the metallic floor of the cargo bay. Placing herself between Kargvek and me, she laid a hand on Kargvek's broad shoulder. "Please, be careful, little brother," she said, her voice a mixture of firmness and concern. "Try not to take any unnecessary risks out there."

Kargvek gave her a reassuring nod, but her attention shifted to me. Nadara stood taller than me, her piercing eyes locking onto mine as her hand gently cupped my cheek. Her touch was warm, grounding me in the midst of the chaos about to unfold. "And you, Mark," she said, her Urgal accent thick but soft, her tone carrying an unfamiliar vulnerability. "I know you're stronger than both of us, but please look after yourself. I don't know what I would do if you…" Her voice trailed off, the words hanging heavily in the air.

Wait, what? My brain scrambled to process her words. Was that just concern, or was there something more in her tone? A romantic confession, perhaps? My usually sharp mind was now a tangled mess. All I could muster was a clumsy, "Uhh, you be careful too. Look after yourself… for me."

Her lips curved into a faint smile, her eyes softening as she gave a slight nod and walked away, leaving me standing there, internally flustered.

Olympia, ever observant, had watched the entire exchange in silence—at least until now. Her voice slipped into my mind, brimming with playful amusement. "Casanova Mark strikes again," she teased, her laugh echoing mentally. "What was that, little brother? Stumbling over your words like a lovestruck boy?"

"Buzz off," I shot back mentally, though there was no malice in my tone.

Still laughing, she grew more serious. "Really, though, you need to talk to her after the battle. Be honest with her. You can't keep skirting around your feelings, Mark. Tell her how you feel. If she says no—though I doubt she will—you'll at least know you tried."

Her words lingered, and I let out a quiet sigh. She was right. Once this battle was over, I'd stop avoiding the truth. No matter the outcome, it was better than living with unanswered questions.

The Achilles remained cloaked as Valinor brought us into position above the battlefield. Her mastery over the ship was seamless, the result of countless hours of innovation and collaboration between us. Using knowledge from the Eldunarí on Cuarac's construction, combined with ideas inspired by futuristic sci-fi movies back home, we had transformed the ship into a masterpiece of magic that mimicked technology. Valinor now controlled it as if it were an extension of her own body, her efficiency akin to an advanced AI.

We stood on the open ramp door, the wind roaring around us as the battlefield stretched out below. Smoke and fire painted the Burning Plains in hues of red and black, the clash of steel and cries of war audible even at this altitude.

Kargvek glanced at me, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Where is your rider's sword, brother?"

Even Nadara's gaze turned toward me, a flicker of worry crossing her face.

I chuckled, shaking my head. "It's safely stored away. If I need a sword, I'll use their own weapons to kill them," I said, my tone light, almost dismissive.

Nadara rolled her eyes, exasperation flickering across her face, but I could see the faint curve of a smile she tried to suppress. Kargvek let out a harsh laugh, clapping a massive hand on my shoulder with enough force to stagger most men.

Olympia chimed in mentally, her voice laced with dry amusement. "Showoff."

My weapon, Öndslitr, remained safely sheathed in its pocket dimension. I would only summon it when the time was right—when facing Murtagh, Galbatorix, or another foe worthy of its power. Until then, I'd rely on whatever weapons the battlefield provided.

I reached for my helmet and slipped it on, the skull-like mask sliding into place with a satisfying hiss. As it sealed, my voice distorted into a deep, dual-toned growl. "Well then," I said, glancing at my companions. "Shall we?"

Without waiting for a response, I turned and leapt from the ramp, diving into the chaos below. The wind howled around me, but I embraced it, ready to carve our legend into the annals of this war.

Brom's POV

The battlefield was a hellscape. Calling it "bad" was a gross understatement—it was a massacre. The Empire was tearing through us, turning our earlier hopes of victory into ash. Damn them. Damn their numbers, their ingenuity, their monstrous resolve. We had started this battle with every advantage we could muster.

