The Fencing Master

by dragonriderofold

What would have happened if Murtagh had not grown up in Urû'baen and had met Nasuada early on? If Ajihad had survived and if Eragon had not rushed to confess his love to Arya? If Galbatorix had taken a more active role in the Inheritance Cycle plot than in the books? These and many other mysteries I will try to answer in this story.

17. The Return

The Return

From the moment he decided to return to Urû'baen—driven by his urgent need for the red egg—Murtagh felt an unyielding determination solidify his resolve. He relentlessly urged Tornac forward, loosening the reins to let the gray warhorse gallop freely along the broad carriage road that led to the capital.

It was at the break of the same dawn when he had left the Dragon Rider and his dragon, along with the unconscious elf, urging Eragon to remain hidden for just one day and one night. Now, he hurried back to Urû'baen, clinging to the hope—or perhaps the conviction—that the king would still be in Dras-Leona, awaiting him to complete the mission he had been entrusted with and fulfill his promise.

As he drew closer to the capital, the pull of the red egg grew stronger, an overwhelming force that consumed him, eclipsing all other emotions. Murtagh—usually rational and meticulous, the one who double- and triple-checked his actions, both at Galbatorix's court and among the Varden—was now driven solely by raw emotion and an urgent need to answer its powerful call.

Despite the enormous risk he faced by returning to the palace, he stayed unwaveringly focused on his primary goal: securing the egg. Fear and danger were brushed aside, as he refused to entertain even the faintest shadow of failure for a purpose as significant as this. With each passing moment, the craving for Galbatorix's 'treasure' intensified within him, feeding his stubbornness and fortifying his persistence.

He reached the gates of the walled city in the early afternoon, as the sun began its slow descent into a cloud-veiled horizon. The pale winter rays filtered through the clouds, scattering fragments of golden light across the narrow, cobbled streets of the lower city, casting ever-lengthening shadows.

Murtagh rushed through the grimy streets leading to the market, now nearly deserted. A handful of lingering merchants and peddlers scrambled to pack away their unsold goods and dismantle their stalls under the fading light, their weary figures bowed by the weight of another long, exhausting day drawing to a close.

The young man moved swiftly through the wealthier merchant districts, restraining his horse—eager to break into a run—on one side of the road as he made his way toward the inner wall of the citadel. The thought of bypassing the main gate and slipping in through a side entrance held undeniable appeal. He was certain he could avoid both the gate guards and the lingering nobles of the city. Yet, despite his careful planning, he discovered the side gate firmly sealed. The same was true of every other side entrance, no matter where he searched.

The situation struck him as odd. The gates were typically closed shortly before dusk, with the main gate being the last to shut. Yet it was still relatively early—the sun had not yet set. It seemed unusual for the side gates to already be sealed for the night. Twilight was still some time away, and faint daylight continued to illuminate the walls. This was usually the hour when the side gates remained open to accommodate servants, soldiers, and perhaps a few tardy suppliers to the castle.

Disheartened, he redirected his horse toward the citadel's main gate, the only one left open. Both his face and bearing were unmistakable, as was his steed. The guards recognized him instantly and greeted him with a respectful salute, acknowledging him as the son of Morzan.

This recognition disrupted his original plan: to retrieve the egg unnoticed during the dead of night, confident that the king would still be in Dras-Leona. His intention had been to leave the palace just before dawn, slipping through the gates at first light. He had hoped to reunite with Eragon and Saphira at their hideout, but even if they had already begun their journey, he was certain he could catch up by galloping hard along the road.

From the moment he entered the citadel and approached the castle grounds, the 'call' within him surged, growing stronger with every step. The dissatisfaction he had felt at being recognized melted away, eclipsed by the force of its pull. He guided his horse toward the central courtyard, which, at this time of day, was nearly deserted, with only a handful of guards and soldiers present.

As he dismounted and made his way toward the stables, a wave of horror swept over him. The towering structure of the dragonhold was not empty. Its massive occupant stood at the eastern opening, leaning forward. The creature's horns jutted out like twisted tree branches, catching the final crimson rays of sunlight, their surface gleaming as though coated in blood.

From the distance that separated them, Murtagh could see Shruikan watching him intently, almost as if anticipating his arrival. His heart skipped a beat as the faded blue iris of the black dragon's eye seemed to glare menacingly at him. When Shruikan's deafening roar reverberated through the dragonhold, shaking the entire tower, Murtagh felt the blood in his veins freeze. Without fully understanding why, he was gripped by the overwhelming impression that the dragon, leaning further out to stare directly at him, was poised to strike.

The sudden surge of fear within him quickly gave way to disappointment and unease. The sight of the dragon perched high in the dragonhold tower could only mean one of two things: either Galbatorix had returned to the capital, or he had never left. In either case, the king's presence rendered it utterly impossible for Murtagh to secretly access the red egg, crushing the hope he had clung to so desperately. To make matters worse, he would now have to confront Galbatorix and account for both his failure to complete the mission and his defiance in not meeting him in Dras-Leona.

He guided his horse to the stables almost automatically, his movements mechanical as his mind churned with a torrent of thoughts. Ideas sprang to life, only to wither and fade just as quickly. None seemed plausible as a viable excuse. What could he possibly claim to justify returning alone—or avoiding Dras-Leona, where his presence had been expected?

Before he could unsaddle or even decide what might sound like the least deviation from his orders to royal ears, the heavy footsteps of soldiers echoed through the stable. The clatter of their boots on the muddy cobblestones of the courtyard, accompanied by the metallic rattle of armor, stopped just outside. Murtagh felt the chill of the winter afternoon seep into him, filling his heart with dread. The moment had arrived—the crimson dreamscape he had inhabited for so many hours would now shatter, replaced by the dull gray of the trampled mud covering the courtyard beyond the stable doors.

He turned sharply at the sound of the captain's deep voice behind him, calling his name and ordering him to follow. Outside the stable entrance stood members of Galbatorix's personal guard. Clad in dark metal from head to toe, the fully armed men exuded an intimidating presence. The only hint of color on them was the twisted red flame emblazoned on their chests—the royal emblem. Their visors remained down, their faces shrouded in anonymity. Only the captain had raised his face guard, exposing a stern countenance and a gaze as unyielding as iron.

"His Majesty commands that you present yourself before him at once," the captain ordered. "Surrender your weapons and follow!"

Murtagh, whether he willed it or not, complied, entrusting his horse to the stablehand before following Galbatorix's captain. The rest of the guards closed ranks around him, their formation evoking the image of a prisoner being escorted. Confusion crept over him as he noticed they were not heading toward the throne room or the royal quarters. His earlier anxiety morphed into a profound sense of dread, tightening into a knot in his stomach.

"Where are you taking me?" he demanded, his voice sharp with frustration, but no response came—not even the slightest acknowledgment.

He was escorted through dim, rarely traversed corridors to a section of the castle that had remained entirely unknown to him during his time in Urû'baen. Before him loomed a narrow, winding staircase, ascending to the upper reaches of a crumbling tower. Dirt and crumbled plaster littered the steps, while mold crept over the ancient stones, and wild plant roots twisted out from the walls at each sharp turn. Though the place seemed untouched for years, every twist and landing of the staircase was heavily guarded by members of the king's personal guard.

Murtagh halted abruptly, spinning on his heel to confront the captain walking closely behind him. "Where are you taking me?" he asked sharply, his voice brimming with frustration. "I demand an answer!"

"I said, before the king! Now stay silent and come without protest!" the captain snapped, his voice cutting through the air as he seized Murtagh by the arm and led him forward.

The setting struck the young man as deeply unsettling, a place ill-suited for an audience with Galbatorix. Yet, compelled by the unyielding will of the guards, he had no choice but to comply, following obediently without uttering another question.

At the top of the winding staircase, they reached the turret's circular chamber. A low, thick wooden door, reinforced with metal plates and studded with round rivets, stood between them and the room beyond. Flanking the door were two towering royal guards, their presence as unyielding as the door itself. Clad in dark armor, they gripped long swords and heavy spears of ash wood. Without hesitation, they crossed their weapons before the entrance, barring any attempt to proceed.

"His Majesty is expecting him!" the captain barked sharply. At once, the spears were withdrawn, clearing the way. The heavy door groaned open, revealing the dim interior of the circular chamber. Without ceremony, the captain shoved Murtagh forward, sending him stumbling inside. The door slammed shut behind him with a low, sinister creak that echoed through the room.

Despite its deceptive appearance from the outside, the room was rather small and confined. On one side, a dilapidated bed rested against the wall, its bare straw mattress showing its age. Opposite it stood a small, cracked table and a rickety, three-legged stool, both riddled with the scars of relentless woodworm. High on the far wall, a small, barred window allowed the dying light of day to filter into the chamber. Beneath its iron bars, Galbatorix stood in silence, engrossed in an ancient manuscript, the faint glow illuminating the worn pages in his hands.

Murtagh bowed low before him. "Your Majesty!" he greeted, his tone measured. Yet, the king offered not the slightest acknowledgment, leaving Murtagh no choice but to remain bowed for an uncomfortably long time.

At last, Galbatorix's focus shifted from the ancient manuscript. With deliberate care, he rolled the parchment back into its cylindrical form, his fingers guiding its edges with precision, before setting it down on the table beside him. Turning toward the window, he gazed for a moment at the deepening hues of dusk—the purple-tinged clouds drifting lazily across the vault of the sky. "Where is the treasure you were tasked to bring Us, son of Morzan?" he intoned, his voice calm yet laced with menace. "Where is the thief and bearer of Our treasure?"

