The Fencing Master - Chapter 17
Into the Lion's Den
"I need a set of women's clothing from the humans," the elf had said, and Eragon wasted no time in fulfilling her request.
A few hours earlier, as the stars flickered in the fading night sky, their group had arrived as close to the capital as they had during their last visit. Hidden within the forest—where they had once sought refuge with Murtagh to rest and heal the elf's wounds—they now concealed themselves once more, avoiding the main carriage road. No doubt, other travelers, merchants, and soldiers would be making their way along the public route leading to Urû'baen's gates. They had yet to devise a plan to confront them.
Eragon had a few old coins from Brom, along with the last bit of silver Murtagh had given him for the journey to Surda. He planned to use part of it to buy whatever Arya needed from a merchant.
He urged his two companions to stay hidden and silent in the same spot, concealed among the thick foliage, keeping their horses calm. Meanwhile, he would scout the area, searching for the garments needed for the elf's disguise—perhaps even finding a few potential informants among the wandering merchants.
Though hesitant, the two of them agreed.
Just as reluctantly as they were, the young Dragon Rider left the elf in the care of his chosen companion. Moving carefully over the pine-needle-covered ground, he avoided making noise, stepping around fallen branches and dried leaves while staying alert for any presence nearby.
The elf woman's words haunted his heart and mind. Her green eyes—vivid as fresh spring leaves—had locked onto his, holding his full attention. He must not be bold. Nor reckless. That was what she told him.
Her solemn gaze left him breathless. Just being near her stirred a sweet unrest in his youthful heart. Every time their eyes met, his chest tightened with a rapid flutter. Heat surged through his veins, his heartbeat quickening with both urgency and intensity. The thought of being away from her was unthinkable. The pull he felt toward her was undeniable—just as powerful as his need for her presence.
What was happening to him? Back in Carvahall, a few girls had briefly caught his attention, but none had ever made him feel the way she did. The strange pull of the elf's gaze—piercing his heart like a dagger—the relentless pounding of his pulse, his deep fascination with her, the devotion he felt he owed her, and the peculiar shame that shadowed it all left him unsettled.
What was truly happening to him? Was it her strange, almost ethereal beauty? Or the unforeseen bond that had entwined their fates, weaving its way into the dreams that haunted his nights? And what was this inexplicable rush, the sudden warmth spreading through his cheeks? Had Roran felt the same for Katrina? His cousin had never confided such emotions in him. Yet Eragon knew, beyond doubt, that Roran was steadfast in his intention to ask for Katrina's hand in marriage. Was something akin to that awakening within him now? How could such a union ever come to pass?
Without finding answers to his questions, Eragon crept toward the main road, keeping himself hidden among the foliage and shrubs. The first rays of sunlight still lingered at the horizon, hesitant to spill across the plain, but already, silhouettes of wagons and human figures could be seen moving slowly in the distance.
The young man made out the towering outline of the city walls in the distance, still veiled in the retreating shadows of night. At the road's end, where it met those massive fortifications, a crowd had gathered—waiting patiently for the gates to open.
For a while, Eragon followed a well-hidden side path that ran parallel to the main road. Once certain that no one trailed behind on the carriageway or advanced ahead within close range, he stepped out of hiding. No one had seen him emerge from the forest, and a lone traveler making his way toward the capital was unlikely to draw suspicion.
With swift, purposeful strides, he pressed forward toward the towering city walls, which loomed larger with every step. The sun's light burst suddenly over the barren fields, bathing the colossal gates in golden radiance. A horn's call pierced the morning air, echoing across the vast plain. Ahead, the wave of people and carts stirred abruptly, as if awaiting that very signal. Even from this distance, he thought he could hear the groaning of the great doors as they began to open.
He had arrived in Urû'baen.
The dreamlike haze he had been living in for days because of the elf tangled with his growing anxiety. He had left the woman behind in the forest, entrusted with the care of their horses. Now, stepping into the open, he walked the carriage road—after so long without showing himself to the world. He moved swiftly toward the walls of a city he should have avoided at all costs, feeling more exposed than ever.
If he failed to find a merchant along the road who could provide what the elf needed, he would have no choice but to enter Urû'baen alone and search for the items in the market himself. And on top of that, he had been forced to part with Saphira. Would their presence go unnoticed by the king? Would he find Murtagh? Would he uncover anything about his companion's fate?
Guilt churned inside him, burning in his stomach and deep within his core. How had he allowed himself to be persuaded into abandoning his friend, leaving him to face his fate alone? How had he let him return to the capital? How could he have left the elf woman hidden in the forest—even for a short while? What if someone discovered her refuge? And worst of all, how had he managed to part with Saphira—the other half of his very soul?
But no, Arya was not alone! The dragoness lingered nearby, ready to shield her from any lurking threat. Eragon quickened his pace. He needed to find a merchant outside the city walls—secure the necessary purchases without losing precious time. That way, he could return to them all the sooner.
A few steps ahead, he spotted the cart—tilted to one side near the ditch, its right wheel's axle displaced. The elderly woman driving it was alone. She had seemingly tried, in vain, to repair it, and now sat off to the side, disheartened, keeping company with her frail, aging donkey. Nearby, the wooden wheel lay abandoned in the dirt, waiting for a kindhearted traveler to stop and offer aid
Noticing the bundles—clearly filled with clothing—piled atop the wide bed of the cart, Eragon eagerly stepped forward. "Do you need help, kind woman?"
"Bless you, boy!" the woman said warmly. "I was on my way to the capital's market when my poor beast stumbled. Thankfully, the axle didn't break—otherwise, I'd be stranded. I tried to put the wheel back in place, but I'm just an old woman, and my strength isn't what it once was." She rose, gently stroking her donkey's neck before meeting Eragon's gaze. "My companion is old as well. But you—you are young and strong. If you're willing to help, I would be truly grateful."
Eragon eagerly set to work, unfastening the donkey from the cart and tying it to a nearby tree with its halter. Concealing the enhanced strength he possessed as a Dragon Rider, he hauled the cart back onto the road and carefully repositioned the axle. Then, he wedged a piece of wood where the wheel met the frame to keep it from slipping loose again with the jolts of travel, before securing the donkey back to the cart. "All set!" he said, offering the warmest smile he could muster.
All the while, as he worked, the merchant woman showered him with blessings. "Are you traveling alone, son?" she asked once he had finished with the cart, her curious gaze lingering on him, studying him from head to toe.
