The Warrior and the Dragon

(Part IV)

The dragon rider lay on his side on the ground, his body curled up under the dragoness's outspread wing. Lovingly, she had coiled around him, shielding her chosen one from the chill of the night.

Weary from the wound inflicted by the Ra'zak, the intensity of his grief for the loss of his aged companion, and the fatigue from the day's journey on horseback, he had accepted a few bites of food. Then he had lain on his good side and surrendered to a restless sleep. The dragoness had followed her rider into the realm of dreams, her heavy breathing resonating like the buzz of an angry swarm of bees, ready to attack the intruder who had disturbed the hive.

Sitting at the edge of the small campsite, away from the fire to avoid giving a target to a potential enemy, Murtagh kept watch with a sharp eye, surveying the desolate plain in the darkness of the night. Their three horses were well-fed and hobbled near the base of a boulder that leaned over them, shielding the group from the gusts of the strong eastern wind that surged onto its outer sloping side.

In his restless sleep, incomprehensible words often escaped the lips of the weary dragon rider, with Murtagh unable to discern any meaning from his utterances. Sometimes it was a continuous murmur, other times a groan of pain, or a random word spoken in a piercing voice that reached him, causing even the sleeping dragoness to tighten unconsciously around her rider, though her concern did not interrupt her heavy breathing.

Murtagh took a deep breath, smelling the night air. At least the dragon rider was resting, which would be useful for the next day's journey. Despite his sleeplessness, he himself was calmer now than he had been throughout the entire previous period. The realization that his young companion had endured the whole day's journey in the saddle convinced him that he would recover in a shorter period of time than he had imagined.

Two days ago, they had buried the aged friend of the dragon rider on the top of the arid sandstone hill, where they had sought refuge after the night skirmish with the Ra'zak. The boy had mourned over the old man's grave alongside the dragon, then resolutely strapped on his sword and declared himself ready to continue their journey.

Murtagh stuck with the group. Although the distance they were now covering took him farther from Helgrind, a certainty flickered within him that, with a dragon rider and his dragon by his side, he would have many more opportunities to encounter the Ra'zak. The monsters had hunted, tracked, and captured the rider and dragon, and even though they had failed in their final goal—whatever it might have been—they would surely try again. By staying with Eragon and Saphira, he would have many more chances to eliminate Galbatorix's two abhorrent servants.

However, there was another reason that kept him closely attached to them. The sword presented by the dragon rider, previously hidden among the items in his saddle bundle, was very familiar to Murtagh.

The man who once owned and wielded this blade was the one who brought Murtagh into the world, only to keep him imprisoned far from it. The sword, now strapped around the waist of this young man, was the very one that had once slashed Murtagh's back into two pieces.

He would never forget that particular blade. However, he had asked to see it, to touch it, to make sure it was the same one by checking the dark symbol that marked it. Zar'roc, Morzan's lost sword with its blood-red sheath, had been unexpectedly found in the possession of this young dragon rider.

Later, at an unexpected moment, Murtagh had asked the youth whether the old man accompanying him, whom he called "Brom," was the famous Brom known to all, only to receive a solemn but affirmative response.

His feelings about the sword were tangled within him like a knotted ball of yarn. It was certain that when Brom had done the favor—both for all people and for himself—of ridding Alagaësia of Morzan's cruelty, he had kept the sword of his dead enemy. Finding nothing more suitable, he had deemed it appropriate to offer it to the young dragon rider.

A heavy legacy, indeed, had been loaded onto this inexperienced boy, especially since Eragon knew the lineage and deeds associated with this blade. Nevertheless, he had decided to strap it on without much thought.

Murtagh felt an unconscious shiver spread across his back, settling like a tingling sensation on his scar, causing an unbearable feeling of despair that weighed heavy on his heart. The oft-repeated question returned to his mind once again, a question he had long suppressed deep within his thoughts, but one he seemingly would never overcome nor find an answer to. "Did you want me dead, father?"

According to Tornac's comforting words, it was Morzan's drunken rage that had clouded his mind and armed his hand against his child. If Morzan had wanted him dead, he would never have allowed him to be born, Tornac said.

Ah, Tornac! The moral support offered by the presence of his weapons master had been significant. While his own sire …

The incomprehensible mumbling of the sleeper was interrupted by a loud sob. "Brom… Brom…" called the dragon rider in his dream—or nightmare—while an attempted turn to his other side caused a groan of pain.