To unfamiliar ears, the tone of Galbatorix's voice might have seemed dispassionate, as though he were discussing a matter of trivial significance. Yet, buried within his words, there was an undertone that resonated like a veiled threat, hinting at something dark and perilous simmering beneath the surface. As he turned his gaze toward the young man still bowed before him, the dim light of the chamber caught in his dark eyes, which gleamed with barely contained fury.

Murtagh swallowed the knot that had been lodged in his throat for a long time. "Your Majesty, no matter how hard I tried, it was impossible to meet the thief of your treasure. However," he paused, gathering what little courage he had left, "I believe I have discovered clues to their whereabouts. With your permission, I can act swiftly to pursue..."

He hadn't even finished his sentence when a choking sensation abruptly silenced him. It felt as though an unseen force had clamped around his throat like a vice, cutting off the air in his lungs and tightening mercilessly. Gasping, he clutched desperately at his neck with both hands, but the crushing pressure only grew. His legs gave way beneath him, and he crumpled heavily to his knees on the grimy floor, his vision beginning to blur.

Galbatorix circled him with slow, deliberate steps, his wild eyes betraying not a shred of concern for Murtagh's suffering. He allowed the young man to endure the agony, savoring the punishment for the lie he had dared to tell. Just as Murtagh's vision began to darken, the crushing grip on his throat eased, leaving him gasping for air. Collapsing forward, he coughed violently, his hands clawing at his sore neck as he struggled to draw breath once more.

"I will ask you once more," the king said, leaning over him with a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Choose your words wisely, for your next answer may well carry the weight of your final breath."

Galbatorix's patience had clearly run dry. Murtagh realized, with a sinking feeling, that the truth he had tried so desperately to conceal was somehow already known to him. "Your Majesty, the Ra'zac..." he began hesitantly.

With a swift, commanding gesture of his hand, the king cut him off once more. "We know very well what the Ra'zac attempted, son of Morzan!" His thoughts burned with disdain. What was this insolent boy trying to achieve? Deceive him—Galbatorix? His King? Fury, long held in check, surged forward unchecked, and he unleashed its merciless force upon the young man. A fresh wave of agony seized Murtagh, forcing him to writhe helplessly on the filthy floor. No, this one was utterly incapable of deceiving him. The truth would be uncovered—whether Murtagh was willing or not.

Murtagh clutched his chest, his entire being consumed by an unbearable weight—a suffocating, deathly anxiety. His gaze locked onto the king's eyes, bulging with a fury so unrestrained that it defied anything Murtagh could have imagined. The sight stirred something deep within him, dragging forth memories long buried. Only once before had he witnessed such unbridled rage—on that night, when Morzan...

He desperately forced the haunting memory back into the recesses of his mind. With trembling arms, he tried to push himself onto his knees, refusing to resort to crawling, clinging to the last fragments of his dignity. Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, he pressed on. And yet, a chilling realization crept over him—Galbatorix knew far more than he had ever let on. Perhaps he knew everything.

It took every ounce of mental strength he could summon, every shred of resolve he could muster. "Your Majesty... I met... I met the Dragon Rider," he stammered, his voice trembling as he forced the words out. Supporting himself on his hands and knees, he managed to lift his gaze, meeting the king's flame-lit eyes. Regret surged through him—choosing a lie as his excuse had been a grave misstep. He needed a different approach to navigate this treacherous moment. "We met... yes... I saved him from the Ra'zac's attack. I didn't appear in Dras-Leona because... because the Dragon Rider's plans were different... and I... I was commanded to remain by his side. I tried to gain his trust... I tried..."

"The Dragon Rider's plans were different!" Galbatorix's voice cut through the air like a blade. He clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing, the walls casting long, creeping shadows that draped over him like a dark cloak. His face, half-shrouded by the dimming light, bore a fierce, unreadable expression. Finally, he stopped, towering over the kneeling young man once more, his presence suffocating and inescapable.

"His plans, which you so diligently ensured were executed, were to ambush the carriage Our loyal soldiers were driving to Urû'baen," he said, his voice cutting like a blade as he leveled his accusations. "It is because of you, son of Morzan, that the elf was freed, that Our Shade was neutralized, and that good men of the empire lost their lives." He leaned closer to Murtagh, his shadow looming like a specter. "Did you truly believe We would not learn of the empty carriage and its slain escort? That Our scouts would fail to notice the claw marks of the dragon or the tracks left in the dirt? Did you think We would remain blind to your role in this treachery against your king?"

Murtagh stayed frozen in his kneeling position, his head bowed, masking the storm of thoughts raging within him. He knows! The realization sent a jolt of fear through his entire being. How could Galbatorix have learned all this in such exact detail? How could he possibly be aware of Murtagh's role in the attack on the carriage alongside the Dragon Rider? There had been no survivors to tell the tale... Could it be... the Shade?

Murtagh dared to raise his eyes once more. "Your Majesty, whatever they may have told you, I remain loyal to you—a devoted subject and..."

The words died on his lips as the king's hand moved with terrifying speed, hurling a curved spear with immense force. It struck his stomach and carried him backward, pinning him against the far wall. His feet dangled helplessly above the ground as white-hot agony coursed through his body. Instinctively, he clutched at his stomach, expecting to find his hands slick with blood. Yet, as he stared at them in disbelief, they were clean—unmarked. The searing pain intensified, twisting into a deeper torment, and confusion gripped him as tightly as the invisible force that held him captive.

He hadn't seen the king armed. And now... the curved blade hadn't even pierced him. Yet, the searing pain in his stomach was unbearable, as though it were tearing him apart from the inside. Surely, this was some cruel delusion, his body reacting in spasms to an imagined assault. But the sensation of the burning blade remained, unrelenting, twisting deeper into a wound that didn't exist... skewering him. The torment stretched endlessly, each second an eternity, until the unbearable agony tore a scream from his lips.

The torment of Morzan's son finally seemed to extinguish the flames of Galbatorix's anger. When the king grew weary of his cruel punishment, he released the invisible grip that had held the young man captive. Murtagh crumpled to the floor once more, clutching his stomach as though the pain still gnawed at him. His body trembled with exhaustion, his breaths shallow and ragged, as if the agony refused to release its hold. Galbatorix regarded him with a vacant, detached stare. It was astonishing how the mind, unable to resist the power of suggestion, could be driven to such extremes. Morzan's son looked and moved as though he were truly wounded, his torment etched into every fiber of his being.

Galbatorix prodded him with the tip of his boot, his expression unreadable. "Is there anything else you have to tell Us?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion but heavy with expectation. As he studied the crumpled figure before him, a flicker of disappointment crossed his mind. He had once considered the boy sharper, more cunning than this pitiful display suggested. How could he have misjudged him so profoundly?

Murtagh pushed himself onto his knees once more, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other bracing against the cold floor. This time, he did not dare lift his gaze to meet the king's. His voice was barely a whisper, trembling with pain. "I am deeply ashamed, Your Majesty, for failing to meet your expectations... As for my failure to bring the pair to Urû'baen," he paused, his words faltering, "I had nearly persuaded the rider to follow me, but his cunning dragon intervened and cast me away. He did not trust me. But my greatest shame lies in the lie I told... in attempting to deceive my king. For this act, I repent and humbly seek your forgiveness. I throw myself upon your mercy, trusting in your magnanimity to accept me once more—to allow me the honor of serving my king and advancing his interests as a loyal subject."

"There will be consequences, Murtagh, for your disobedience," the king said, his voice once again simmering with restrained anger. "There are always consequences for failure."

Murtagh remained kneeling, his head still bowed, his face concealed in the deep shadows of the chamber. "It is true," he murmured, his voice low and steady, "that I helped the Dragon Rider free the elf. I did so to win his complete trust, but I failed." He paused, letting his words hang in the heavy air. "And yet, I am here. I am yours, Your Majesty. You may do with me as you wish."

These unexpected words from the young man gave Galbatorix pause. Such a statement was entirely uncharacteristic of the son of Morzan. Surrender, submission—these were notions he had not associated with the defiant figure before him. Perhaps the punishment had indeed left its mark, bending him in ways the king had not anticipated. "So," Galbatorix said, his tone carefully measured, "you admit that you failed?"

Murtagh lifted his gaze, a faint glimmer of defiance lingering beneath his composed exterior. "It is my failures, Your Majesty, that teach me the most," he replied steadily. "They are not defeats but lessons—challenges that compel me to try again and again, until I prevail."

Galbatorix caught a flicker of determination in the young man's eyes, and something about it pleased him. His lips curled into a scheming smile, and the hungry glint returned to his dark gaze. "And what would you aim for with this challenge?" he asked, his voice laced with intrigue.

"I swear, Your Majesty," Murtagh replied, his tone unwavering, "that I will do everything in my power to meet the rider of the blue dragon again. I will gain the trust of both him and his dragon and be accepted as their loyal companion. I swear that I will remain by their side and that death will claim me before I fail in my purpose." His eyes shone with apparent sincerity, lending weight to his solemn oath.

Yet, beneath the surface of his words lay a carefully concealed truth. Murtagh meant what he swore—but his purpose was not what Galbatorix believed. His aim was clear: to reunite with the Dragon Rider, to pledge himself as a true ally, and to steer him toward the Varden's cause.

If the king was satisfied with this response—if it had swayed him to grant a second chance—he gave no indication. His expression remained unreadable. Then, without warning, his demeanor shifted entirely. Abruptly abandoning the intensity of the exchange, he turned his attention elsewhere—a trait that was as characteristic of him as it was unsettling. Hadn't Ajihad himself cautioned about these sudden and alarming changes, a sure sign of Galbatorix's emotional instability?