"Together with my sister," Eragon hurried to say. "We're traveling to the city to meet some relatives. But I left her a little farther down the road. You see, kind woman, I wanted to surprise her with a new dress for the occasion, and I've already taken too long." He cast a deliberately measured glance toward the gates of the great city. "So many people," he remarked. "I fear that, because of my delay, the gates might close before we have the chance to enter tonight."
With experienced eyes, the merchant woman cast a glance toward the walls and the wide-open castle gate. "Fear not. As far as I know, in the mornings, the guards take their time inspecting carts and goods. That's why the crowd gathers at the gates. But if you ask me, you'd do well to enter in the afternoon—if there's no urgency. By then, fewer people will remain, and the soldiers, weary from their duties, will let travelers through with little scrutiny." She studied Eragon closely. "Is your sister young and beautiful? As lovely as you?"
Eragon flushed. "She is very beautiful," he admitted.
Gesturing for him to follow, the merchant moved to the back of the cart and began untying some of the bundled clothing. From within, a cascade of women's dresses, scarves, stockings, and undergarments spilled out. "Normally, a boy shouldn't be looking at women's things," she remarked. "But since you helped, I'll let you choose whatever you like."
Satisfied that he wouldn't waste any more time and could swiftly return to his companions, Eragon selected clothes and undergarments he believed would suit the elf. He paid the price without hesitation and secured the package under his arm.
As he bid farewell to the old woman, his gaze lingered on a silk scarf—a deep burgundy hue, embroidered with silver-hued pearls. He turned it between his fingers, thoughtful, weighing its possible high price. After a moment's hesitation, he added it to the bundle. A gift like this would suit the black-haired elf beautifully.
"You certainly know how to pick gifts for the ladies," the woman laughed. "Your sweethearts must be lucky indeed."
Blushing even more, Eragon rummaged through his pouch, searching for additional payment.
"Keep it as a gift from me," the merchant said, waving him on his way. "For the kindness you showed in helping me."
.*.*.*.
The luminous sphere that warms the world had just emerged at the horizon's edge. Yet among the forest trees, the lingering shadows of night clung to the earth, veiling its light. The two-legs-pointy-ears one sat beside her, heart and mind open to her influence. Their connection remained near-constant, as long as she rested on the earth, her enormous wings folded. Before departing, her rider had urged her to stay vigilant against any dangers and to protect the elf. And she had sworn that tooth and claw would forever be at the service of the not-so-weak female.
Saphira sensed the influence the elf woman had on her rider's mind, yet she could not grasp the nature of it. What was so special about her that the companion of her heart and mind found so enthralling? To Saphira, she was merely a delicate, fragile creature—aside from her skill in magic. She had no shimmering scales, no sharp teeth, no long, curved talons.
Apart from the fact that she had once carried her egg—back when the yet-unhatched dragonling awaited its destined rider within the shell—there was nothing she possessed that could rival Saphira's own formidable beauty and grandeur. And yet, because of their past connection and the many hardships she had endured, Saphira had grown fond of her.
The dragoness knew her chosen rider had yet to weave any concrete plans for what awaited him in Urû'baen, where he sought the two-legs-sharp-blade—the one burdened with the arduous task of locating the usurper king's two eggs. Nor could she envision her own role in such a mission, beyond ensuring her rider's safety. Yet the two-legs-pointy-ears one would accompany him, and that, at the very least, was a comfort.
Saphira understood the perilous and utterly reckless nature of this endeavor, yet her mind did not mirror the elf's concerns. Instead, it resonated with the unwavering optimism of the companion of her heart. "My chosen one is bold indeed," she proclaimed with pride, while at the same time seeking reassurance that the elf—whom she and her rider had aided—would watch over him in her stead.
Having received the assurances she sought, she rose slowly, striding majestically toward the brook. Lazily, she sank into the shallow pool formed by the bank and set about cleansing her scales and curved talons. Droplets escaped, splashing against the membranes of her wings before trickling back into the stream. The murmuring water was joined by the dragoness's contented purr.
Saphira watched as the two-legs-pointy-ears one approached the bank. One by one, she shed her tight leather garments, laying them out near the damp pebbles to be cleaned later. With a scrutinizing eye, Saphira observed the elf's slender, alabaster form—something that left her entirely satisfied. This fragile creature might not possess the dragon's own beauty and grandeur, yet she was not unappealing for one of her kind. By human standards, her rider had chosen well.
The elf sank into the stream, cupping handfuls of water and letting them cascade over her shoulders and thick tresses. On her back and arms, the scars stood stark against her skin—the enduring marks of the torment inflicted by the usurper, the egg-breaker's servants.
"My chosen one returns soon," Saphira shared her joy with the elf woman. "He says he brings everything you need." The dragoness stretched her long neck, drawing in a great gulp of water. Then, with effortless grace, she poured it over the two-legs one's head, aiding her in her bath.
The elf lifted her gaze, startled. For a moment, she remained still as the water streamed down her. Then, she raised her pale hand and gently traced the tips of her fingers across the soft scales of the dragon's neck. "Thank you, noble Bjartskular," she murmured, looking at the dragoness with eyes full of warmth and gratitude.
Satisfied, Saphira repeated the motion again and again, striking her tail against the brook's surface and sending up shimmering sprays of water. Then she rolled onto her side, submerging her entire head. With a sudden flick of her neck, she sent a vibrant, multicolored fountain cascading in all directions. Her joyous purr filled the air. "My chosen one is here!" she declared, exultant.
Through the bond she shared with Eragon, Saphira sensed that her young rider had already noticed the elf's soiled garments scattered across the ground. She also felt his unease—an intricate mix of discomfort and embarrassment stirred by the nudity implied by the abandoned clothes.
Puzzled by his reaction, the dragoness extended her wing, shielding the two-legs-pointy-ears one. "We are here, just the two of us, enjoying our bath together," she said, sending to his mind the sensation of cool water and the soothing relief of soil-free paws, claws, and scales. The bulk of her sapphire body, lying on its side by the bank, concealed the beautiful elf, sparing her chosen one from these peculiar emotions.
Through their shared senses, she felt Eragon place the bundle on a dry patch near the bank. "I will wait by the horses, beloved of my heart," he told her before withdrawing—his cheeks aflame with embarrassment, his senses ablaze. The forceful rhythm of his heart, which he struggled in vain to conceal from her, thundered in his own ears—as well as hers.