Murtagh wanted to come closer, perhaps to help him in his need, but the dragon kept him firmly excluded. Yet again, the boy was fortunate to have someone watching over his sleep. He himself had never had such a luxury! Sleep always came with difficulty, accompanied by the fear that an enemy blade might end his life in the middle of the night…

...like the blade that had so unexpectedly ended Aldon's life...

Every time he slept, the anxiety that he would never wake up again weighed upon him. The fear that he would never see another sunrise. Morzan had too many enemies while he lived, both in court and spread outside the palace. From the moment he breathed his last, all those enmities were automatically transferred to his son.

..."The cursed devil's spawn... the son of the Slaughterer "...

Brom might have rid the world of the demon, but his father's deeds still weighed heavily on his shoulders—as much as Tornac insisted that he would be judged by his own actions. Even if those shoulders had been scarred by Morzan himself.

The small portion of food he had consumed hours ago felt like a heavy knot in his stomach. His comrade, Tornac, was lost, and he was the reason, having dragged him along in his escape. He should have refused his weapons master's help, but now it was too late to change what had happened and the decisions he had made. Perhaps it was too late even for regrets. As for Brom… he wished he had had the chance to thank him before he died. He wished he had gotten to know this enemy of Morzan a little better.

Trying to distract his mind from the constantly unpleasant thoughts and feelings that had been haunting him recently, Murtagh focused on observing the plain that unfolded around them. It was desolate, with not a single light marking the darkness of the horizon. Swept by the cold eastern wind, arid from lack of rain, it was scattered with boulders similar to the one they had sought shelter behind for the night. He noticed that at their base grew sparse, yellowed, and half-dry grass, which had caught the attention of the horses, allowing them to graze.

Another distant lightning bolt tore across the sky, and a gust of strong north-easterly wind swept the cold earth, lifting the black soil into whirlwinds. The clouds above him parted, following the wind to one edge of the sky, and among them, some stars began to twinkle.

Trying to discern the position of the constellations, he set about calculating the exact time of night according to his knowledge. The related memory inevitably followed…

…He saw himself younger again, climbing the narrow steps to the highest tower of the citadel, where he had heard the king's personal astrologer had set up his isolated lair. Galbatorix had him informed that he was to attend some lessons beside the astrologer.

The old man, whose presence always caused Murtagh inexplicable discomfort, patiently awaited him in the tiny room, seated before an open astrological chart spread out on his table. The walls around him were filled with cases of rolled-up handwritten scrolls, parchment stretched on frames bearing strange symbols, and unknown instruments for observing the stars.

"It is not within my interests to engage with the stars and their metaphysical interpretations," Murtagh had declared with unusual audacity, casting a glance at the zodiac circle on the chart.

The old man, whom Murtagh had considered a charlatan until then, looked at him with an inscrutable gaze, his bushy, white eyebrows partially covering his dark eyes. Underneath his hooked nose, the dominant feature on his face, his thin lips gave the impression of a hint of a sarcastic smile. "But you came!"

Murtagh had bowed his head, hiding his anger. "The king commands…"

In that moment, his gaze caught the strange glow faintly shimmering on the old man's astrological chart, and his curiosity was piqued. However, the astrologer hastened to gather up his precious artifact and tuck it back into its ornate case.

With difficulty, the old man had stood upright, balancing precariously on his thin legs. He abruptly grabbed the young man's shoulder, leaning his body weight on him. Murtagh felt the thin fingers dig in like the claws of a predator, gripping between his muscles and nerves.

"A hasty, superficial, and reckless judgment of one whose fate has predetermined a certain role in the twists of this world," the old man declared, his eyes boring into Murtagh's with an intensity that left no room for argument.

Saying these words, which at the time seemed incomprehensible to Murtagh, the astrologer led him to the wide open window of the tower, forcing him to stand exposed to the evening cold. Pointing with a gnarled finger at the bright stars unfolding in the dark sky above them, he added, "The destiny of all of us is written up there. Each one does what is destined for him and can do little to escape the twists of fate, son of Morzan." Then, rubbing his palms together, he declared with a satisfied air, "However, you are not here to learn about the mysteries of the stars. You are here to learn to recognize the constellations in the firmament. To learn to read their celestial trajectories, so that you never lose your orientation. In any case, to always find your way on earth by the stars."