With an almost eerie calm, the king picked up the ancient scroll he had set aside earlier. Holding it aloft, he gestured purposefully around the circular chamber, his voice measured and composed as he began to speak, as though the prior tension had simply evaporated.

"This place, son of Morzan, has its own dark history," Galbatorix said, his voice carrying a solemn weight that seemed to echo within the chamber. "Within these walls, a general loyal to Us endured his final days, his loyalty unwavering to the bitter end."

He moved toward the farthest corner, his figure melting into the encroaching shadows until only the faint outline of his form remained visible. The darkness seemed to cling to him, absorbing the dim light that flickered in the room. From within the shadows, his voice emerged again, calm and yet filled with an ominous undercurrent.

"You are, of course, familiar with the loss of the province of Surda, the battle lost at Cithrí, and the betrayal of Lady Marelda." He paused, letting the weight of those words sink in. Turning his gaze to the ancient scroll in his hands, his expression softened momentarily, tinged with what seemed like sorrow. "The general who led Our forces in that fateful battle failed Us. We once considered him a man of steadfast loyalty, Murtagh—a man We had honored with Our friendship and trust. Yet, he proved unworthy of the responsibility bestowed upon him."

The king's voice grew colder, each word cutting like a blade. "His oversights not only cost Us a victory but left him burdened with the shame of failure. The loss of Surda was more than just the forfeiture of a province; it robbed the Empire of its worthy sons, who perished on the battlefield. This distinguished general's failure was an affront to Us—a betrayal of the trust We had so generously given." Galbatorix's tone softened again, dripping with calculated grief. "At that time, Our sorrow was profound."

Galbatorix emerged from the shadows, his figure returning to the dim center of the room. His gaze drifted upward to the beams on the ceiling, as though peering at something invisible yet haunting. "He lived in this room during the final weeks of his life," he murmured, his voice quieter, almost reflective. "In a desperate bid to justify his failure and poor strategic decisions, he penned this manuscript, recounting the battle through his own eyes. And then, with the weight of his disgrace crushing him, he ended his wretched life by hanging himself from these very beams... using nothing more than his blankets."

He raised a finger, pointing toward the ceiling. "That is why this bed lies bare, stripped of its bedclothes." For a moment, silence enveloped the room, the weight of his words lingering. Then, with a sudden shift, his voice grew loud, reverberating with commanding authority. "You, who so eagerly bury your nose in ancient manuscripts, study this one well. Perhaps then, you will grasp the consequences of failure—how it lingers like a shadow, staining every effort. Let this be a lesson: one's worth is measured solely by results, not by the affection or favor they might once have enjoyed from their king. You are still young, Murtagh, and you must understand this truth. Failure has no excuses, only costs!"

Galbatorix turned on his heel abruptly, his cloak swirling with the motion, and strode out of the room with brisk, purposeful steps. From beyond the heavy wooden door, Murtagh could hear his voice, cold and commanding, issuing orders to the guards. "Watch him without pause, day and night. No one is to enter this room. No one is to speak to him."

The young man crumpled to the floor, his strength leaving him in an instant, his body folding into a defeated heap. The shadows of the encroaching night seeped into the room through the iron-barred window, stretching like dark tendrils over the worm-eaten furniture. They crept across the layers of dust, the festering mold, and the silent weight of decades of abandonment. In the suffocating stillness, anxiety and fear emerged as two malevolent counselors from the darkness, their insidious presence wrapping tightly around Murtagh, whispering dire thoughts into his mind.

His plan had crumbled entirely, leaving him grappling with the bitter taste of failure. Regret gnawed at him, sharp and unforgiving, as he reflected on the reckless decision to return to the palace for the red egg. Perhaps it had been foolish from the outset—to place himself so dangerously close to Galbatorix's grasp. Tornac had once risked everything, even his life, to free him from the king's influence. And now, by his own volition, he had stepped back into Urû'baen's shadow.

The weight of his miscalculation bore down on him, a cruel reminder of his lack of foresight. It felt like a betrayal of Tornac's memory—a desecration of the sacrifice made by the man he had considered a father. The sting of guilt now pierced deeper than ever, mingling with the shame of failure.

In a matter of hours, the Dragon Rider and his dragon would depart the meeting point, leaving Murtagh behind. He would not ride at their side, shielding them from the perils of the journey ahead. There would be no triumphant return to the Varden, no proud fulfillment of the path he had envisioned for himself.

Instead, Nasuada would not hear his voice nor see him standing before her. She would receive only a farewell letter, delivered by unfamiliar hands—cold words on paper where once he had hoped for words of love from her lips. The weight of his failure bore down on him, mingling bitterly with the ache of unspoken affection.

Later, deep into the stillness of the night, a faint silver beam from the waning moon filtered through the iron bars, casting a fragile pool of light upon the cold, uneven floor. With it came a flicker of hope, as tenuous as the moonlight itself. Nasuada's image, vivid and tender, appeared in his mind, softening the harsh edges of his despair. He had faced the king and lived to tell the tale. Perhaps—just perhaps—his oaths had swayed Galbatorix enough to grant him another chance.

It was her delicate, imagined fingers—those of his beloved—that seemed to spin the thread of life around him once more, wrapping him in the fragile weave of dreams. He clung to them with desperate determination, as though willing them to solidify into reality. Every movement was an agony, but inch by inch, he dragged himself toward the light and finally entered its faint circle.

Yet, the intensity of the excruciating pain in his stomach had not ceased for a moment.

.*.*.*.

After a night plagued by unrest, the king ascended the spiraling stairs to the tower of the dragonhold at the first hint of dawn. Sleep had eluded him entirely; the ceaseless hisses, relentless clawing, and echoing rattles from within the red egg had kept him on edge. The hatchling within stirred with a fierce vitality, its presence impossible to ignore.

The storm of anger that had consumed him earlier—unleashed violently upon Morzan's son—had gradually ebbed, leaving behind a simmering intensity. His intuition swelled with certainty. The signs were undeniable: a new Dragon Rider was poised to emerge. The thought consumed him, sending ripples of expectation through his sleepless mind.

Though Murtagh had failed to deliver the other pair to him, though he had dared to oppose his interests, and though his defiance and lies had sparked the king's ire, the tides now seemed to turn in Galbatorix's favor. The pieces on the board were shifting, aligning more closely with his designs.

He made his way to his dragon, a deliberate effort to regain a sense of accomplishment. While the outcome was not as complete as he had envisioned, there was enough progress to kindle a quiet contentment within him. Not fully pleased, yet far from displeased, he allowed himself a moment to reflect on the subtle victories taking shape.

Galbatorix had long since abandoned any habit of sharing the intricacies of Alagaësia's governance with Shruikan, or even the currents of his own thoughts, emotions, and ambitions. Over the years, he had come to accept that such matters elicited nothing but indifference from the black dragon—indifference so deliberate it bordered on disdain. At times, Galbatorix had even sensed a quiet resentment in the way Shruikan ignored the shifting storms of his rider's moods.

Yet today was different. Today, against all odds, hope had crept into his chest, a faint but persistent ember. It was a rarity for him, this feeling of optimism, and he found himself wanting—perhaps even needing—to share it. With an unusual lightness in his step, he turned his thoughts toward Shruikan, prepared to break their unspoken silence.

Before Galbatorix even set foot in the dragonhold, he reached out with his mind, waking Shruikan with a silent summons. The great black dragon stirred, roused from his rest, and as the king entered, he was greeted by a low, rumbling growl—a constant, menacing vibration that filled the air. It was Shruikan's habitual expression of displeasure, a warning of his irritation at being disturbed.

The interruption of his rest stoked the dragon's natural aggression, his mood teetering on the edge of fury. Though he would never dare attack the king—aware of the unyielding control Galbatorix held over him—Shruikan did not conceal his resentment. His massive tail swung rhythmically, striking the stone walls with resonant thuds. Wisps of black smoke curled from his wet nostrils, coiling into the air, while molten saliva dripped from his jaws, sizzling as it scorched the straw of his nest.

"Oh, majestic Shruikan," Galbatorix greeted aloud, his voice carrying an air of practiced reverence. He avoided the mental link with the dragon whenever possible, preferring to maintain a deliberate separation. "The days ahead promise to be filled with unexpected and hopeful developments."

"The hatchling of Morzan has returned," Shruikan growled malevolently. "And rightly so, you unleashed your anger upon him. From the moment he decided to leave, he should never have returned."

The dragon rolled over with deliberate sluggishness, coiling his tail tightly around his folded wings. He lowered his massive snout onto his clawed feet and, with a theatrical flourish, closed his eyes as though drifting back to sleep. The message was clear—he had no intention of entertaining his rider's company.

However, Galbatorix was in such a jubilant mood that he remained entirely unperturbed by Shruikan's ill temper or the dragon's reluctance to hear about the events of the previous night. His satisfaction was undiminished, and for once, the dragon's defiance seemed inconsequential.

"We will not claim, mighty dragon, that Morzan's son has not disappointed Us," the king continued, unshaken and impervious to Shruikan's irritation. "His reckless actions still displease Our heart." The bitterness in Galbatorix's tone was evident, yet his bearing betrayed no trace of resentment over Murtagh's defiance.

For days, he had been scrying the boy's movements on the surface of the liquid. While the other members of the group remained concealed from his sight, their intent was laid bare through Morzan's son's actions. Galbatorix could see the pattern forming—the unmistakable desire to elude his grasp and slip beyond his domain.

"I confess," he added, with an air of restrained reproach, "We expected more from the son of Our dear friend and comrade-in-arms."

The dragon made no comment; he merely snorted another cloud of thick, black smoke directly into Galbatorix's face.