"The two-legs one is quite beautiful without her clothes," Saphira remarked to him. Yet she did not wish to deepen her chosen one's embarrassment—already magnified by his own thoughts—so she refrained from sharing the elf's image with him. "You can tend to your horses. The two females will finish our bath alone," she added, her tone firm, forbidding him from approaching the brook again.
Perhaps, in this way, he would compose himself.
.*.*.*.
The elf woman emerged later, clad in her new attire. Eragon, astonished, realized she had used magic to alter her features. Though her eyes still retained their deep green hue, they were no longer as slitted—no longer quite so feline—and she had softened the tips of her ears, rounding them into a more human-like shape.
When she wrapped the crimson, silver-adorned scarf around her loose, flowing hair, Arya could easily pass for a young human woman. Though not a single strand of her rich tresses remained visible, to the young man's eyes, she was just as striking as before.
Eragon's plan for their next steps was simple—yet reckless. He had shaped it during his return through the forest. They would slip into the city shortly before dusk, just as the merchant had advised, minimizing interaction with the gate guards. They would secure lodging at an inn for the night, and by morning, they would part ways before taking the road that led to the castle.
There, relying on his singular skill with the blade, he would attempt to enlist in the citadel guard. Perhaps, if fortune favored him, he might even infiltrate Galbatorix's personal retinue, gathering intelligence on Murtagh's whereabouts. Arya, meanwhile, would seek work as a palace servant. When night fell, they would meet again—only then would they decide how to act.
While all this unfolded, Saphira would remain in their current location, keeping watch over their two horses, concealed within the forest's shadowed embrace, awaiting their return. Under no circumstances was she to reveal her existence to the world of men.
Saphira grumbled but reluctantly agreed to the plan. "If I sense you in danger, nothing will stop me from soaring over the walls to save you."
Eragon soothed her, running his hand over the soft scales of her neck. "We will be as brief and discreet as possible in our investigations and actions, beloved."
"You had better be!"
Whether the elf approved or opposed the dragon rider's plan, she kept her thoughts strictly to herself.
.*.*.*.
"This is outrageous!" Eragon burst out, frustration lacing his voice as he balked at the innkeeper's demands. "Do two small rooms with single beds truly cost so much in the capital?" The price unsettled him. What he had already spent on Arya's clothing and their meal in the common hall had claimed the bulk of his funds. What remained would barely cover the cost of a single room.
The man shrugged, indifferent. "If you want to try elsewhere…" His gaze lingered brazenly on Arya as he shamelessly licked his lips. "You won't find cheaper rates or cleaner bedding anywhere. In fact, I challenge you—if you find better, come back and say so. As for your girl, I'll let her wait here by the warmth of our fire."
Eragon shot the innkeeper a furious glance before sweeping his gaze over the hall crowded with workers and merchants. Most had turned their attention to Arya, their eyes brimming with interest. His carefully laid plans for discretion had unraveled completely. The unabashed, prying stares—men watching their table all throughout the meal—had already stoked his ire. Now, ready for a fight, he glowered at the patrons.
They had ensured their arrival shortly before the city gates closed for the night. To the guards, they had claimed to be visiting relatives. No one pressed for further details, nor did they stop them for inspection—carrying nothing on their person had rendered them unremarkable. Eragon had left his precious dragon rider's sword with Saphira, while Arya had entrusted her bundle of leather garments to the dragon as well.
They approached the market, now steadily emptying of people, and navigated cautiously toward the citadel walls. Several side gates remained ajar, allowing servants to slip through, hurrying inside. Once their investigation was complete, Eragon and Arya would have no trouble seeking an exit through one of them.
The streets were swiftly emptying of passersby, the city guard had begun its patrols, and they needed shelter for the night. They had settled on this inn—the cheapest, or so it had seemed—and the most secluded of the options.
Yet now, Eragon realized the prices were far steeper than those customary in his remote village. The thought of spending all he had—of failing to safeguard part of Murtagh's silver for their return to Surda—irked him. The innkeeper's demeanor, paired with the prying gazes, only stoked his anger further.
To preempt an outburst, Arya rested a gentle hand on Eragon's arm. Now was not the time to court trouble, not when discretion was paramount. That delicate gesture grounded him, pulling him back to his senses. Casting the sternest glare he could muster at the innkeeper, he turned his focus to resolving their predicament.
"She is my sister," he hissed, his voice edged with displeasure, his glare unwavering, locked onto his interlocutor.
The innkeeper absently wiped his hands on a cloth. "I meant no offense," he said, his tone carrying a hint of feigned apology—though his wounded pride was evident. The young man might have been tight with his coin, but the innkeeper had no desire to lose a customer altogether. "I assure you, you won't find better prices than what I'm offering.
"So be it!" Eragon counted out the coins, placing them one by one onto the counter. "I will take the one room—only for my sister. On the condition that you let me sleep in the stable with the horses." He locked his fierce gaze onto the innkeeper's eyes, his fist clenched. The man hesitated—but conceded.
Later, Eragon escorted his "sister" to the upper floor, the wooden stairs groaning beneath his weight with every step. Wanting to ensure Arya's safety through the night, he carefully inspected the lock. Once inside, disappointment flickered across his face, unmistakable. In the dim glow of the oil lamp, he took in the narrow wooden bed, draped with a single sheet and a worn, patched blanket atop a miserable straw mattress. A cracked basin and a pitcher of water perched on a stool completed the sparse furnishings. No matter how thoroughly he searched, Eragon found no towel. The feeling of being swindled tightened its grip on him, fiercer than ever.
"I have no need for sleep, Shur'tugal," the elf said, diverting his attention from the room's shortcomings. "My kind is not bound to squander precious hours in slumber. If you wish, the bed is yours."
Eragon firmly refused. For the man to take the bed while the woman did not? That would be improper. Nor could they risk sharing the space—it would not sit well with others. They had vowed to avoid drawing attention, and arriving without luggage had already made them suspicious enough.
Arya had little choice but to agree. She secured the door's lock firmly, while he settled onto a bundle of straw in the stable, the horses shifting restlessly nearby.
Thus passed their first night in the capital.
.*.*.*.
She had chosen the busiest side gate—the very one where, the previous evening, they had watched countless servants slip back into the castle. That would be her way in.