Angela's cunning had poisoned their ranks, and reinforcements from the dwarves, led by their king himself, had bolstered our lines. The Urgals had joined us too, their presence an uneasy alliance that set the Varden and Surdan troops on edge. Eragon, Arya, and Orik had arrived with the kind of heroics that made you believe—just for a moment—that we could win this.

And at first, we were winning.

The Varden, the dwarves, and the Urgals moved as a single force, crashing into the Empire's ranks with unrelenting fury. Eragon and Saphira were forces of nature, carving a bloody swath through the enemy lines. Arya was a whirlwind, her blade flashing as she cut down foes alongside them. King Orrin led his men with Ajihad at his side, their unity a beacon of hope. Nar Garzhvog, towering above his kin, led the Kull and Urgals in a devastating flank. Meanwhile, I had been with the Du Vrangr Gata, hunting down enemy magicians before they could tilt the scales. We hurled spells and ranged attacks, ensuring the Onagers and Ballistae hit their marks.

It was brutal, bloody, and glorious.

But then, the horn sounded.

Out of the sky, cloaked in dark magic, the Empire's airship reappeared, its monstrous silhouette blocking out the sun. My stomach sank as I realized the depths of their deception. How in the blazes had they managed such a feat? Cloaking technology like this was beyond what even the Varden had imagined. It looked exactly like Marks own ship. A wave of dread crashed over me as the airship unleashed hell. Onagers and ballistae rained fire and destruction, tearing through our forces with merciless efficiency. So this is what it felt like to be on the receiving end of such an attack.

"Mark, I hope you arrive in time," I muttered, cutting down another soldier as the battle spiraled into chaos.

Even as we fought to adapt, shielding troops from the relentless bombardment, things worsened. That was when they came—those damned twins.

They emerged from the smoky haze, standing atop a hill wreathed in sulfuric flames, their eyes glinting with a malicious power that hadn't been there before. Galbatorix had done something to them, enhanced them beyond recognition. Their voices rang out across the battlefield, twisted with dark glee.

"Ajihad!" one of them screamed, his voice dripping with venom. "We heard you survived. We are here to rectify that! We will leave this cursed place with your head!"

Their words froze the battlefield, and for a moment, everything seemed to stop. Then, chaos erupted. The twins began to chant, their lips moving in sync as they wove deadly spells in the Ancient Language. The ground beneath them erupted in fire and lightning, and the air filled with the screams of dying men. Waves of Varden soldiers charged at them, only to be slaughtered in the most gruesome ways. Their spells were relentless—torrents of flame, jagged spikes of ice, and bolts of energy that turned flesh to ash.

Ajihad, ever the fearless leader, charged toward them on horseback, his men rallying behind him. My heart sank. There was no way he could face them and live.

I turned to Trianna, my second-in-command. "Trianna, you're in charge, keep the other magicians in line, and make sure you all work together as one, I need to reach Ajihad." I said, before breaking away, cutting through Empire soldiers with brutal efficiency.

I reached out mentally to Eragon. "Eragon, I need you and Saphira! The twins are back—stronger than ever. We have to stop them."

Arya's voice joined his in my mind. "I too will help as well. They must be stopped if we are to win this battle. We will meet you soon."

As their presences faded, a new sound cut through the chaos—a drumbeat. Slow, deliberate, and ominous. The Empire's troops began cheering wildly, their morale surging as a massive shadow loomed on the horizon. My blood turned to ice.

A dragon—a red dragon—rose into the sky, its scales gleaming like molten fire. Riding atop it was the figure I had dreaded but hoped not to see: the new rider. Memories of Morzan and his dragon came flooding back, unbidden and painful. I saw my Saphira fall again in my mind's eye, the agony of her loss as raw as the day it happened. My heart clenched with fear for my son and his Saphira. No. Not again. History would not repeat itself.

Eragon's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Father, I cannot help you with the twins. I have to challenge the new rider. If I don't, our men will break. You'll have to deal with the twins on your own—with Arya."

"Eragon, no! You'll—" I began, but he cut me off.