The king turned sharply, stifling a cough into his embroidered handkerchief, before striding toward the massive opening of the dragonhold—the portal through which the black dragon departed and returned. Regaining his composure, he continued, his tone measured but firm. "Murtagh, however, promised Us that he would try again; and We, in good faith, have decided to grant him a second chance. He did not, of course, swear this promise in the ancient language, but that can be arranged... when the time is right."

Shruikan blinked rapidly, his double eyelid flicking over the slit pupil of his eye as the strengthening daylight pricked at his sensitive vision. The dark rider was not known for granting second chances lightly. The mere fact that Morzan's hatchling remained alive somewhere within the citadel was proof enough that the king had, in his own way, taken a liking to the boy from the moment he set foot in the palace.

Of course, for Galbatorix, "liking" someone was a peculiar thing—if it could even be called that.

"Additionally, and most remarkable of all, the red egg has been in a state of heightened excitement since Morzan's son returned. This development aligns perfectly with Our plans, as the emergence of a new Dragon Rider has become essential to stand at Our side under the current circumstances."

The dragon's low growl swelled into a menacing roar, his displeasure erupting into a display of sheer power. Shruikan loathed this turn of events, and the temptation to crush the red egg and obliterate the hatchling within it flared dangerously in his mind. The admission from the king stoked his fury to new heights.

With a deafening bellow, he reared his massive head and unleashed a torrent of fire toward the dome's ceiling. The flames licked at the thick, iron-reinforced beams, charring them black as the searing heat radiated through the chamber. As the echoes of his roar subsided, his enormous head sank heavily back down, and a guttural, pained growl continued to reverberate against the stone walls, filling the air with the weight of his anguish.

"Perhaps Murtagh is somewhat naive," Galbatorix continued, his voice steady and unyielding, as though the dragon's anguished growl was nothing more than a distant inconvenience. "What else could he be, after all? Raised by an ignorant guard, far from the palace and the guiding hand of his rightful king. No one ever groomed this boy for the ranks he might one day hold, despite the potential he undoubtedly possesses."

The king turned inward, his gaze settling on Shruikan, though he deliberately kept his distance from the dragon. "The time he has spent with Us is still relatively short, and despite the erudite professors and the unrestricted access to the libraries We generously granted him, he may yet cling to naive notions," he said, his tone sharp with both critique and patience.

As he spoke, he clasped his hands behind his back, the movement precise and rhythmic, a calculated display of authority. "Nevertheless, the developments leave Us feeling optimistic," he continued, a faint smile curling beneath his meticulously groomed mustache. "In due time, under Our guidance, he will come to understand."

Galbatorix had dealt with Murtagh's failure and defiance with unrelenting severity. He was certain that the punishment had served its purpose—a lesson that should have been taught long ago. But who had been there to teach him? Morzan's absence had left an unfillable void, and in his stead, a mere guard—Tornac, utterly unfit for the task—had raised the boy. How could such an upbringing have prepared him for the weight of power and responsibility?

Now, however, Murtagh was firmly within Galbatorix's grasp, molded by his influence. Once his punishment had run its course, the king had resolved to present Morzan's son to the red egg once again. Not immediately, of course, but soon—when the time was right.

Shruikan's enormous eye flicked open, the blue iris glowing like a shard of ice in the dimly lit hall. His gaze locked onto the king, searing and unrelenting. "You thought of putting him near the red hatchling..." The words dripped with disdain, each syllable cutting sharply through the air. It wasn't a question but a declaration, spoken in a tone that left no room for doubt.

The massive head, crowned with alabaster horns, shifted toward the faint light. His eyes narrowed, their brilliant hue dimmed as half-forgotten images from another era flooded the dragon's mind—fragments of memories he had long sought to bury, now resurfacing unbidden, casting shadows across his thoughts.

"Our initial thought was to pursue the blue pair Ourselves," Galbatorix admitted, his tone measured. "However, that proved rather difficult. We would have had to abandon the capital once more, after only just returning. The process would require repeating a series of taxing spells to ensure Our safety, then embarking on a search for the young pair in an unknown direction."

He paused momentarily, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. "We could, of course, interrogate Murtagh. Perhaps he knows their plans or gleaned some hint of their intended destination during his last encounter with them. But now, it is too late for such measures."

Galbatorix let out a weary sigh, the weight of frustration evident. "We should have interrogated him the moment he returned yesterday. Instead, Murtagh's disobedience provoked Our uncontrollable anger, and precious time was wasted in vain." Turning away from the tower's wide opening, the king composed himself and continued.

"After yesterday's events, however, Murtagh took a solemn oath to make another attempt to reach the Dragon Rider. And so, oh majestic dragon, We find Ourselves compelled to place Our trust in him once more. Though his first mission ended in bitter disappointment for Us, Morzan's boy is undeniably ambitious. He appears eager to secure a place of prominence by Our side." Galbatorix's voice gained a sharper edge. "We are confident that the punishment for his falsehoods has instilled the lesson he should have learned long ago."

The king spread his arms in a gesture of mock apology, addressing Shruikan with a tone both placating and resolute. "What is a subject if not a child in the hands of his king? A beloved child who, even after transgressing, is welcomed back with understanding and love following due punishment?

Thus, We can afford to be optimistic. Should Murtagh become a Dragon Rider, he and his dragon will serve as a pair entirely under Our command, their loyalty bound to Our will. And if not, the elusive blue pair, still beyond Our control, will inevitably fall into Our grasp—through Murtagh's hand."

At the sound of the king's final words, Shruikan's tail lashed out, the deadly spikes slicing through the air and striking the walls with a thunderous crash. His gigantic jaws parted, revealing rows of glinting, razor-sharp teeth, illuminated by the nascent glow of a flame gathering within.

"Alone!" the dragon bellowed into Galbatorix's mind, his voice a deafening storm of rage. "No other! No dragon... nor chosen one! Alone!" The force of his roar reverberated through the chamber, shaking its very foundation.

In the same instant, a torrent of violent images surged into the king's thoughts, hurled with an uncontrollable fury. Wings torn asunder, bodies shattered, eggs smashed beyond repair—a vision of utter destruction. An entire world consumed by fire, burning relentlessly in a nightmarish inferno.

"Quiet!" Galbatorix barked, his voice slicing through the chaos. He moved cautiously toward the dragonhold's exit, every step measured, ready to speak the dragon's true name if the need arose to subdue Shruikan's rising fury.

Shruikan writhed on the stone floor, his massive form thrashing in torment. His talons gouged deep furrows into the stone, while torrents of flame erupted from his jaws, a physical manifestation of the anguish gripping his heart. Memories clawed their way into his mind, breaching the fragile wall separating 'before' from the shattered realm of 'after.'

The image of a boy... that boy... his chosen one... rose unbidden. The boy reached out, his small palm extended with cautious trust, gently brushing against Shruikan's tiny, trembling snout. The hatchling, black and slick from his newly broken egg, shivered in the cold dampness of the moment. Yet the touch—so soft, so warm—had reached through the chill and had warmed him.

The dragon hissed, a sound that cut through the air like a blade, before launching himself from one wall to the other. The sheer force of his massive body shook the very foundations of the chamber, the walls groaning under the strain of his strength. Flames erupted violently from his jaws, engulfing the straw on the floor and incinerating the remnants of his uneaten food, the room thick with the acrid stench of smoke and ash.

Had Galbatorix not slyly whispered those two fateful words—the words that bound Shruikan's soul—there would have been no stopping him. The dragon would have taken to the skies, his fury unleashed upon the world, his fire consuming all in its path in a desperate bid to quiet his tormented spirit.

Instead, the dragon let out a heart-wrenching scream, the single word "alone..." echoing through the chamber with an unbearable sorrow. He collapsed onto the scorched remains of his nest, his vast wings folding over his head as if to shield himself from his own anguish. Despair seeped into every corner of the room. He could not tolerate the existing pair beside him, nor any new one that was to be born from the union of dragon and two-legs chosen one. The dragon would not allow them to exist near him.

Without sparing another thought for Shruikan's fury, Galbatorix made his way back to his chambers. His focus had already shifted to the disturbance within the red egg. Peering into its containment, he found that the hatchling's behavior remained unchanged from the day before. The sight brought a pleased smile to his lips.

The influence of Morzan's son on the unborn dragon was still palpable, its proximity continuing to stir the hatchling within. The egg, vibrating faintly with life, seemed poised—ready to hatch for its destined chosen one.

With a gleam of satisfaction, the king observed the egg as it wobbled atop the soft cushions of its pedestal. Echoes of knocks and scratches filled the small antechamber, faint yet persistent, reminiscent of the sounds that had haunted the previous night.

From deep within the shell came a long, drawn-out hiss—a sound that carried the plaintive cry of a hungry newborn, desperate and yearning to be nourished.

The king approached, his hand hovering over the red, glossy surface that pulsed with a burning rhythm. The temptation to subdue the hatchling within—to claim it as he had done with Shruikan decades ago—was almost overpowering.

Could he not allow the egg to hatch, letting the red hatchling believe its destiny lay with Morzan's child, only to intervene at the precise moment? With the first touch, Galbatorix could bind the dragon to himself, bending its will entirely for his own purposes.

Quickly, however, his thoughts shifted. Another unnatural union would inevitably lead him back to the same predicament he faced now—a dragon by his side that required constant coercion to bend to his will. Such an arrangement was exhausting and unstable, a flawed shadow of what a true partnership should be.

The bond between dragon and rider was singular, unparalleled. It was a connection forged in trust and unity, a loyalty born not of fear but of mutual respect. What Galbatorix truly needed in his service was a pair who embodied that rare bond—loyal to each other and, by extension, unwaveringly loyal to him.