The raw morning found her leaving the inn, wrapped in the chill of a bleak dawn. The sun had yet to crest the horizon, and the narrow alleys leading to the market lay swathed in shadow. Yet, the city stirred—crowds already streamed toward the wide square, carrying with them the quiet hum of anticipation for the day ahead.
As she hurried forward, Arya's thoughts circled ceaselessly around the plan Eragon had devised the day before. His intent to enlist in the citadel guard felt reckless, riddled with danger. Doubts and unspoken fears weighed heavy on her heart—especially over how close the dragon rider wished to approach Galbatorix. Still, she had held her tongue, well aware of the stubborn resolve that drove him toward perilous paths. Any objection of hers would not sway his determination.
Eragon's plan was reckless and dangerous—not just for himself, but for Saphira as well. Though deeply concerned, Arya would—fortunately for him—remain close. She intended to secure a position within the palace, where she would later reunite with him. If he kept his word and maintained a low profile while attempting to join the guard, the hours would slip by swiftly. Then, together, they would search for his friend. And when the moment came, she would ensure he did not act on any reckless impulse—wielding her magic as a shield to protect them both.
The elf woman paused at the edge of the great marketplace square. Despite its vastness, it failed to impress her—merely a tasteless mass of human activity. The ground, battered by countless hurried feet, lay churned like plowed soil, its surface marred by the ruts of handcart wheels and the filth of the city. Here and there, puddles of mud gleamed, their murky surfaces tainted with liquids of dubious origin. Some bore the distinct, dark stain of blood, their pungent stench thick in the air.
She had seen human marketplaces before—crude spaces of deception and exploitation, where one sought to outwit the other. Places where cold metal—copper, silver, and gold—was bartered for food and necessities that, to her mind, should belong to all, freely given. Such places always sparked fury within her, a simmering rage she fought to quell. She burned with the urge to protest, repulsed by their callous indifference, by transactions weighed not in need, but in coin.
Not that she had never been among humans in such proximity before, but after her imprisonment and torment in the cells of Gil'ead, the marketplace of Urû'baen felt unbearable. The sheer presence of so many men filled her with revulsion unlike anything she had ever known. Everything seemed different now.
Or perhaps it was she who had changed.
After the ambush and the annihilation of her beloved comrades, she saw all that stemmed from humankind through the lens of distrust. Every one of her senses—for the scent, the sight, even the clamor of the marketplace—rang with warning. And such a warning would not be easily ignored.
As she wove her way through the square, the stench of blood struck her nostrils like a sudden blow. Beyond the stalls of vegetables, fruits, and grains, she recoiled at the sight of animal carcasses hanging upside down from iron hooks—their skins torn into strips, dragging along the ground, their blood pooling in the dirt. The odor of their opened bellies and spilled entrails smothered the fragrance of ripe fruits, triggering a wave of nausea. Her stomach clenched, and her last meal surged to her throat, leaving a bitter, sour taste.
A little further on, stalls overflowed with chunks of raw meat, swarming with flies. Across the square, a herd of animals was being driven toward the market's edge, their fate sealed—slaughtered mercilessly so their meager flesh could be sold as food for humans.
Arya strode past the butchers, their voices ringing as they proudly hawked their fresh, still-living wares. Despite her hurried pace, sights and sounds crashed against her senses, seizing and overwhelming her.
A cluster of emaciated children drifted between the stalls—some toiling since dawn, others darting about on errands or pleading for just two bites of bread. Yet, no hand reached out to aid them, no kindness softened their plight. With growing revulsion, she watched merchants striking their young apprentices over trifles, and men addressing their wives with sharp, unwarranted words. She felt even more estranged from their world.
A race that mistreated their own children—this was what humans were. A race that left their young to hunger and cold. Hatred churned within Arya, swelling, seeking an outlet. As humans polluted the world around them, so too did their presence stain her heart. She fought to suppress the feeling… she fought to search for hope…
No! She must not let such thoughts stain her soul.
No! She must not condemn them all.
There were the Varden—the rebels. There was Ajihad, their leader, a man of justice, as were his warriors. The Varden would never let their children starve, nor would they raise a hand against them. The blame lay solely with the vile king. Galbatorix and his reign had poisoned the land, dragging it into ruin. He had hunted the noble race of dragons to the brink of extinction. He was the one who kept their last two eggs imprisoned.
And yet, it was for a human that the blue egg hatched. For a man-child, like all those around her…
It was another human who had brought her here—a young man who had dared to defy Galbatorix, who had sought to free the dragon eggs from his grasp…
Arya hurried to flee the marketplace, the weight of helplessness pressing upon her. Helping now was impossible. She needed, at the very least, to escape the suffocating stench and the presence of laborers whose shameless gazes felt vulgar—at least to her. She clung to the fragments of fragile hope, refusing to let the flame, however faint, flicker out
She moved away, still feeling the weight of their gazes trailing her steps. At such an early hour, few women walked the streets, making her stand out all the more. The vulgarities that slithered through the air—the comments, the taunts—made her bite her lip, tasting the sharp tang of her own blood. She quickened her pace, forcing herself to keep the past at bay.
...Oh, my noble Fäolin... and you, my sweet Glenwing... I will never see you again...
Sorrow clung to her like a shadow. Her wounds had healed, but the loss of her two comrades remained—an ache that time refused to mend. How could she turn away from the revulsion humans stirred within her, from the injustices they wrought? How could she escape Galbatorix?
She paused, drawing a deep breath. She had chosen to accompany the Dragon Rider—his mission, his decision, yet she had made her own choice to stand by him. Doubt still lingered, whispering its warnings, but she could not deny the truth. Reckless though his actions had been, there was honor in them. Arya would not abandon him.
Her presence in this city was nothing but a sacrifice—a burden she bore for Saphira and her Rider alone. As for the other two dragon eggs, she had never truly believed they could be freed. It was nothing more than a dream, a fragile illusion that should never have taken shape. Saphira's egg had once been stolen from the king, but by now, he would have ensured the remaining ones were beyond reach.
The Dragon Rider's reckless companion should never have dared. With his impulsive act, he had endangered not only Eragon but Saphira herself. And now, Arya was bound to protect them, torn between duty and doubt, her honor clashing against the shadows of uncertainty.
Despite all her doubts, her resolve did not waver. She would do whatever was necessary to stand as a shield for the dragon and her Rider, even if it meant sacrificing herself. The unknown young man—the one they had come to save—had been her savior as well. Now, she would repay the debt. Yet, the rest of humankind repulsed her more than ever. Their cruelty toward children and animals—toward all the weakest—only deepened her loathing, yet strengthened her determination to safeguard whatever precious things remained in the world.