The cold wind swept across the plain once again, causing Murtagh to shiver. His limbs had gone numb from the stillness. He stood up, stretching his body to mobilize his frozen muscles. He approached the fire and replenished the embers with the last remnants of the scant firewood he had collected the previous night. With the aid of the wind's breath, the fire grew stronger and began to quickly consume the brittle wood of the low shrubs.

Carefully observing the sleeping dragon, tightly wrapped around the body of her rider, Murtagh unfolded his pack of blankets and took out a thick one, adding it over the cloak already snug around his body. Flecks of jealousy filled his being for the relationship he saw his two young companions share, a bond that firmly kept him excluded, leaving him completely alone.

He had always been alone! Years ago, his only faithful friend had been lost due to his own recklessness. Had he not had the bright idea to lead Aldon outside the citadel's walls into the market, nothing bad would have happened to him. His loyal companion had sacrificed himself so that he could be saved.

The guilt that had once tormented his juvenile heart rushed at him again, to plague him. He always remembered the curse that Aldon's younger sister had cast upon him in righteous indignation. As if it were just yesterday that...

...The coldness in her eyes, eyes that had wept so much earlier, stared at him icily… Her cold fingers touched his feverish forehead, placing the funeral bridal crowns of her dead brother upon his hair... He heard her harsh words, which spoke of a similar fate for him... A fate of lifelong loneliness was the curse she cast upon him...

No! He should no longer surrender himself to such thoughts. Those he considered his own were already dead… Aldon... Tornac... If Murtagh did not harden his heart against any feelings, he would soon follow their path. Myriad enemies lurked, waiting to find just one opportunity. Just one moment of weakness on his part was all it took for the enemy steel to find its way and pierce his heart.

It took all the remaining hours of the night for him to steel himself once more. He had to be strong, ruthless, and merciless with his enemies if he wanted to survive. Always ready to repel an attack. Ready to kill when in danger without a second thought. Likewise, he had to watch over and take care of this young man, who, despite being a dragon rider, seemed so vulnerable away from his dragon. Tornac had once made it clear. "When you decide you care for someone's life, you must be ready to risk your own to protect them." That was how he had taught him.

Logic told him that a dragon rider needed no protection, but everything pointed to the contrary. When he first met Eragon, he was completely helpless. If he, Murtagh, had not intervened on his behalf, he would now be crawling at the king's feet, a captive at his mercy, along with his dragon. Within the walls of Uru'baen, he would be forced to succumb to Galbatorix's dark will. He would be compelled to serve only his unlawful interests. And they would face either eternal slavery or a painful death. But now, thanks to him, the fugitive Murtagh, the son of Morzan, they were still free; free to choose the path that their clear conscience told them to follow.

Yes, he had changed after Tornac's death—perhaps the change had begun even earlier, following Aldon's death. However, despite sometimes being frightened by this new self, he deemed it necessary to appear rigid. To distance himself from anything that might show him as soft and potentially vulnerable. To act without leniency, perhaps even... without mercy. He would pay attention to everything, take care of this new group, and bury deep within himself all the memories that tormented him, as well as the dark thoughts. He had decided to focus on the daily adventure he was living, forgetting dead ends and potential dangers.

Before dawn even broke, Murtagh gathered the few belongings scattered over the campsite's soil the previous night and packed them into the side pockets of each saddle. He then saddled the horses and checked the straps and harnesses for the long journey ahead. Waking his companions, he helped Eragon mount, and they continued their journey through the desolate plain toward an unknown and dangerous world that lay cold before them.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The third day since Brom's death had already dawned; two days and two nights had passed since they left the crystal tomb where his body rested, following the unknown path to the south. Two seemingly endless days to Eragon, who had spent them without complaint on the saddle, trying to cope with the lively gait of the horse.

Saphira had flown high into the sky, so high that it would be impossible for a human eye to distinguish her species from the ground, but the mental connection they shared remained constant. Often, Eragon closed his eyes to the outside world, leaving his new companion, Murtagh, to lead their small group. He had noticed that this way, his connection with the dragoness was easier, and the associations from his old life and his journey with Brom were more vivid.

The old dragon rider and storyteller had perished following his uncle Garrow into the world of shadows. And this second death, in such a short period of time, had made Eragon's life seem abruptly cut off from his roots. Cut off from the roots that tied him to the life he had lived in Carvahall... from everything he had known... from all he had loved so dearly.