Galbatorix stepped back with deliberate care, retreating in the hope that his absence would soothe the magical creature slumbering within the egg—a being that had lain dormant for a century. Each attempt to introduce a potential Dragon Rider to the red hatchling had ended in rejection, the creature dismissing every candidate with unwavering defiance.

Yet this pattern had broken with Morzan's son. The hatchling had not dismissed him, a fact that both intrigued and pleased the king. Still, the moment to unite the two had not yet arrived. Though Murtagh had carefully earned a measure of Galbatorix's favor, the boy's trials were far from over. Before destiny could unfold, he had to learn his lesson thoroughly and without exception.

Galbatorix withdrew to his office, his thoughts consumed by the delicate balance of risk and reward in uniting the red hatchling with Morzan's son. If Murtagh were to become the next Dragon Rider—a necessity, given the uncontrollable pair that still roamed the wilderness—the king knew he could not afford even the slightest doubt regarding his allegiance.

Both dragon and rider would have to serve him unconditionally, their loyalty unquestionable. While oaths sworn in the ancient language provided a strong foundation, they were not infallible. True certainty would come only with the discovery of their true names. With that knowledge, Galbatorix could wield absolute power over them, binding them to his service with unbreakable precision.

Shruikan's fury was not something to be dismissed lightly, nor was his resolute opposition. Galbatorix knew he had to tread carefully with his next steps. The dragon's cooperation was far from guaranteed; his unpredictability could manifest in dangerous, uncontrollable outbursts.

Yet, with time and subtle coercion, Shruikan might be forced to adapt—to accept the existence of the new pair. Perhaps, with enough persistence, he could even come to tolerate not just one but both new pairs. The idea, as audacious as it was, sparked a glimmer of intrigue in the king's mind. After all, power came not only from dominance but from the ability to bend even the fiercest wills to serve his grand designs.

.*.*.*.

"For reasons unknown to me, daughter, our agent chose to extend his stay in Urû'baen. However, the elven informant made no mention of their meeting to Trianna. We cannot determine the location or the circumstances under which they met. Moreover, we still don't know what prompted Murtagh to entrust his information to a third party. I can only assume that he did so because there was no other means to convey it to us."

Ajihad turned thoughtfully and began studying the large map of the continent, carved from granite by the hands of ancient Dwarven artisans, which adorned a section of the wall behind his desk. Semiprecious stones indicated the locations of the largest cities in Alagaësia, while a bright red ruby, scattering crimson glints, marked the position of Urû'baen.

"For our man to make such a difficult decision as risking an extended stay there, he must have a very serious reason."

Since the witch Trianna had reached out to him, relaying all the information their agent had sent through the elf ambassador and bearer of the egg, the leader of the Varden had acted without delay. He had discreetly summoned the other members of the Varden council through Jörmundur, who, in turn, had alerted the officers commanding the rebel army.

Nasuada was present during the reporting and discussion of all the information Murtagh had sent, particularly the revelations about the twin sorcerers' betrayal, the existence of a Shade, and the king's alliance with the Urgals.

The revelation that the two individuals they trusted most were betraying their secrets to the King filled everyone present with disgust. Yet, none of them were surprised or questioned the validity of the information, as it perfectly explained how the Empire had gained knowledge of their supplier-agents and orchestrated the attacks on their caravans. Only Sabrae, with a pompous air, declared, "I knew it," nodding meaningfully—a statement ignored by all, as no one could recall her ever voicing doubts about the Twins before.

As for the Shade, his existence was ancient, and Ajihad had personally encountered him in the past. A silvery scratch on the Shade's blade served as a testament to their clash, inflicted by Ajihad's own sword. The other major revelation—the King's possible alliance with the Urgals—left them all horrified. Could Galbatorix have truly sunk so low as to enlist the aid of these bipedal beasts, alongside a Shade and the Ra'zac?

Everyone agreed that the information needed further discussion and analysis to separate facts from rumors and to take new measures without hesitation. However, the issue of the betrayal demanded immediate action. None of them had seen the Twins in the past few hours, nor were they found in their quarters when the guards conducted their search. Even Ajihad, who always kept one of the brothers by his side, was unaware of their whereabouts.

The council unanimously decided that the Twins should be eliminated without hesitation and shot on sight from a safe distance. No one could be certain of their hostile intentions, the extent of their magical powers, or how they might react to an accusation of betrayal.

Ajihad stepped away from the map and turned once more toward Nasuada. The young woman was keenly aware of the weight of responsibility he felt for allowing two traitors to operate so closely to him, even within the confines of his office. The twin sorcerers knew everything she had been involved in—the documents, the secrets, all of it. The Varden had suffered a devastating betrayal by two trusted allies, and the consequences would undoubtedly be severe. Yet no one dared voice those consequences, given the precariousness of the situation.

Nasuada also recognized Ajihad's unease over the order to immediately execute the Twins. The father she knew and loved was, by nature, uncomfortable with having sanctioned the killing of two powerful sorcerers—two individuals—without granting them the chance to defend themselves, relying solely on Murtagh's accusations.

"All the information Murtagh has provided is valuable, daughter—some more so than others," Ajihad was saying. "But this revelation about the Twins' betrayal is by far the most critical. The Varden will be indebted to your friend if and when he returns, which reassures me that placing my trust in him was the right decision. Even if we had gained nothing else, and even if we never learn anything more from him, exposing the Twins' treachery alone is more than enough."

Nasuada's anxiety was stirred by her father's words, though she masked it well. When and if Murtagh returns, Ajihad had said.

"But what if the betrayal of the Twins is just a misunderstanding, father? Maybe Murtagh..." she began, her voice hesitant, yet resolute. Her sentence trailed off as she struggled to find the right words, her doubts evident despite her attempt to sound composed.

"I would rather carry the weight of their deaths on my conscience than jeopardize the safety of the Varden," Ajihad cut her off sharply. "First, we will resolve the matter of the sorcerers. After that, we will turn our attention to addressing the king's alliance with the Urgals."

"However, regarding this agreement, Murtagh himself noted that it was merely a rumor he had overheard in the palace, circulating among Galbatorix's courtiers," Nasuada reminded.

"A rumor, yes! But a deeply troubling one," Ajihad acknowledged with a firm nod. "In any case, I intend to prepare for every possibility. If even a fragment of this rumor proves true, the Varden will not be caught off guard. The King is, without question, the most powerful individual in Alagaësia. Underestimating the capabilities of one's enemy is the gravest mistake anyone can make. The Varden will not commit that error—not while I lead them." Resolutely, Ajihad swept the heavy cloak over his shoulders. "Furthermore, this agreement serves as a lesson for us, the Varden, and for all. One can never know if an enemy of yesterday might become an ally of tomorrow, daughter. Never forget that!"

Ajihad moved toward the exit. "It is time for me to hurry to my meeting with the dwarf king," he declared sternly. "His guards have undoubtedly informed him of our movements, despite our efforts to keep them concealed. The dwarves must have realized that something out of the ordinary is taking place. The sooner I establish contact with him and explain the situation, the better. He must also instruct his warriors to join the Varden in searching for the twin sorcerers." Ajihad paused briefly. "However, I am certain that Hrothgar will refrain from sharing news of this betrayal with the council of clan leaders. He has faced enough challenges with them as it is, ever since granting sanctuary to the rebels."

Before the council members and the high-ranking officers of the administration had departed, it was agreed that Ajihad would personally inform Hrothgar, the Varden's protector king. By now, he should already have been with him, as the assistance of the dwarf warriors in eliminating the sorcerers was deemed essential by all. The dwarves knew their tunnels far better than the Varden, and the secret exits from their burrows were under constant guard. However, Ajihad—a man rarely prone to procrastination—had delayed, choosing instead to take the time to discuss Murtagh with Nasuada.

At first, the young woman thought this conversation was merely a pretext to buy him time to prepare for his meeting with the dwarf king, but she quickly dismissed the notion. Ajihad was still the loving father she had always known, despite the years that had passed since he had bounced her on his knee and let her tug at his thick beard. His affection, though not easily discernible due to his often stern and occasionally harsh demeanor, was undeniable. He knew her heart and understood it better than anyone. For Nasuada, this subtle, unwavering love was worth more than any tender gesture in the world.

Ajihad stood before his daughter, resting his heavy hands on her slender shoulders. "I hope your friend's prolonged absence hasn't weighed heavily on you," he asked gently. His eyes—windows to the depths of his soul—were filled with genuine concern for her well-being.

The young woman met his gaze with equal seriousness. "Nothing and no one will shake my faith or devotion to the Varden's cause," she replied firmly.

Satisfied, Ajihad placed a tender kiss on her forehead. "Go now, daughter. There is still much to be done. After my meeting with Hrothgar and informing the dwarf king, I will summon the witch Trianna once more, along with the generals and the Varden council."

Nasuada bowed gracefully before departing. In the dimly lit corridors, she noticed the hurried movements of Varden fighters, undoubtedly already informed and actively searching for the twins. A wave of unexpected fatigue washed over her; the day had been eventful, brimming with potential repercussions. Everything they had learned—from Trianna, who in turn had heard from Arya the elf—whirled through her mind like a relentless storm. It wasn't just the weight of the thoughts in her head that burdened her—it was the heaviness in her eyelids and in her heart. Despite her earlier confident words, Ajihad's ominous "when" and "if" had struck a nerve deep within her.

Nasuada reached her chambers to find her maid waiting anxiously. Somehow, the news had mysteriously managed to seep even into this private space.