Reason told her that their women and children bore no guilt for the torment she had suffered—the torture inflicted upon her at the Shade's command, the vile acts the guards had attempted upon her body, the endless agony of Gil'ead's dungeons. And yet, revulsion clung to her, tightening its grip whenever she witnessed their kind and their ways.
Reaching the side entrance of the palace—the one she and Eragon had observed the previous day—Arya paused. Her gaze swept over the steady flow of servants moving in and out, arms burdened with bundles and overflowing baskets. The women, in particular, caught her attention—plump and flushed from their constant back-and-forth, their voices carrying the hum of animated conversation. They spoke with ease, exchanging familiar words with the gate guards, their tone brimming with vitality. Arya stood in silence, absorbing every detail with the precise focus that defined her, before pressing forward.
She watched as men approached the servants with brazen audacity—grasping, pinching, their words dripping with obscenities and insinuations. The women, though not always turning away, seemed resigned, as if such treatment were woven into the fabric of their daily lives. Arya felt revulsion rise within her, sharp and undeniable. Humans... The bitter taste returned, curling at the back of her tongue. This scene—this ugliness—was yet another confirmation of all she had come to expect from their kind.
To anchor her thoughts to the mission at hand, she reached for the pin fastening the lapels of her dress. With its sharp tip, she pricked her finger just enough to draw a bead of crimson. The sting of pain sharpened her focus, grounding her in the purpose she had chosen to embrace.
She smeared the blood lightly across her pale cheeks, tinting them with the weary flush of a traveler—an illusion no elf would naturally possess. Then, she steadied herself, drawing slow, measured breaths, readying for the steps ahead. Moments later, with her head held high and her gaze unwavering, she strode toward the gate, confidence in every step.
Her beauty did not go unnoticed by the guards. One of them, abandoning the maid he had been murmuring to, swiftly turned toward her.
"Welcome, pretty one," he greeted, lips curling into a smirk. "How is it that we've never seen you around here before?"
"I'm looking for work," Arya replied, her voice steady, striving to make her demeanor as human as possible.
The other guard sidled up behind her, his movements slick with intent. "What kind of work?" he asked, one brow arching with mock amusement.
Arya turned sharply to face him. "I'm a laundress," she stated, her tone firm, unwavering. "I am skilled and swift. I need the money to survive."
The guard chuckled, his grin curling with cunning delight. "Oh, I'm sure you're skilled and swift. The question is—at what exactly?"
The other soldier cut in, his voice laced with mockery. "You may try to convince us that someone as delicate as yourself could be a laundress, but my friend here might have a point."
Arya turned on him, fury flashing in her gaze. "I am a laundress," she stated, firm and unyielding, pressing her lips together. Deep within, she steeled herself, ready to confront them should they dare to lay a hand on her. "The fact that I need wages to survive does not grant anyone the right to insult me."
The first guard faltered, momentarily caught off guard. Her piercing gaze felt like daggers hurled straight at him. He noticed her fists, clenched tight, her knuckles stark white from the pressure.
"Alright, alright, no need to get worked up," he muttered, raising his hands in mock surrender. "It's not like we called you ugly." Turning back to his post, he cursed under his breath.
The other guard looked ready to rise to the challenge, defiance gleaming in his eyes. He seemed eager to press on—to escalate.
But before he could speak, a rough voice cut through the tension.
"The capital's castle always has room for one more servant," the newcomer declared. "Especially one willing to work."
Arya turned toward the voice. It belonged to a middle-aged woman with washed-out blue eyes and thick cheeks, mottled with red veins. Her hair was pulled into a severe bun, her sturdy frame draped in a heavy gray tunic. She carried an enormous basket overflowing with clothes, her posture radiating authority—someone accustomed to giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed.
"Ah, Myrna, just in time!" one of the guards called out, tapping the tip of his spear perilously close to his helmet. He turned back to Arya with a smirk. "If you end up under her charge, girl, she'll scrub you clean like the shirts. Myrna—she's the queen of the laundresses."
He glanced between them, amusement dancing in his eyes. "So, what's the news, good lady? Have you sniffed out a new helper for your steaming basin? But mind you—this little beauty is far too delicate, far too slender. I doubt she could wield your heavy mallet or survive scrubbing a full washtub without ruining those fine hands of hers."
The woman swept her gaze over the elf, weighing her with a practiced eye. "You said you're a laundress, girl?"
"I did," Arya answered, her voice unwavering. "And I want to work."
The woman furrowed her brows, studying Arya's hands with keen scrutiny. "Your hands don't quite fit the trade you claim, but I've got nothing to lose by testing you.
The skin on the woman's hands was rough, reddened, and cracked in places—evidence of years of relentless labor. Myrna fixed the guard with her washed-out gaze, unwavering and unafraid. She carried herself with the surety of someone ready to throw a punch at anyone foolish enough to test her resolve.
"If she's here to work, what business is it of yours?" she demanded. "Is she your wife? Your fiancée? Not everyone in this world is a freeloader like you. Step aside and mind your own business."
She turned back to Arya, her gaze carrying both experience and resolve. "If you're looking for work, girl, come with me. With all the nobles and guards swarming the castle, there's always need for a skilled laundress. Today, I'll put you to the test—prove yourself, and I'll keep you on. You'll get a generous meal and a bed for the night. But don't expect much coin," she added with a wry twist of her lips, "some people around here have deep pockets, but short arms."
Without waiting for a response, Myrna strode toward the inner courtyard, and Arya hurried to keep pace. The woman, paying no mind to whether Arya followed, launched into an unprompted lecture on the castle's layout. At the same time, she seized the opportunity to grumble about the guards' stained uniforms and the nobles' shamefully neglected laundry. If her words were to be believed, the castle owed its very survival to her and the women under her command—without them, it would have long since drowned in filth and the stench of hole-ridden socks and forgotten patches.
Arya moved in silence, her focus locked onto the castle's winding paths. She carved every turn, every passage into memory, knowing that before the night was through, she might need a swift escape. Her senses sharpened, her every step a calculated act of observation—attuned to even the smallest detail.