Except for Saphira!

"Of course, you are wrong to feel this way, little one!" emphasized the voice of the dragoness in his mind from the unseen heights where she flew, always connected with him. "I am here for you and our shared future lies ahead of us. It is unfair to cling to the past. Garrow is gone... Brom too. Honor them in your memory, but stop feeling lost in this world. You have me! You are mine!"

A sad smile bloomed on the young dragon rider's lips. "I am yours, oh beloved of my heart, but what value can I have when I am not even able to take care of myself in the simplest things and I am obligated to rely on a stranger? When I cannot even draw the sword from the scabbard, to defend our freedom or our lives?"

The angry growl of his chosen one echoed in Eragon's mind. "The present condition is a temporary one! Once the wound in your ribs heals, I am sure you will be more than capable of facing any challenge the envious and wretched Ra'zac, or the dark traitor king, the egg killer, may set in our path." A deep hum, which Eragon had long recognized as Saphira's laughter, tickled the inner part of his eardrums. "Besides, my little one, they had better not overlook my existence. As your dragon, I am obligated and ready to defend my rider's life."

Eragon thanked the dragoness, sending waves of gratitude her way, and contentedly shared with her the sense of security her presence inspired. The fact that Saphira had failed to warn him about the Ra'zac's attack on their night camp just a few days before did not cross his mind at all. "I love you very much, my sweet one, but... I miss the old man."

"I miss him too, little one... Have courage!"

Eragon took a deep breath, and the exertion caused a sharp pain between his broken ribs. The day-long journey on horseback added to his agony, especially when he wasn't careful, allowing himself the simple movements he had once taken for granted. "It hurts so much..."

"Patience! The sunset is near and soon darkness will follow. When we camp for the night, sleeping under my wing will surely bring you comfort," Saphira comforted him. "Oh, and tell that miserable four-legged creature you ride to take better care of you if it doesn't want to become two bites for my dinner."

"It's not the horse's fault, Saphira," groaned Eragon, trying to calm the additional pain. "On the other hand, you know, I should start sharing the night watches with Murtagh. He's been the one guarding our sleep for most of the past two nights."

The dragoness purred with affection for her chosen one. "I will guard you in your sleep, little one. You have no need of Murtagh!" At the same time, she projected into his mind an image of him sleeping beside her, while she covered him with her outspread wing, sheltering him from the cold night.

Eragon shared with her feelings of gratitude for her offer. "But I need Murtagh," he declared decisively, "at least for as long as I am unable to take care of the horses and all the basics of our journey. He helped us with the Ra'zac and took care of Brom; we can't just send him away. I want to be self-sufficient, but... don't forget that he has seen you. It is better and safer for him to stay with us."

"And if he proves to be unreliable? He himself said that the Empire is after him and wherever he is, blood is spilled. I don't want you to be in danger because of him. If, despite his previous help, he tries to harm you, then..."

"Then, Saphira, you can always drive him away from us."

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The nocturnal darkness swiftly followed the sinking of the pale, winter sun behind the leaden clouds of the west. A strong wind swept the sparks of the fire above the campsite. Tonight, it hadn't been possible to find a sheltered place; as they walked southeast, the plain grew more desolate.

With difficulty, Murtagh gathered a few twisted trunks from the sparse bushes scattered here and there. After unearthing two lizards, he skinned them and cooked a meager meal with their scant meat.

Leaning against Saphira's side by the fire, Eragon accepted the wooden bowl and swallowed his dinner without expression, bite by bite. His mind, always united with his chosen one, remained lost in distant memories they shared or worries about the future and the unknown that lay ahead.

It was the dragoness herself who noticed Murtagh.

The young man rummaged through his sack, searching for a clean change of clothes, scattering various items on the ground near the fire. The silver cup, decorated with the copper-colored maple leaf, his old birthday gift from Tornac, caught her attention.

"Be careful, Eragon! I think he might be a thief, and that's why the empire is after him." The dragoness drew her chosen one's attention to their companion and the precious item, which was once again stashed away in the depths of his sack.