"My lady?"

Nasuada nodded, offering the woman a reassuring smile. "Everything is under control, Farica," she said calmly. "Our fighters are more than capable of handling any challenge. Everything will be fine. For now, I need to rest for a while. Please, go—I'll call for you when I need you."

Without a word, the maid bowed and departed, closing the door softly behind her. Nasuada sank onto the wide bed, drawing the curtains tightly around her, enclosing herself in a cocoon of shadows that mirrored the turmoil within. Her eyelids grew heavier, and before she realized it, the first tears spilled down her delicate cheeks. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, then stared at the dampness in bewilderment. What was the reason for her tears now? Was it Murtagh?

Today, they had finally received the first news of him in over a year. Ever since he had departed for Urû'baen, he had vanished without a trace—no word, no sign. She should be relieved, even happy, to know he was alive and well. Yet here she was, crying. Why?

There was a tiny, almost invisible blemish in her heart. Was it Ajihad's 'when' and 'if' that had soured her mood? Could it be the whispered warning of some instinct, telling her that her friend was in danger? His decision to extend his stay near the King had been reckless. Wasn't it Murtagh himself who had assured her during their last meeting that he would return to her before the year was out because he couldn't live away from her?

Despite her shattered composure, Nasuada's chest heaved with sobs, each one more desperate than the last. Silent tears transformed into heart-wrenching wails that reverberated in the stillness of her chamber. She flung herself onto her pillows, burying her face in their embrace, as though attempting to muffle the storm of her emotions. Her sobs only grew louder, shaking her slender frame, while her hands clutched the fabric of the bedding in a futile search for something solid amidst her turmoil.

Enclosed in the dark solitude of her bed's drawn curtains, her anguish knew no bounds. Each tear that fell burned hot against her cheeks, yet it wasn't only the weight of the day's challenges or Ajihad's ominous words that had unraveled her resolve. The truth lay in the raw and aching wound left by Murtagh's prolonged absence. It was his departure and continued absence—feeding her yearning and amplifying her inner turmoil—that had given rise to this storm of longing.

With her thoughts spiraling, Nasuada finally allowed herself to admit what she had been suppressing—she missed him. She missed his presence, his voice, the reassuring strength of his companionship. The emptiness left in the wake of his absence loomed like a chasm, impossible to fill. Her cries eventually softened, receding into a quiet, sorrowful melody, but her pain lingered, its roots deep in her very soul. The tears that followed fell silently, each one a testament to how deeply she yearned for his return.

.*.*.*.

"Come on, brother! Stop complaining and walk. Through this dark tunnel lies the path to our escape—the only road to salvation."

"Apparently, the son of Morzan's murderess has uncovered our alliance with the king. What baffles me, however, is how he managed to alert the rebels. As far as I know, the boy lacks any magical means of communication."

"These discussions can wait. Our only focus now is to vanish swiftly. The path away from the dwarves' dark tunnels in Farthen Dûr is our only option."

"How much I hate the son of the Black Hand! If only I could..."

"You'll have your revenge on him, on Ajihad, and the Varden. But not now. Everything will happen in its time. Now walk faster and stop complaining."

"Delaying to inform the king about the boy's presence near him was a grave mistake—one we are now paying for through great hardship and struggle."

"The son of the murderess may have found a way to communicate with the witch Trianna, bypassing us. Fortunately, I was always alert to such a possibility. Despite the secrecy of the witch and the Varden's leader, I uncovered the events. We mustn't delay—every rebel fighter will be searching for us, and the dwarf warriors may already be among them."

"They'll strike us down with their cursed arrows and sharp spears from afar, treating us like dogs. It's our magic they fear, you see!"

"That's all the more reason to hurry!"

"That boy... he'll pay for this someday!"

"It will happen when the time is right. We mustn't waste even a moment now. And you shouldn't regret not informing the king about the boy's presence. I truly believe the son of the Black Hand will prove invaluable to us one day."

"It was good while we lived near the Varden, earning double in silver and gold for our services—from two employers, no less. But now, where will we go, brother?"

"We'll go to the king, to Urû'baen. Given the twists of our lives, only near Galbatorix and under his protection will we find refuge and safety. Rest assured, the Varden will soon put a price on our heads."

"In Urû'baen is that brat—the son of the Hand."

"He'll either pay us in gold, if he has it, to buy our silence, or offer us special services. That boy surely wouldn't want Galbatorix to find out about his connection with the rebels."

"And when he's no longer useful to us… Heh! You're right, brother. Betraying his role and handing him over to Galbatorix might just be the ultimate revenge."

"I once heard that to punish a traitor, the king subjected him to relentless torture. The man begged for death, but it took three agonizing weeks."

"Yes, such a fate is exactly what the son of the murderess deserves. I'll simply ask the king to let me witness it."

.*.*.*.

The torturous night had finally passed. Dawn spilled through the barred window, its tender light brushing the young man's closed eyelids, which quivered at the first touch. Sometime before daybreak, Murtagh had drifted into a fragile but soothing sleep, his mind consumed by thoughts of Nasuada.

It took him a few moments to grasp where he truly was, to accept that this was no lingering nightmare but harsh, unrelenting reality. A phantom pain smoldered in his stomach, a wound that did not exist, yet its agony felt all too real. His joints protested with a stiff ache, battered by the freezing night spent on the unyielding bare floor. His hands and feet throbbed with numbness, robbed of warmth by the relentless cold.

The anxiety Galbatorix had seeded within him lingered stubbornly, unaffected even by the comforting reveries of Nasuada the previous night. The dim rafters overhead seemed to carry an oppressive air, their shadowed lines in the morning light twisting into eerie shapes. For a fleeting moment, he envisioned a lifeless body swaying from them, a harrowing specter that he forced himself to banish before it could take root in his thoughts.

Murtagh dragged himself over to one of the walls, his movements slow and deliberate. He propped himself against the crumbling plaster, the damp chill of the stone pressing through his clothes, leeching away what little warmth he had left. Folding his legs tightly to his chest, he stayed still, his body a compact attempt at preserving heat in the frigid, unforgiving room.

As the morning light crept into the room, chasing away the remnants of the night, he reached within himself, seeking the courage and resilience that had slipped through his fingers the day before. In times of despair, he always turned to the same ritual. His trembling hands searched through his clothes until they found the wooden owl amulet—Nasuada's gift—resting against his skin on a leather cord around his neck. Grasping the small, carved token tightly, he poured his strength into it, drawing solace and a glimmer of hope from its presence.

It was the symbol of the goddess of wisdom, whom Nasuada revered. And yet... it had utterly failed to guide him toward sound judgment. This very failure had led him to his current plight. With a heavy heart, Murtagh recalled his beloved's parting words as she carefully placed the amulet around his neck... "The owl symbolizes sharpness of mind and wisdom. May it always guide you to walk the safest paths of life with prudence and make wise choices"… That is what she had told him before their farewell. But his choices, far from prudent, had brought him here, to this grim reality.

The thought of Nasuada was his single anchor, the one beacon of hope in an otherwise desolate existence. Yet, as he had done throughout his time in Urû'baen, he fought to bury it deep within, his fear of Galbatorix forcing him to suppress even this fragile solace. Still, Murtagh swore silently to himself that he would endure, no matter the cost, for the sake of this love. One day, he would find his way back to Nasuada, honoring the oaths he had made to the Varden's leader. But for now, he steeled himself, banishing the thoughts from his mind in a desperate bid to focus on the present.

The realization that the king was privy to every moment of his journey with Eragon and Saphira gnawed at him relentlessly. It was clear that some sinister magic, carefully crafted by Galbatorix, had granted him this omniscience. How else could the king possess such precise knowledge of events? This understanding left no room for doubt: while hope was something to hold on to, it must remain untainted by thoughts of Nasuada or the Varden. To mix these fragile glimmers of hope with such forbidden ideas would be to court disaster.

The red egg, the source of so much chaos and the catalyst for his downfall, had become a burden he was no longer willing to bear—even in thought. Resolving to banish it from his mind completely, he sought to distance himself from the memories of his past mistakes and the misfortunes it had brought upon him. From this moment onward, he decided, it would hold no power over his thoughts or his future.

The hours crawled by, each one as grueling as the last. The icy drafts snaked their way into the room, their bitter touch magnifying the biting chill of winter. Rain, driven by the relentless wind, seeped through the small iron-barred window, leaving scattered droplets glistening on the cold floor. The freezing air was relentless, but it was the parched agony in his throat, raw and unyielding, that gnawed at him most. One small mercy, however, was the gradual ebbing of the fiery pain in his stomach, offering a faint reprieve in an otherwise torturous day.

The guards' shifts rotated methodically, one blending into the next outside the heavy cell door. Their booted footsteps resounded on the stone staircase, a harsh cadence of ascent and descent that underscored their relentless watchfulness. The clamor of their iron armor reverberated in his ears, a ceaseless reminder of their looming presence—just as oppressive as the weight of their silences.

Dusk loomed heavily, marking a full day since Galbatorix had imprisoned him in this grim cell. The oppressive silence was broken by the sharp groan of the iron door as it creaked open, its reinforced frame shuddering on worn hinges. In the doorway stood an unfamiliar servant, draped in the drab gray uniform that branded him as one of Galbatorix's own. His movements were measured, almost mechanical, as he entered, clutching a clay cup in one hand and a coarse piece of barley bread in the other. Without a word, he made his way to the cracked and battered table, placing the meager offerings upon it with deliberate care, and then turned toward the door, ready to leave.

Murtagh braced himself against the cold, unyielding wall, summoning every ounce of strength to rise. Each movement was a struggle, his limbs stiff from the freezing hours on the floor. He staggered forward and positioned himself firmly in front of the servant, cutting off his exit.