"I have to do this. Trust me, trust your training."

Before I could stop him, he raised his wards and shields, Saphira's wings carrying them toward the hill where the red dragon waited.

I turned my attention back to the twins. If I could kill them quickly, I might still have a chance to help Eragon. My legs burned as I sprinted toward the hill where the twins unleashed their slaughter. Around me, the battlefield blurred—a cacophony of screams, clashing steel, and the relentless roar of the enemy airship above.

The battlefield reeked of blood and smoke, the acrid tang of sulfur burning my throat with every breath. My muscles ached as I advanced toward the twins, their figures silhouetted against the raging fires that engulfed the hillside. Their eyes gleamed with a malice I hadn't seen since Tronjheim, their lips curling into predatory grins as they turned their attention to me.

"Ah, here comes the mighty Brom, Morzan's bane," one of them sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Come to die, old man?"

Before I could respond, a torrent of flames erupted from the twin on the right, a roaring inferno aimed directly at me. I raised my wards instinctively, the magic flaring to life and diverting the fire harmlessly around me. The heat seared my skin, but I pressed forward, my blade steady in my grip.

Their expressions darkened. "Let's see how long you last," the other muttered, and then the real assault began.

A tidal wave of mental pressure crashed into me, a relentless barrage that felt like a dozen storm-tossed seas battering my mind. My vision blurred as I struggled to maintain my mental shields, their power far greater than I'd anticipated. It hit me then, the horrifying realization: Eldunarí. The bastards had been gifted Eldunarí by Galbatorix. That was the source of their unnatural power.

Damn it all to hell.

I gritted my teeth, summoning every ounce of strength I had left to fortify my defenses. My reserves were already nearly depleted, and the strain of holding them off was unbearable. I lunged forward, my blade aiming for the nearest twin, but they redoubled their efforts. The weight of their combined attack forced me to my knees, my head pounding as if my skull would crack under the pressure.

"Not now," I muttered through gritted teeth, my vision swimming. "Not like this."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Arya. Her lithe form darted toward one of the twins, her sword gleaming in the firelight. She moved like a shadow, swift and silent, but the twin she targeted twisted at the last moment, his movements unnaturally fast. He ducked under her strike and retaliated with a brutal punch to her stomach. The sickening sound of impact was followed by Arya's sharp gasp as she doubled over, her sword slipping from her grasp.

The twin laughed, his voice a cruel echo of triumph. "Ah yes, Arya. You stupid woman," he sneered, grabbing her by the hair and yanking her to her knees. "You always thought yourself above us back in Tronjheim, didn't you? But no more. We have ascended. You are nothing to us now. None save the king himself and his rider can withstand our might"

Arya struggled weakly, her hands clawing at his grip, but she was too drained to resist. The twin smirked, his eyes alight with sadistic glee. "We'll keep you as a spoil of war. After we're done here, we'll have some fun with you."

His brother turned to me; his expression equally twisted. "And you, old man," he said, his tone mocking, "Galbatorix has plans for you. He wants your head on a pike next to Ajihad's, a warning to any fool who dares defy him. Say your prayers, if you have any left."

His words were a dagger to my heart, but his next sentence sent fury coursing through my veins.

"When we're done here, we will carry off your son and his dragon to the king, then we'll hunt down your precious student, the 'Hornbreaker.' That coward owes us suffering, he couldn't even bother to show up to save you."

They laughed, the sound grating and vile, and my anger boiled over. My eyes darted to the plateau where Eragon and Saphira battled the red dragon and its rider. It wasn't going well. I could feel it in my bones—this was a fight we weren't winning.

Destiny couldn't be this cruel.

The twin nearest me stepped closer, picking up a sword as he prepared to finish me. He gripped my hair, jerking my head back to expose my throat. "Watch closely, elven wench," he taunted Arya, his grin wicked. "Watch as we cement our place as the greatest magicians under the King's banner."

Arya thrashed against her invisible bonds, tears streaming down her face. "No," she whispered, her voice cracking. "No!"