Later, working with steady precision and unexpected strength—a resilience none would have guessed from her slender frame and delicate hands—Arya earned Myrna's praise. Yet, the older woman's remarks stirred sideways glances and hushed murmurs among the laundresses, particularly when the broad-shouldered head laundress marveled aloud that, in all her years, she had never seen anyone so readily plunge their hands into scalding water, scrubbing away filth with such relentless efficiency.
The same grueling labor stretched on, unbroken, throughout the day. Arya endured it in silence, her patience unwavering as she waited for nightfall. Only when the others drifted into exhausted sleep would her time come. The moment to seek out Eragon—as they had planned—was fast approaching.
.*.*.*.
"If you're as skilled a swordsman as you claim, then why don't you even carry a sword?" The gate guard narrowed his eyes at Eragon, suspicion flickering across his face. Was this young man just another idler, squandering both his time and theirs?
"I don't have a sword," Eragon admitted, his tone calm, assured. "But that doesn't mean I'm not an excellent swordsman." His gaze held steady, locked onto the guard's, unfazed by the skepticism in his voice. "Whatever you provide, I can handle just fine."
The other guard was the first to drop his gaze, hesitation flickering in his expression. "I'm not saying it's impossible… something like that could be done. But skilled swordsmen usually carry their own blade—the one they know, the one their hands are trained to wield."
Eragon latched onto the guard's fleeting hesitation. "All you need to do is send word to someone above you—have them come and take me in. I swear, you won't regret it."
Beneath the layers of metal and leather, this guard appeared to be the oldest of the four stationed at Urû'baen's main gate. He was likely somewhere between thirty-five and forty. A thick scar cut across his weathered cheek, and amidst his dense, close-cropped beard, strands of white had already begun to emerge.
Eager to rid himself of the burden, the older guard turned to his younger counterpart. "Go call the captain."
Then, facing Eragon once more, he exhaled sharply. "The decision is his."
Earlier that morning, Eragon had shadowed Arya from a distance, following her path until their ways parted. She had slipped through the marketplace toward the postern gate—used mostly by servants—while he had approached the citadel's main entrance. Presenting himself as a master swordsman eager to enlist, he had requested the chance to prove his skill in the training yard, under the watchful eyes of all.
At this hour, the training yard teemed with men drilling in tight formations, their spears clashing under the watchful gaze of their instructors. Around the perimeter, pairs dueled with practice swords, their movements sharp and measured.
"Typically, the citadel guards are seasoned warriors—soldiers who know the weight of a spear," the rough captain grumbled as he strode forward, his broad shoulders stiff beneath his breastplate. The dawn's first light spilled across the polished metal, making it gleam. "And yet, according to you, you've never held one in your life."
Eragon's mind drifted to his earliest lessons with Brom—the old man guiding him through night-shrouded drills, teaching him to fight with a staff beneath the veil of darkness. They had soon moved on to the blade, where Eragon had proven himself far more adept.
A sigh threatened to escape, the weight of longing pressing against his chest—how deeply he missed him. But he smothered the ache, forcing his thoughts back to the task at hand.
"I could do that too," he stated with quiet confidence, his voice unwavering. "But I'm far better with a sword."
The man shot a sidelong glance over his shoulder. "And when, exactly, did you acquire this skill you claim to have? You can't be older than fifteen."
"I'm sixteen," Eragon protested, irritation creeping into his tone. "But my skill has nothing to do with my age."
The captain let out a low, irritated grumble but kept marching forward, saying nothing more. He left Eragon's challengers to speak—the ones he had summoned to test the young swordsman.
One bore the look of a seasoned swordsman—no doubt a man who had earned both titles and respect among his fellow soldiers. The other was a brute, towering close to two meters, his broad shoulders like a fortress, his arms packed with muscle, and his legs thick as tree trunks.
The captain handed Eragon a training sword. Lighter and shorter than Zar'roc, its balance felt off compared to a true blade. Yet its shape was familiar, and after a few experimental swings, Eragon knew he could wield it well enough.
"No strikes to the head," the captain warned, then gestured for the match to begin, selecting the veteran as Eragon's first opponent. "And no dishonorable blows either," he added, referring to attacks below the belt—cheap shots unworthy of a true swordsman.
"Neither," Eragon affirmed, and the duel began
Without hesitation, his opponent lunged, aiming for his ribs—a calculated attempt to put him at a disadvantage. Eragon slipped past the strike with ease, choosing neither to parry nor to disrupt his adversary's movement. As the man withdrew to reset his stance, Eragon seized the opening, driving a decisive blow to his chest and robbing him of breath.
His opponent exhaled sharply, grimacing as he bared his teeth in a menacing glare at Eragon. The Dragon Rider held his stance, radiating the quiet certainty of a warrior in absolute control. Each attack was met with stunning precision, his movements a seamless blend of instinct and mastery. He knew exactly when to strike and when to slip past danger, turning the battle into a mesmerizing display of skill and determination.
At first, the men training in the courtyard paid little heed to the duel. But soon, Eragon and the veteran guard drew their attention, gathering a growing crowd of soldiers and citadel officers.
The onlookers shouted in support of their own, their voices fueling the tension of the clash:
"Give him a good one!"
"Show him what it means to be a citadel guard!"
"Leave him with a lasting mark!"
"Hit him hard! Give him a few bruises to remember!"
His opponent was skilled—but not skilled enough to best Eragon. With a deft feint to the side, the Dragon Rider struck precisely at the man's arm, just above the elbow. The veteran's limb went numb, hanging uselessly for precious moments—just long enough to give Eragon the opening he had been waiting for. Rather than fully disabling him, Eragon pressed the training blade against his opponent's stomach, making no real attempt to wound—only a silent demonstration of control.
"Dead!" Eragon proclaimed, stepping back two paces before fixing his gaze on the captain. "Next!"
The crowd hesitated, momentarily deflated by their champion's downfall. Yet the sheer intensity of the duel, the raw clash of skill and determination, had already earned their admiration.
The captain studied Eragon, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. Then, without hesitation, he gestured to the towering guard, wordlessly commanding him to step forward and take the veteran's place—ready to challenge the Dragon Rider next.
The man grinned, flashing a row of crooked teeth that gleamed in the light. He hefted his training sword and struck—faster than his size should allow—his blade clashing against Eragon's while angling for his liver. Had the blow landed, Eragon knew he would be curled up on the ground, unable to move. But it didn't. He twisted away, slipping past the strike, and seized the opening to land a sharp hit on the guard's right armpit.