"Good man," he said, his voice hoarse yet measured, "could you bring me my woolen cloak? I left it with my horse in the stables. You only need to ask the stable master for it."

The servant hesitated briefly, his stance faltering as he faced the obstruction. Without pause, he attempted to sidestep Murtagh, his movements mechanical, devoid of hesitation or acknowledgment. Murtagh's gaze hardened as he studied the man's vacant eyes and lifeless expression. Disgust churned within him—it was as though the servant hadn't heard him, or perhaps lacked the capacity to care.

Determined to be heard, Murtagh reached out, his hand gripping the servant's arm firmly. "If finding my cloak is too much trouble," he said, his voice sharpening with urgency, "then at least bring me a blanket... or a candle to light this room."

The servant apathetically shrugged off his grip, his movements unhurried, devoid of any reaction or acknowledgment. With the same deliberate, sluggish steps that had brought him in, he exited the room. The iron door groaned in protest as it swung shut, its hinges wailing in the oppressive silence. Moments later, the dull thud of the bar being slid into place from outside reverberated through the cell, followed by the faint clinking of the guards' armor—then all was quiet once more.

Murtagh let out a weary sigh as he shuffled toward the table. He peered into the clay cup, his hopes for relief quickly dashed—only half full, the water within offered a meager few sips, a cruel mockery of his unrelenting thirst. His gaze fell to the small piece of barley bread. It was so hard that it seemed better suited as a stone to crush the servant's head if he were to return. The grim thought passed fleetingly through his mind, but he let it slip away as he focused again on the bleakness of his reality.

He drank the water in hurried, desperate gulps, yet it did little to quench the dryness that clung stubbornly to his throat. His thirst remained, a tormenting ache that refused to be satisfied. The bread, which he had initially dismissed with scorn, eventually found its way to his lips. He broke it apart slowly, crumbling it between his fingers and consuming it piece by piece. The taste was coarse, unpalatable, but it was sustenance—barely. It became clear to him that Galbatorix had no intention of letting him die, but neither would he grant him the dignity of comfort. It was a deliberate cruelty, rationed survival at its most merciless.

The following day unfolded like a grim echo of the last. At the exact same hour, the silent servant reappeared, bearing the same pitiful offering of stale barley bread and a meager half-cup of water. Murtagh's voice broke the suffocating silence as he pleaded once again for warmer clothing, for a source of light to pierce the relentless darkness that consumed the room at night. His requests grew more insistent, his tone edged with frustration and desperation. Yet, the servant remained utterly unmoved, his vacant eyes devoid of recognition, his expression a blank canvas that betrayed neither defiance nor sympathy.

This time, however, just as the servant turned toward the door, he paused and motioned for Murtagh to follow. The sudden change caught Murtagh off guard, but he complied, his movements cautious and deliberate. Accompanied closely by the ever-watchful guards, the servant led him to the latrine. The space was as grim as he had anticipated—bare, cold, and devoid of any provision for cleanliness. There was no water to wash his face, hands, or body, only the bare minimum required to address his physical needs. Yet, even this small act offered a brief, bitter reprieve from the relentless confinement of his cell.

As Murtagh trudged back to the cold isolation of his cell, his weary gaze flickered with a hint of recognition. Among the guards accompanying him, one face stood out—a man he had sparred with countless times in the training yard. That shared past sparked a faint glimmer of hope within him, prompting him to lean closer and speak, his words sharpened by urgency. He asked, pressed, and insisted, desperate to glean even the faintest shred of insight into the king's intentions regarding his confinement. Yet the guard's response mirrored the servant's eerie apathy—utter silence, his features frozen in an expressionless mask that offered no clues or solace.

The monotony of this cruel routine stretched on endlessly, each day a mirror of the one before. At dusk, the servant would appear, his vacant expression as constant as the meager provisions he bore—a half-filled cup of water and a hardened piece of bread. Without fail, he would retrieve the empty cup from the previous day, drained of even the last drop. Murtagh's pleas for more water were ignored, as were his repeated requests for warmer clothing or a light to fend off the oppressive darkness of his cell. The silent servant never wavered, offering no acknowledgment or reply.

Accompanied by the guards, Murtagh was led to the latrine each day, the brief excursion offering little relief. The silent march back to his cell was always the same, the sound of their footsteps the only reminder of the outside world. Once returned, he was met again by the unyielding stillness of his confinement, the silence around him heavy and unbroken.

After that first futile attempt, Murtagh resolved never to lower himself by addressing the guards again. Each time they accompanied him to and from his cell, he carried himself with unyielding pride. He ensured his posture remained dignified, his stride firm and deliberate, his expression a stoic mask. No hint of frustration, fear, or vulnerability was allowed to surface. It was his quiet rebellion, a way to reclaim a fragment of control in a world where so much had been stripped from him.

From those brief excursions, Murtagh managed to piece together fragments of his surroundings. He noted that, beyond the two guards stationed by his cell door, another pair kept watch at the foot of the stairs leading to the tower. A final duo stood at their post in the dim corridor stretching toward the latrine. Though their presence was oppressive, it was a faint relief to know that the area was not crawling with the formidable throng of soldiers who had so clearly surrounded Galbatorix during their first encounter in the tower. This small observation, however, did little to soothe the constant tension that gripped him.

Using a shard of fallen plaster from the crumbling walls, Murtagh meticulously recorded the passage of time, etching a symbol onto the stone for each day endured. Yet, these small marks offered no solace. His unquenchable thirst and the relentless cold were his constant companions, but even worse was the weight of the dark thoughts that gnawed at his resolve.

It became increasingly clear to him that Galbatorix was unmoved by his oaths and held no intention of granting him redemption. His continued survival felt like a cruel strategy, a prelude to some future humiliation. Each meager ration of stale bread and barely enough water, each frigid night in an unclean cell, deepened his sense of degradation and despair.

Escape, though a flickering hope, seemed an insurmountable challenge.

The castle was a fortress, teeming with vigilant guards who were well-fed, well-armed, and firmly stationed at every crucial point. Each glance at the small iron-barred window in his cell only deepened his frustration. The iron bars were as unyielding as the door, and their position, high up on the wall, made them nearly impossible to reach.

Determined to test his limits, Murtagh had tried to improvise. Balancing the stool on the table, he attempted to climb, only for the stool to collapse under his weight, its aged wood disintegrating almost instantly. The table beneath him swayed dangerously, threatening to crack and spill him to the unforgiving stone floor. It was clear that even this faint glimmer of escape would demand far more ingenuity—and perhaps a miracle.

The reckless attempt crumbled as swiftly as it had formed in his mind, a sobering reminder of the near-impossibility of escape. Even if, by some miracle, he managed to reach the small iron-barred window, there remained the insurmountable task of squeezing his body through the narrow gaps—a feat that defied logic. Beyond that, the peril of descent loomed; scaling down the towering walls was a challenge he lacked the tools or means to overcome.

And even if he somehow achieved the improbable and reached the ground below, what then? The patrolling soldiers, ever vigilant, would undoubtedly intercept him. There was no question that his freedom would be fleeting, his capture swift and brutal. The thought weighed heavily on him, each layer of hopelessness pressing down like the cold, unyielding stone of his cell.

The unbroken rhythm of the guards' shifts outside his cell door was an inescapable reminder of his captivity. Their relentless watchfulness pressed down on him, a heavy and suffocating presence that never wavered. He was a prisoner in every sense—his movements controlled, his freedom stripped away.

Around him, the cell bore the marks of time's decay; its walls crumbled and its furniture teetered on the brink of collapse. Yet the bars that confined him stood as resolute and unyielding as the day they were forged—a stark symbol of the cold permanence of his imprisonment.

As the days stretched into an endless stream of monotony, the marks on the bare stone wall grew in number—a silent testimony to his endurance. Though the cold gnawed at his flesh, and hunger and thirst clawed at his strength, his spirit refused to waver. Galbatorix's cruelty would not break him; on the contrary, it only steeled his resolve. If the king believed he could strip him of his dignity or hope, he had sorely underestimated him.

Murtagh had long since ceased addressing the servant. It was an act of defiance, a deliberate choice to deny him even the faintest acknowledgment. With unwavering pride, he acted as though the man were invisible, an insignificant shadow moving through the cell. In these small acts, he clung to his identity, refusing to let the king's design reduce him to despair.

Every time the servant entered the room, Murtagh stood tall, his posture unwavering and deliberate. He turned his back to the door, refusing to acknowledge the servant's presence, and fixed his gaze on the sliver of sky visible through the iron-barred window. That patch of blue, distant and unyielding, became a symbol of the freedom he longed for and the defiance he clung to.

If Galbatorix relied on the servant to convey reports of his condition, so be it. Let the king hear the truth: Murtagh's spirit remained unbroken, his will as steadfast as ever. No amount of hunger, thirst, or cold could strip him of his pride. He would endure—and he would never yield.

Despite the bone-chilling nights, Murtagh deliberately chose the cold, hard floor over the nauseating alternative of the straw mattress. Its rot and stench were unbearable, a festering reminder of neglect. The rickety bed frame offered no reprieve either, its frailty akin to the stool that had crumbled beneath his weight during his ill-fated escape attempt.

Even thoughts of repurposing the deteriorating wood for a makeshift weapon were swiftly dismissed. The brittle remnants of the bed would barely hold together, much less serve as an effective tool against the formidable, heavily armed guards. The idea was almost laughable, a cruel testament to the hopelessness of his circumstances. Yet, in his heart, Murtagh clung to defiance—small sparks in the unrelenting gloom of his imprisonment.