I closed my eyes, cursing myself for my weakness, for letting it end like this.

But then, a thunderous boom echoed across the battlefield, shaking the very ground beneath us. My eyes snapped open.

"What in Helgrind?" the twin muttered, stepping back in alarm. Three massive fireballs streaked through the sky, their fiery trails illuminating the chaos below. The first two hit the ground nearby, sending up geysers of dirt and rock. The twins hastily raised shields, the debris pelting their wards with crackling energy. The third crashed behind the empire's lines, killing a few of the men and forming a small crater.

Arya crawled toward me, her face pale and drawn. "What… what was that?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"I have no idea," I replied, my own voice hoarse.

From the Empire's lines, screams erupted as chaos unfolded. Bodies were flung into the air, limbs severed by an unseen force. Amid the carnage, a towering figure emerged, his presence commanding and unmistakable. He wore armor that bore a striking resemblance to Mark's, a massive, oddly shaped axe in his hands. He moved with impossible grace and speed, cutting through soldiers like a storm incarnate.

Two more figures emerged from the craters close to us. A man and a woman, both tall and powerful. The woman's leather robe clung provocatively to her frame, her staff ending in wickedly curved scythe blades that gleamed menacingly. The smoke covering her features. The man wore armor unlike anything I'd seen before—sleek, iridescent, and seamless, the plates flowing together with an eerie perfection. A glowing purple dragon emblem adorned his chest, pulsating with a faint light. His helmet, crowned with a black plume, bore a skull-like faceplate, and his eyes glowed a baleful crimson, as if they contained the very spirits of rage.

The battlefield seemed to hold its breath as the newcomers stood amidst the chaos, their presence an unspoken challenge to all.

"Who are they?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Arya, barely conscious, could only shake her head weakly.

The twins stared at the newcomers, their confidence faltering for the first time. Their laughter died in their throats, replaced by an uneasy silence.

The air around us crackled with tension as the skull-faced man turned his glowing crimson eyes toward the leather-clad woman. She met his gaze and gave a single, decisive nod before sprinting toward Ajihad and his embattled forces. Her movements were fluid, like a dancer's, her staff spinning in a mesmerizing blur. Each step she took seemed part of a deadly choreography, her body twisting and twirling as the staff carved through attackers with ruthless efficiency.

She was a storm incarnate, her strikes precise and devastating, the staff's curved blades slicing through armor as though it were parchment. Then came the magic. Flames erupted in sweeping arcs, bolts of lightning crackling into the fray, and ice shards raining down from above, all seamlessly woven into her lethal dance. Even Arya, slumped beside me in her weakened state, managed to whisper, "Who is she?" awe mingling with confusion in her voice.

But my attention shifted as the man began his deliberate approach toward us and the twins. The earth seemed to tremble beneath his every step, his aura oppressive and cold. The twins, who had moments earlier been brimming with arrogant confidence, faltered. One of them managed to bark out, "Stranger, you dare challenge the mighty magicians of the King? You do not have the pow—"

His words devolved into an anguished howl as he dropped to his knees, clutching his head. The other twin stared in shock before snapping, "You dare?" at the skull-faced man, whose glowing eyes now burned with an almost unholy light. The unrestrained twin charged forward, moving with blinding speed, but the man merely raised a hand and, in a voice that echoed with layered menace, intoned, "Letta."

The charging twin froze midair, his body suspended unnaturally. The man strode forward, gripping the frozen twin's head in one hand. "Wait your turn, traitor," he growled, his distorted voice sending shivers down my spine.

He moved toward us with an eerie calm, and though I was too drained to stand, every instinct screamed at me to be wary. We were in no condition to fight him, and yet... he did not seem hostile. Reaching Arya first, he knelt beside her. She flinched when his gauntleted hand rested on her midsection, but then she gasped as he began chanting in the ancient language. His voice was otherworldly, a haunting blend of tones that resonated like the whispers of restless spirits.