"I don't believe it, Saphira." Murtagh's clothes might have been worn from the road, but they were obviously of excellent quality, sewn by a skilled tailor. His weapons were not like those you would find in the possession of any random thief. The way he spoke and expressed himself revealed an educated man, accustomed to commanding others and being heard. "It's more likely that he's a fallen noble. It might be a matter of ethics that he's being hunted. Perhaps he killed the wrong person... or bedded the wrong woman. But at this point, we need allies, and so far he has proven capable. Both of us know well how dangerous the Ra'zac are, and he managed to face them successfully."

"Why does he have strange clothes hidden in his sack that he doesn't wear and false beards?" The dragoness deemed it right to prepare her rider for anything peculiar that might arise regarding Murtagh.

Eragon adjusted Zar'roc's scabbard on his knees and saw his companion's gaze fall once again on the blade. Many times he had caught Murtagh's eyes cautiously examining this sword. "He's looking at my sword again."

"If he's a thief..."

"He's not!"

Eragon tried to mentally approach Murtagh, as Brom had taught him to do, attempting to gauge his intentions. He used the same method that had been successful with some random people he had encountered along his journey. Initially, he tried to gently touch the mind of the other young man, who was now sitting again on the opposite side of the fire, sharpening his dagger with a whetstone. For just a moment, he managed to capture a single image from Murtagh's mind before a wall quickly rose between them, blocking the effort.

He saw Murtagh remain motionless, his eyes fixed on the dagger, his fist clenched around the hilt until his knuckles turned white. Sensing the other's discomfort, Eragon quickly retreated. "Where did he learn to do this? Who is this person who manages to have such strong mental defenses?"

"I think it would be better if you talked with him a bit," Saphira urged Eragon.

During the brief moment between Eragon's attempt to penetrate Murtagh's mind and the rising wall that blocked him, Saphira—being mentally bonded with her chosen one—managed to perceive a strangely similar flame, like the one she always sensed burning within Eragon, calling her to him. It was particularly this flame that had urged her, after so many years of dormancy within her egg, to awaken for his sake. She now realized, with a strange sense of familiarity, that this unknown young man possessed the exact same characteristic as her rider.

With difficulty, Eragon stood up, leaning on Saphira's front leg. He approached Murtagh on the other side of the fire and sat beside him with careful movements. "Saphira wants me to ask you something that has been concerning us since you joined us," he began. "Do you belong to the Varden?"

Murtagh turned to look at him with a completely controlled gaze. "I belong to no one but myself. I owe no allegiance to anyone, nor have I exchanged vows of loyalty," he replied curtly and gravely.

The previous attempt by the dragon rider to examine his mind had angered him. Though the thoughtless act had annoyed him, he did not let his irritation show. He understood Eragon's need to protect himself from any danger, but he would never again permit a similar act. He hoped that his young companion would not try to penetrate his mind again, because if the previous attempt were to be repeated, he was not sure how he would react.

Murtagh's abrupt tone discouraged Eragon. He remained seated beside him, motionless and frowning, absentmindedly twirling the end of his leather belt between his fingers.

"Tell me..." Murtagh's voice sounded softer and friendlier now. "Do you intend to seek out the rebels?"

Eragon shrugged. "I don't really know anything about the Varden, only what I've happened to hear. When I asked Brom about his intentions, he seemed hesitant to take us to them."

"And what are your intentions?"

"To be honest, I wouldn't want to go near them. At least not yet, not before I learn more about them. But in the situation we're in now, I see no other alternative. We need protection, and I don't know where else we could go."

Murtagh nodded understandingly. "You could seek asylum with the elves. As a rider and dragon, perhaps..."

"Ha!" Eragon interrupted him. "The elves? How could we find them?" The ironic tone of his voice masked the insecurity he felt about all the possible alliances that awaited him in the outside world.

Murtagh couldn't help but think that the mental isolation of the dragon rider and his dragon wasn't very helpful for their future decisions. It was his turn to shrug silently.

Mechanically, he sheathed the dagger back into his boot, hid the whetstone in his sack, then got up and stoked the fire. He approached the horses to check if they needed anything else. All three had been fed, hobbled, and their backs covered with blankets earlier. Murtagh gently petted Tornac's forehead. The horse was already dozing next to the other two, closer to the fire than on previous nights, since tonight there was no boulder to provide shelter from the winds. With a slight nod of his head, the steed welcomed the caress.