With little else to occupy his time, Murtagh reluctantly turned to Galbatorix's suggestion—the manuscript that rested on the table. Day after day, he immersed himself in its pages, allowing the act of reading to become a rare distraction from the grim thoughts that loomed over him. It was a way to fill the interminable hours, keeping his mind occupied as he awaited whatever fate the king had in store.

Drawing upon his historical knowledge, Murtagh pieced together the context of the battle. Lady Marelda's riders had skillfully outmaneuvered the imperial infantry near Cithrí, using the terrain to their advantage to execute a devastating flanking attack. The manuscript left behind by the defeated general offered invaluable insight into the unfolding of the confrontation.

With a sharp analytical mind, Murtagh immersed himself in its detailed accounts of the battle. He dissected the tactical errors that had paved the way for Lady Marelda's victory, pinpointing missteps that could have been avoided. At the same time, he envisioned alternative strategies—potential moves the general might have taken to turn the tide and claim victory instead. The exercise not only engaged his mind but also served as a welcome reprieve from the bleak monotony of his cell.

The nights were an ordeal far worse than the days. With the moon in retreat, the feeble light of distant, indifferent stars was the only reprieve from the oppressive darkness. Wrapped in icy stillness, Murtagh sat unmoving, his body chilled and his mind restless, unable to find solace in sleep.

In these endless hours of quiet despair, an unsettling sensation would creep over him—a feeling that he was not alone, that something unseen hovered nearby. When the shadows in his cell shifted, their shapes twisting and briefly gliding along the cracked wall, his breath hitched. For an instant, they took on a haunting form, the silhouette of a man's limp body swaying as if hung from the high beams. The illusion dissolved as quickly as it appeared, yet it left behind an unsettling weight, a whisper of unease that clung to the frozen air.

The illusion lingered just long enough to unsettle him before it dissolved into the all-consuming darkness of the room. His thoughts churned with possibilities, each more unnerving than the last. Was it the restless spirit of the hanged general, condemned to haunt the tower where his ambitions had met a grim end? Or was it something far more sinister—a manifestation of Galbatorix's dark sorcery, designed to infiltrate his mind and erode his strength from within?

The questions gnawed at him, feeding the unease that already curled in the pit of his stomach. Yet, even as his doubts and fears threatened to grow, Murtagh clenched his jaw and steadied his resolve. Whether phantom or ploy, he would not allow it to shatter the iron will that he had vowed to maintain.

Determined to fend off the creeping madness of solitude and idleness, Murtagh turned to the mental exercises his old professor in Surda had once instilled in him. He conjured their lessons from memory with precision, repeating them tirelessly, pouring his focus and energy into each step. The exercises became a lifeline, anchoring him in a daily routine that provided a semblance of control amidst the chaos of confinement.

Though his body grew weaker from the inadequate food and water, his spirit found strength in the discipline of the exercises. With each repetition, his resolve hardened, fortifying his mind against the despair that threatened to consume him. It was a silent triumph, a reminder that while Galbatorix might command his circumstances, he could not claim his will.

A repetitive and unyielding rhythm soon enveloped Murtagh's existence, erasing the distinction between day and night that had once anchored his sense of time. In the early days of his captivity, the torment of endless, aching daylight had stood apart from the restless, nerve-wracking hours of darkness. Now, it all blurred together into an oppressive cycle, devoid of change or reprieve.

Sleep—if it could even be called that—crept in sporadically, a heavy lethargy that overtook him at any hour, indifferent to the clockwork of day or night. Murtagh grew increasingly troubled by the toll his imprisonment exacted on his body. The exhaustion seeped into his bones, driving him to sleep more often, even during the rare moments when the clouds parted and a gentle shaft of sunlight found its way through the barred window. Those fleeting touches of warmth, though brief, became fragile reminders of the life that still existed beyond his cell. Yet, they only deepened his awareness of how far away that world had become.

In the depths of his lethargy, Murtagh's mind wandered, unraveling memories of his past like an endless ribbon. Tornac's steadfast loyalty, Nasuada's unwavering courage, and the red dragon egg—symbols of hope and destiny—floated before him, their spectral images weaving a comforting veil around his weary soul. For a fleeting moment, their presence wrapped him in a sense of warmth, a solace he hadn't known in what felt like an eternity.

When awareness returned, his first instinct was to banish the cherished phantoms, fearing the weight of their memory might unmoor him further. Yet, as he pushed them away, he managed to cling to fragments of their love and strength, holding them deep within. It was these small remnants that he carried, a quiet beacon to sustain him against the unyielding darkness.

Though his pride bristled at the thought, Murtagh found himself anticipating the servant's arrival with a quiet, reluctant longing. It wasn't for the paltry offerings of food or water, nor solely for the brief relief of the latrine visit. No, it was the tenuous connection to other human beings, however cold and indifferent, that stirred something within him. Each fleeting encounter, no matter how void of warmth, served as a fragile tether to the life outside his solitary confinement.

Yet, with every passing day, the journey wore him down further. His legs faltered more frequently, his steps wavering on the stairs and in the shadowed corridor, each stumble a bitter reminder of his deteriorating strength. Still, he endured, his defiance flickering beneath the surface.

Upon his return to the cell, as the door clanged shut behind him and the servant departed, his ritual continued. He etched yet another mark onto the stone, a testament to his survival. But with each new carving, the creeping fear began to settle in his chest—that the day might come when his legs would fail entirely, when the servant and soldiers would have to hold him upright. The thought clawed at him, fueling his determination to keep moving forward, one day at a time.

The thought crept into his mind like a shadow, unbidden and unwelcome. In the suffocating monotony of his existence, he found himself imagining the loop—a noose that could bring an end to the relentless cycle of suffering. The high beam above seemed both a grim invitation and an impossible challenge, its height mocking his weakened state.

He couldn't help but wonder if this was the same path the cell's previous occupant had taken, their despair etched into the very air of the room. Yet, even as the idea lingered, it was met with resistance—a flicker of defiance that refused to be extinguished. The thought of surrendering, of letting Galbatorix claim victory over his spirit, was a weight he could not bear.

One evening, as the dim light of dusk began to fade, the familiar anticipation of the servant's arrival was broken by an unfamiliar commotion outside his cell. The muffled chorus of footsteps, the low murmur of voices, and the metallic clatter of armor echoed down the corridor, jolting Murtagh from his listless stupor. It was a sound so alien to his routine that it stirred both unease and curiosity within him.

As the heavy iron door creaked open, Murtagh braced himself, expecting the same silent servant to appear. Instead, his breath caught as the figure who stepped into the doorway was none other than Galbatorix himself. The king's imposing presence filled the confined space, radiating power and cold menace, a stark reminder of the man responsible for his imprisonment.

Galbatorix strode into the cell, his movements purposeful and commanding, his very presence suffocating the small, dark room. The flickering light from the soldier's torch illuminated the stark interior, casting tall, wavering shadows on the walls. Behind the king, two servants strained under the weight of a heavy cedar chest, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the dim glow. The chest, suspended by ropes attached to sturdy poles, swayed slightly as they moved.

With careful precision, the servants lowered the chest to the cold stone floor at the center of the cell. Without a word, they bowed deeply before the king and, keeping their eyes averted, hurriedly exited the room. The soldier with the torch remained by the doorway.

Galbatorix's sharp eyes swept over the cell with a mixture of disdain and scrutiny, the faint wrinkle of his nose betraying his distaste for the squalid conditions. His gaze then locked onto Murtagh, intense and unrelenting, like a predator sizing up its prey. Murtagh, with quiet determination, pushed himself up from the corner and knelt, resting on one knee in a gesture that blended respect with stubborn pride.

At a subtle gesture from the king, the soldier stepped forward, raising the torch to cast better light on the scene. The king studied Murtagh in silence, his expression unreadable, cold as carved stone. Whether he was satisfied with the evidence of the prisoner's endurance—or simply indifferent—he gave no outward sign. His attention shifted to the chest at his side, his gloved fingertips grazing its smooth surface as though weighing the significance of its contents.

"Murtagh! Oh, son of Our beloved companion, comrade-in-arms, and friend, it is Our past friendship upon which Our leniency towards you is based. Despite the fact that you failed to keep our agreement and did not return to Us Our treasure, and despite the fact that you disobeyed Our order to meet Us in Dras-Leona where We awaited, We have decided, after consideration, to uphold Our side of this agreement. Hoping that signs of disobedience, like the recent one, will not be repeated and taking into account your promises of compliance, obedience, and loyalty, We have decided to give you what your heart desires. We wish that in the future you will be closer to Us, wiser, more prudent, and more sensible than in the past."

After this speech, Galbatorix lifted the lid of the chest with deliberate care, leaving it open in the middle of the room. Without waiting for the young man's reactions, he signaled the guard to withdraw the torch and strode purposefully towards the exit. The door closed behind him, and the iron bar securing the cell slammed into place with a resonant clank, leaving Murtagh alone once again.

He supported himself on both knees and leaned forward with curiosity to examine the contents of the chest. Perhaps, at long last, the torment of thirst and hunger, the oppressive cold and unending darkness, would find some relief in whatever treasure lay hidden inside. Already, a vivid glow was spilling out, illuminating the dark cell and pulling him closer to investigate.

And there... he saw it!

Blazing with an otherworldly light, its scarlet shell crisscrossed by pale veins stretching across its surface like molten rivers of silver coursing through lava, it lay cushioned on thick layers of tangled braids, woolen fabrics, and silks that had once concealed its pedestal. As impressive and mysterious as ever—it was the red dragon egg.