Arya's pallor faded as the magic coursed through her. When he finished, she managed a soft, "Thank you," her voice filled with a mix of gratitude and wariness.

The man turned to me, his gaze piercing. I tensed as I felt a sudden surge of energy flood into my power vest, filling it completely. My eyes widened as realization struck me like a hammer. Only one person could replenish my reserves like this. "Mark?" I whispered, incredulous.

He tilted his head, the crimson glow in his eyes fading, and in a voice that was unmistakably his own, he replied, "Hey, Elda."

Arya gasped, her astonishment matching mine. "How? How did you do that?" she asked, her tone trembling with disbelief.

Mark chuckled; the sound almost casual in its familiarity. "I'll explain later. Right now, I need to deal with the Empire—and Murtagh and his dragon."

Our shock deepened as we exclaimed in unison, "Wait. That man, the rider, is Murtagh?"

Mark nodded, but before he could elaborate, the twin he had immobilized let out a chilling laugh. "You're too late, Hornbreaker. Our forces might be dwindling, but our dragon rider and airship will crush you. There's nowhere to run. We will win today, and your precious rider will kneel before the King, your heads will decorate his palace room."

The words were a bitter truth. I clenched my fists, knowing the enemy's overwhelming power was no idle boast. But Mark? Mark only chuckled, a dark amusement lacing his tone. "Then let's even the playing field shall we, starting with your Airship advantage." He glanced skyward, and a shadow fell across the battlefield.

Out of nowhere, a massive, triangular metallic object shimmered into view, decloaking in a surreal display of advanced magic, mimicking the Technology from Mark's old world, no doubt. It dwarfed Mark's previous ship, its sleek design alien and menacing. The underside bristled with a massive barrel-like structure that began to glow with a purple hue, the light intensifying with each pulse. A deep, rhythmic whooshing sound filled the air, growing faster and louder until a thunderous boom reverberated across the plains.

A streak of purple energy erupted from the barrel, slamming into the Empire's airship. Its wards flared brilliantly before shattering, the projectile tearing through the hull and detonating in a fiery explosion. The ruined airship plummeted, crashing in a spectacular blaze. The battlefield fell into a stunned silence as all eyes turned toward the wreckage, fear and awe rippling through the ranks.

"What in the blazes was that?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the ringing in my ears.

Mark smirked. "That, Elda, is a Railgun."

The immobilized twin's confidence crumbled; fear now etched across his face. Mark removed his glove, exposing the gleaming Gedwëy Ignasia on his palm. "As for your dragon advantage," he said coldly, "allow me to take it of the board."

He raised his hand, and I gasped as the twin stammered, "Impossible... it cannot be, the king has the last egg, there shouldn't be any more dragon eggs."

Mark chuckled at this, and closed his eyes, as if in deep thought. Arya's eyes widened, her breath hitching as a deep, earth-shaking roar echoed from Mark's massive ship. A gargantuan dragon emerged, its scales a brilliant shade of amethyst, its size dwarfing both Saphira and the red dragon. It soared overhead, its immense wings casting a shadow over the battlefield. Soldiers on both sides ducked instinctively, their terror palpable as the dragon landed behind Mark with a ground-shaking thud.

It roared again, a jet of purple flame shooting skyward, bathing the field in its unearthly glow. The smell of sulfur filled the air, and the battlefield fell silent, even Murtagh and Eragon pausing their fight to stare in stunned awe.

The dragon was magnificent, its sheer size and presence overwhelming. Questions raced through my mind. Where in the hell did Mark find a dragon. Where there more? How was it this large? How had Mark bonded with it?

Mark turned to the twins, his voice calm yet brimming with authority. "I'll deal with you two later." He spoke in the ancient language, casting a spell that sent them into an enchanted slumber.

Facing Arya and me, he said, "This is Olympia. We are bonded. I'll explain everything later, but right now, there's work to do." Without waiting for a reply, he leapt onto Olympia's back, the dragon taking off with a powerful beat of its wings, heading straight for Eragon and Murtagh.