"You know, Murtagh," Eragon's voice sounded next to him, more determined than before. The dragon rider had already stood up and approached the horses. "I'm thinking of selling one of my two horses, the chestnut one, Cadoc."

Eragon's eyes were wet with sadness. He had traveled half of Alagaësia in the saddle of this horse, which he had named after his grandfather. Cadoc was a good horse, and Eragon found it difficult to part with it. Now, his fingers dug into the dark mane of the animal as he rested his forehead against its side.

"Why not sell Snowfire?" Murtagh asked. "He's a rare breed and would fetch a better price in the market."

"When Brom bought him, he promised to take care of him," Eragon replied. "Since Brom can no longer do it himself, I will do it for him. That's why I choose to keep Snowfire."

Murtagh shrugged indifferently. "Since you've decided, you can sell him at the first village or town we come across."

It was time for him to keep watch over the camp for the night. He gathered his bow and quiver full of arrows from the saddle, settled into the spot he had chosen for the night watch, and unsheathed his sword, resting the sharp blade on his knees, ready for anything that might happen.

Seeing Murtagh's preparations, Eragon bit his lip. "Murtagh, tonight we will share the watch. I've rested enough, and my wound doesn't hurt as much as before."

Murtagh's steely gaze turned to him, observing him for a moment. "In any case, I'll keep the first watch. Go to sleep, Eragon, you need rest."

Eragon nodded. Holding his side protectively, he clumsily spread his blankets on the ground and lay down. Saphira hurried to curl around him, covering him with her wing. "Wake me when you want to sleep," his voice sounded from beneath the blue membrane that covered him. Then he quieted down.

Murtagh kept watch, listening to the sounds of the night beyond the crackling fire and the howling wind. Perhaps when Eragon regained his strength, Saphira would take him with her, mounting her saddle, and they would fly away together, leaving him alone. Such a thing was possible, but the dragon rider, despite considering selling his chestnut horse, did not seem to intend to abandon Snowfire.

A moonbeam slipped between the clouds, casting its light upon the naked blade of his sword, making the sharp steel shimmer.

...That's how his blade shimmered that night, dripping with the blood of Galbatorix's men and gleaming under the dim light of the lanterns... Ah, Tornac!...

He tried to push away the memory that was starting to overwhelm him and succeeded. The thought that the dragon rider was inevitably dependent on him for a period of time satisfied Murtagh. He might have felt lonely during the hours Eragon chose to mentally isolate himself with Saphira, but 'fate,' which the old astrologer so often referred to, seemed to have tied them together, at least for a while.

The dragoness had not yet fallen asleep. As her sapphire eyes turned toward him, they reflected the glow of the fire. Moonbeams shimmered on her scales, making them sparkle.

Murtagh admired the beauty of the creature, the grandeur of her form under the silver light of the stars. The captivating sight she presented carried his mind away from dangers and uncertainties. He envied her dragon rider, a simple and unrefined village boy, for his luck in being united with such a magnificent creature.

Jealousy struck his innermost feelings once again. How he wished he could be in the warmth between her wings... not exposed to the chill of the night... to have someone of his own, to share everything with...

At that moment, he realized for the first time that Saphira was emitting continuous waves of sympathy towards him. Initially wary, he then lowered his mental defenses slightly, feeling a bit more confident. "You are beautiful, Saphira," he allowed himself to express his admiration for her.

The dragoness nodded, clearly pleased with the impression she was making. Her scales shimmered like molten silver adorned with moonlight. "Thank you for everything, young one," she responded in his mind. "You saved my rider from the Ra'zac, and I owe you. I expect you to take care of him as best as you can, for my chosen one is very reckless and will surely get involved in careless adventures."

Her words amused Murtagh. "I will take care of him, Saphira, as best as I can. I promise you!"

Pleased with his answer, the dragoness lowered her head, resting her muzzle on her two front legs, ready to follow her rider into the path of sleep. "When you want to sleep, wake me to guard over you," she asked Murtagh. Her chosen one needed the sleep-that-heals-wounds to regain his strength. She herself could guard the camp perfectly from where she was. Who would dare to disturb them, faced with her sharp tooth and claw?

Murtagh continued to guard their safety and dreams for most of the night. As the flames of the fire greedily devoured the wood, turning the gnarled roots into embers, he felt his will and determination steeling through his old wounds, ready to face the challenges of a new tomorrow.

A/N : Thanks for reading.