The man stepped back, surprise flickering across his face. He recovered swiftly, but before he could retaliate, Eragon feinted toward his left hip. The massive guard moved to intercept—only for Eragon to twist his sword mid-air, shifting direction at the last instant. His blade struck cleanly against the man's forearm, near the wrist.
Shouts and cries erupted from the spectators.
The guard grimaced, flexing his fingers with difficulty, while Eragon gave a quick, assessing wince. The strike wasn't severe, but it had landed hard. Without hesitation, he pressed forward. As his opponent retreated to regain his stance, Eragon brought his sword down with immense force—far beyond what most men could muster. The guard's blade spun into the air. Before it could hit the ground, Eragon lifted his training sword faster than the eye could catch. The blunt tip touched the side of his opponent's neck.
"Dead again!"
Eragon lowered his sword, and the courtyard erupted into a chorus of shouts and cheers.
The captain clasped a firm hand on his shoulder. "That's it, young man. From this day forward, you are a citadel guard."
Without hesitation, he pulled Eragon along, striding toward a stone-built structure at the far end of the courtyard. "First, we go to the guardhouse to register you—then everything else will follow. Tomorrow, you swear your oath in the name of the king, pledging your loyalty as a citadel guard."
Eragon shuddered at those words. What kind of oath would Galbatorix demand? He forced the thought aside, locking his focus on the present. Everything that needed to be done would happen tonight. By morning, he and Arya had to be far from the city.
"The way you wield a sword… it carries the mark of noble training," the officer observed, his tone quieter now as he led Eragon toward the guardhouse. "Who was it that trained you?"
Eragon lowered his head, unwilling to reveal more. "He is dead now," he murmured, his voice shadowed with grief.
.*.*.*.
Eragon was registered under the same false name he had once given to the hermit Tenga. Once more, he became Bergan, son of Garrow. For a fleeting moment, the same sting of unease surfaced. Denying his true identity had never sat well with him, yet his mission—to seek out and, if possible, save Murtagh—was sacred. Again, he clung to the son of Garrow—the last thread connecting him to a past he had left behind forever.
As duels unfolded in the courtyard, along with the registration process and the equipping of the new citadel guard, time surged forward like an unrelenting current. He engaged in animated conversations with the other soldiers, who eagerly welcomed the arrival of a new member in their ranks. Some clapped him heartily on the back or gripped his arm in friendly acknowledgment, while others offered only fleeting glances and faint smiles. Eragon also noticed a handful of men standing at a distance, watching him with indifference—or even suspicion. The winter day slipped by, and as the sun sank swiftly toward the horizon, it bathed the citadel's stone walls in golden and crimson hues.
The same captain who had taken him from the gate now led him into the guards' great dining hall. The air was filled with the voices of men already eating and the clinking of full cups echoing through the open space. They sat at the same table and began their meal. The food was simple—boiled meat with vegetables and half a loaf of barley bread—but generous in portion, with the option to ask for more if desired. Its rich aroma filled Eragon's nose, and only then did he realize just how hungry he was. Hours had passed since his last meal—the one he had shared at the inn with Arya the previous evening.
Many of the men who had watched the two duels in the courtyard earlier paused by the table as they went to serve themselves, voicing their admiration and satisfaction that such a skilled swordsman had joined their ranks. The atmosphere around him was warm and welcoming, and Eragon finally began to relax.
As the food in their bowls dwindled and the conversation took on a more relaxed tone, Eragon sensed the moment was right to press the captain with his own questions—ones that would further his investigation. How were the men's shifts organized? How many soldiers formed a patrol unit? Where were the castle's prisons located, and who guarded the prisoners? What skills were required to earn a place among the king's personal guard?
The captain could barely keep up with answering. But at this last question, he laughed heartily. "What can I tell you, lad? Just take a look at the king's royal guards, and you'll see that each one of them stands at least a head taller than you," he said, subtly gesturing toward a table at the center of the great hall.
The men seated there were all large, well-trained, and clad in dark clothing. The only color on them was the twisted flame—the king's emblem—stitched onto their shirts and cloaks. In the glow of the oil lamps illuminating the hall, the flames seemed to flicker, as if brought to life by magic. Their conversations were hushed, barely perceptible, and each man appeared more focused on his plate than on his comrades, adding to the sense of isolation despite their shared table.
The captain raised his cup and took a few gulps of beer. "You're good with a sword, I won't deny that… but for the Royal Guard? I don't know… Maybe when you're older… We'll see."
He remained focused on his meal for a while, while Eragon couldn't resist the temptation to keep glancing toward Galbatorix's guards. However, his inquisitive stares did not go unnoticed by the captain. With an almost comical gesture, he waved his empty spoon in Eragon's direction. "Also, keep in mind—this is the most important thing—if you want to be accepted into the Royal Guard, you must have a tongue but never use it." His words were meant to pull the young man's attention away from the other table. It wouldn't be good for either of them if the king's guards caught on to Eragon's probing gaze. Curiosity from outsiders had often caused trouble with those men.
The captain's voice dropped two tones heavier. "Your insistence on meddling in things that don't concern you is a flaw among the Royal Guard," he continued. "Do you think the king tolerates people speaking of his actions here and there? Look at how they carry themselves—serious, discreet, measured. Among them, excessive talk is never tolerated. All this time you've been here, instead of eating, you've done nothing but ask questions. Also, learn this—only tested men and the most trusted are accepted into the Royal Guard, after they have sworn the heaviest oaths of loyalty to the king himself. Skill with a sword alone is not enough."
Eragon leaned forward, his eyes sharp as blades, locked onto the captain. "Ever since I was young, I had a dream," he said, his voice steady yet filled with a passion that carried a hint of challenge. "To become a personal guard of our king one day. Do you think I can't control my curiosity or hold my tongue? Give me a reason, and then you'll see just how disciplined I can be."
The atmosphere around them seemed to grow heavy for a heartbeat before the captain's measured smile broke the tension. "Stay with the citadel guards for a while, get seasoned first—you've only just arrived," he said, taking another sip of beer. "Later… if you're truly that good and if you grow a little taller, I'll put you forward for the special training of the king's guards."
The meal ended, and the captain personally led him to the common barracks where the citadel guards spent their nights. The atmosphere was quiet; only a few men occupied the space, as the shift had yet to change. Most of the guards remained at their posts, leaving the barracks nearly empty.