Mark's POV

As Olympia and I soared toward the plateau, the air grew heavy with tension. Below us, Murtagh loomed over a kneeling Eragon, the younger rider battered and seemingly defeated. In Murtagh's hand gleamed Zar'roc, the crimson sword that had once belonged to Eragon. My lips curled in a grim smile. Good, I thought. Let him have it. In some sick twisted way, it is his birthright after all.

Murtagh's gaze snapped upward as we descended, his eyes blazing with fury. Even from the air, I felt the sharp stab of his mental attack, laced with the strength of Eldunarí—young ones, undoubtedly, lacking the weight and precision of Olympia's and my own reserves of elder Eldunari. After our training, The assault from Murtagh felt clumsy, a battering ram compared to the scalpel-like focus we had honed through months of grueling mental training.

"Guess all that suffering was worth it, huh?" I quipped to Olympia through our link.

She chuckled, her tone as sharp as the wind rushing past us. "Indeed. Besides Galbatorix himself, I doubt anyone else could challenge us now."

"Agreed." Together, we fortified our minds, sealing away everything but our link to one another. The mental attack fractured like a brittle blade against stone, and as we landed next to Saphira, the force dissipated entirely.

Saphira stood tall, her scales gleaming even under the hazy light. Her tail flicked with restrained curiosity as she observed Olympia, whose massive frame dwarfed even her. Though Saphira remained silent, the subtle tilt of her head betrayed her intrigue.

I dismounted in one fluid motion, the ground crunching beneath my boots as I approached the two riders. Eragon remained on his knees, his breathing labored, his face a mix of exhaustion and wariness. Murtagh, however, radiated anger, his stance rigid, his knuckles white as they gripped Zar'roc. The air between us felt electric, charged with unresolved tension and the promise of violence.

"Hello, brothers," I greeted, my distorted voice carrying an unnatural echo that made Eragon flinch. His eyes darted to mine, wary but silent. I turned my focus to Murtagh, my tone firm but devoid of malice. "Surrender now, Murtagh. There's no need for this to end in bloodshed."

His lips curled into a sneer, and the rage in his eyes intensified. "Surrender?" he spat, his voice cracking with emotion. "I cannot do that! Why? Why did you not come sooner, Rider?" His voice rose, raw with bitterness. "Had you revealed yourself, Thorn and I could have been free! But no, you waited, you hesitated—and because of you, we are slaves!" He shook with fury, his face contorted in anguish. "We will never forgive you for that. You will suffer as we have suffered, and I will ensure it."

With a furious roar, Murtagh lunged, swinging Zar'roc in a deadly arc. The blade gleamed crimson as it sliced toward me, but I sidestepped with ease, my speed and strength were as good as an elf in their prime, coupled with the power from my armor enhancing me, my movements fluid and deliberate. His attacks came fast and relentless, each one brimming with the enhancements Galbatorix had surely granted him. Yet none of them found their mark. I evaded every strike, my body weaving effortlessly through his assault.

"Fight back!" Murtagh bellowed, his frustration mounting. "Fight back, you coward! That's why you went and hid all these years, because you are a craven coward who let his order die out."

I stopped abruptly, my stillness disarming him. Slowly, I raised my arm, palm facing the ground, and murmured a command in the ancient language. The earth at my feet rippled like water, and from the center of a glowing portal, my sword emerged, its purple sheath adorned with intricate glyphs spelling its name.

The weapon floated before me, majestic and imposing. I gripped the hilt, the leather warm beneath my fingers, and drew the blade free. Its sharp, gleaming edge shimmered with a faint violet glow, a testament to the enchantments imbued within it. As I pulled it clear, the sheath sank back into the portal, vanishing as seamlessly as it had appeared.

Eragon's eyes widened in shock, his expression caught between awe and disbelief. Murtagh's fury faltered for a moment, replaced by unease.

I turned my gaze back to Murtagh, my distorted voice dropping to a menacing growl. "Remember, brother," I said, leveling the blade. "Whatever happens next. You asked for this."