The captain cast a quick glance around the room, selected a good bed for Eragon, and spoke in a firm voice: "Get some sleep now, rest well. Tomorrow morning, after you swear loyalty to the king and the citadel guard, we will present you for a swordsmanship demonstration in the lords' courtyard."
The captain patted him on the shoulder in a friendly manner before turning to leave. Eragon set the bundle of clothes he had been given at the edge of the bed and sat down on the mattress. Beneath each bed was a small chest where the men stored their belongings. Perhaps he would put his things away later. Either way, he had no intention of staying there for more than a few hours.
At that moment, another captain stepped into the barracks, accompanied by two soldiers, and met with Eragon's previous escort. The four men stood a short distance from his bed and began whispering among themselves. Eragon let his attention drift to their movements, trying to decipher their gestures. One of the captains made a barely perceptible motion—as if indicating him. One of the soldiers turned toward him, watching with an unclear intensity, his gaze lingering longer than necessary.
The instincts of the Dragon Rider kicked in. He knew they were talking about him. Their words were low and fragmented, but something about a wager reached his ears. His hands tightened around his knees as his gaze remained fixed on the shadows of the men. He made no movement to betray his interest, yet his mind worked relentlessly.
After a while, the men dispersed, each going their own way as if nothing had happened. The barracks returned to its usual quiet, yet Eragon could still feel the tension lingering—like a faint current stirring the air.
He was certain that by morning, before the demonstration in the lords' courtyard, bets would be placed on him—on his skill with a sword. The thought stirred unease; drawing more attention to himself was far from ideal. His investigation into Murtagh had to be completed tonight. There was no room for delay. He needed to act quickly—before the whispers and watchful gazes of the king's court shifted entirely to him.
He lay on his side, masking his thoughts behind half-closed eyelids. Feigning drowsiness, he took in his surroundings. The shift changed, and more men entered the barracks, their heavy footsteps and hushed conversations filling the space. Some still murmured about that morning's events in the training courtyard, but no one approached him—he appeared half-asleep to them.
A few beds away, some of the men had begun gambling their upcoming shifts over a game of cards. The losers of each round would take on the hours deemed the worst by all. Fragments of their conversation reached his ears, and with the sharpened hearing of a Dragon Rider, Eragon carefully analyzed every word. What escaped the notice of others was, to him, potentially valuable. Details—no matter how insignificant they seemed—could become the very keys he was searching for.
"Your turn to draw another card."
"Ha! That won't help him. I bet he's guarding the northern turret's stairway again tonight."
"I'd take the dungeons over that any day."
"Better to fold."
"Svensson, who was on duty the other night, swears that in the pitch-black darkness, strange sounds and shrieks echoed through the tower. He claims that precisely at midnight, ghosts emerge."
"Don't be ridiculous. Ghosts don't exist."
"Me? Ridiculous? Svensson said it."
"Everyone knows the ruined tower is haunted."
"Just draw the card already! If you lose, you're taking this shift."
"I'd rather stand guard in the dungeons. That 'special' prisoner—the one Galbatorix keeps locked away—might be dangerous. Why did the king put him there?"
"You'd be better off not speaking about things that don't concern you!"
A "special" prisoner? One locked in the northern turret?
Suspecting that the person they were referring to might be Murtagh—the one who had already made his move within the castle—Eragon clenched his fists beneath his pillow, struggling to rein in the whirlwind of thoughts flooding his mind. If his friend was indeed Galbatorix's prisoner, then his ominous feeling was being confirmed in the worst possible way. Days ago, he had scried Murtagh's image upon the surface of the water—so exhausted that the vision had burned itself into his memory like a waking nightmare. The flicker of that recollection was enough to make his heart tighten with fear—yet, at the same time, steel his resolve.
The guards' cryptic remarks might have already proven invaluable to his investigation. But he couldn't afford to waste time. If he wanted to save his friend, he had to act tonight—before whispers about him spread further and the attention on him grew. Still, he would have to wait until the barracks fell silent, until every man was asleep. Only then would he begin his search—starting with the northern turret—after first orienting himself to locate the prison.
More time passed, and one by one, the men left their groups and lay down in their beds. When a captain came to check, most were already asleep. He extinguished the last oil lamp, its faint glow fading over the sleeping figures, and shut the door behind him as he left. A deep darkness settled inside the barracks.
Eragon lay on his back, eyes wide open in the darkness, as worry and anticipation surged through him like waves upon a storm-tossed sea. He listened to the steady breaths of the other men while the hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. The Dragon Rider began counting the beats of his restless heart.
What had become of Saphira? He had left her alone with their horses, hidden deep within the forest. No one knew better than Eragon that his proud dragoness was more than capable of protecting herself and guarding their camp. Yet, after months of traveling side by side, they had never been apart—not for a single moment. Even when she soared through the skies, their mental link remained unbroken. At any given time, they shared thoughts, sensations, and emotions. But now, circumstance had severed that connection, and he felt the absence of her presence like a hollow ache.
As for Arya—where was she? Was she in danger from someone… or something? The urge to reach out through their mental bond was nearly irresistible, but the fear that one of the king's sorcerers might be listening held him back. He would leave the elf—far more experienced than himself—to initiate contact first. If her mind did not seek his soon, he would have no choice but to search for her in the underground quarters, where the castle's servants moved and slept.
Eragon decided to wait at least another hour before attempting to rise from his bed. Each second stretched into an eternity, yet the delay would allow the guards to drift into a deeper sleep. Perhaps it would even lull the sentries outside the armory into drowsiness. At least, that was his hope.
When he deemed enough time had passed, he focused intently on sensing the nearby consciousnesses—just as Brom had taught him. The men were plunged into deep sleep, some lost in dreamscapes beyond reach.
Eragon rose slowly, taking great care not to let even the faintest sound break the silence. Every step was measured, every movement deliberate. The darkness was absolute, and the only sounds were the steady breaths around him. He moved cautiously down the corridor, keeping his bearings in mind and skillfully avoiding beds and obstacles. Fortunately, many were empty—a small blessing, as their occupants remained at their posts.
The door of the large barracks had been left unlatched, allowing anyone to slip out during the night if they needed to visit the latrines. Eragon eased it open and shut with meticulous care, his hand steady to prevent even the faintest sound. The wood creaked softly, but the silence that followed reassured him—his movements had not drawn any unwanted attention.
Eragon lingered just beyond the threshold, allowing himself one last glance at the sleeping figures inside before slipping away into the night.