Chapter Text
The soft rustle of canvas was the only warning before sunlight struck him straight in the eyes. Eragon groaned and threw an arm over his face.
Morning, little one, Saphira hummed as she pushed her head into the tent, amusement palpable in her voice. Slept well?
His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth, and every shift of his body made his stomach protest. Even his eyes felt dry, like sand scraping beneath his lids with every blink.
No.
He had not slept well.
Then memory treacherously resurfaced.
I can be your mate.
Gods—had he vomited?
A strangled sound escaped him as he dragged both hands down his face.
Quite the performance, Saphira teased mercilessly.
A dreadful silence followed.
“We are not talking about this,” he said firmly.
Smoke puffed from her nostrils as another wave of amusement rippled through their bond in hiccuping rumbles. Like a newly fledged hatchling trying to impress, she commented.
Eragon groaned harder. “She’ll never speak to me again,” he muttered miserably.
She stayed, Saphira pointed out.
That stopped him.
His gaze drifted slowly to the ground beside the cot, where the dirt still held the faint impression of where Marzanna had sat.
The corners of his mouth betrayed him.
Carefully—very carefully—Eragon swung his legs off the cot and stood.
The world tilted dangerously.
He sat back down.
Saphira snorted.
“Not. A word.”
After another attempt, and with considerably more dignity preserved, Eragon finally made it outside.
The crisp morning air struck him in the face.
Mist swayed lazily above the nearby river, silver in the low sunlight, while the camp slowly stirred awake around him. Somewhere in the distance, dwarven hammers already rang against metal.
Eragon scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to erase traces of exhaustion, then paused.
Sniffed.
His nose wrinkled in distaste.
Smoke. Mead. Sweat.
And—
Gods.
Marzanna had helped him out of his shirt for a very good reason.
He closed his eyes briefly, lips tightening. He had certainly made an unforgettable impression. Perhaps, before humiliating himself further, he ought to become presentable.
He found a quiet bend in the river and stripped down. The water was brutally cold. Eragon hissed through his teeth as he splashed water over his face, scrubbing stubbornly at the remnants of the night before. He rinsed his mouth three times, dragged wet fingers through unruly hair, then settled onto a smooth river stone while the cold slowly bullied his stomach into compliance.
For a while, he simply listened.
Water over stone.
Grass rustling in the breeze.
Almost like home.
His gaze drifted along the riverbank.
Wildflowers spilled carelessly through the grass. Buttercups glowed bright as sunlight. White daisies pushed stubbornly between stones, and purple bellflowers swayed gently in the wind.
He smiled as memory resurfaced.
Buttercups came every summer back home, spreading everywhere like weeds. His aunt Marian had always complained about them invading her vegetable rows—though she inevitably gathered a few for the windowsill anyway.
Women liked flowers.
Did they not?
Maybe he could pick some.
Just enough to—
He stopped.
What in all the world was he doing?
The image arrived unbidden: himself standing in the middle of the Urgal camp clutching river flowers while horned warriors grinned themselves sick watching him.
That idea made him wince.
Did Marzanna even like flowers? She would probably stare at him for a long, uncomfortable moment and ask if he had struck his head.
No.
He needed something less ridiculous.
His gaze drifted toward the Urgal camp across the river.
Garzhvog had been wounded in the battle. Not severely, but enough that checking on him would hardly seem strange.
And while tending his injuries… Eragon might ask a question or two.
Purely scholarly questions.
Naturally.
Heat crept from his cheeks into his ears. Thoughts swarmed as he dressed in clean clothes and headed toward the Urgal camp.
How does one court an Urgal woman?
No.
Absolutely not.
He might as well march there and announce himself a lovesick fool.
Perhaps something broader.
Are there notable differences between human and Urgal social customs?
Yes.
That sounded intelligent.
Reasonable.
And from there—
His step faltered.
A flicker of blue caught his eye among the grass, where the greenery gave way to forget-me-nots.
Their colour struck him immediately—piercing and impossible to ignore.
Like her eyes.
Perhaps one flower would not hurt.
He bent and picked the stem, careful not to damage the blooms.
Subtle, Saphira remarked.
Eragon scowled. Stop eavesdropping. This is private.
This is hardly private, Saphira replied, entirely unbothered. You are essentially marching toward the Urgal camp to announce to the warchief that you intend to court his sister.
That made him stumble.
I will ask carefully, he insisted.
Little one, Saphira said, warm amusement lacing her voice, Garzhvog will probably weep with relief.
Eragon blinked. Relief?
Before Saphira could explain, someone shoulder-checked him hard enough to jolt him sideways.
He blinked and finally noticed the crowd around him.
Somehow, during his mortifying spiral, the path had filled. As he neared the bridge over the Jiet, movement became nearly impossible. The riverbank stood packed shoulder to shoulder with Varden—men, women, children.
Far too many.
Far too close to Urgal territory for Eragon to expect any of them to willingly stand there.
Yet here they were.
Watching.
An odd energy hummed through the crowd, taut and eager, like the moment before a storyteller reached the part everyone secretly waited to hear.
Laughter.
Betting.
Speculation.
“Ten silvers on the horned beast!” someone shouted nearby, loud enough to make Eragon flinch.
“No way, Gary,” another scoffed. “Have you seen her? She’ll snap like a twig. That would be like handing you free money.”
Unease tightened his stomach.
He pushed forward through the crowd.
Only then did he realize the pulse beneath the noisy chatter did not belong to them.
Drums.
Wild taps and slaps against stretched hide. Not the kind of rhythm he knew from village dances.
Dum.
Dum.
Then quick taps.
Tak-tak, tak.
The rhythm faded, only to return faster. More urgent.
As Eragon climbed farther onto the bridge, the source finally came into view. Urgal warriors stood in a broad half-circle around the pyres, drums strapped across broad shoulders with woven scarves. Some sat astride them as though mounted for battle.
Heavy palms struck the deep centres of stretched hide, producing a sound low enough to rattle through bone.
Like the tribe’s heartbeat.
He stepped off the bridge onto Urgal ground, where no Varden dared venture.
Someone behind him gasped.
A woman reached instinctively for his sleeve, as though to stop him, but recognition swept through the crowd.
“Shadeslayer,” someone murmured.
No one barred his path after that.
Walking through the Urgal settlement felt wrong, like intruding on a family argument. He spotted Garzhvog among the drummers and headed toward him.
Then—
A hand seized his arm and hauled him between the tents with familiar ease.
“What are you doing here?” Marzanna demanded sharply. “You are not supposed to be here.” She turned him toward her, brows drawn tight. “Why are you even awake this early?”
Eragon blinked.
And, briefly, forgot how words worked.
He knew Marzanna cared little for modesty. Even so—he had not expected this.
A white bandage wrapped tightly around her chest. Short trousers sat low on her hips, leaving most of her skin bare to the morning sun. Oil gleamed across strong shoulders and scarred arms.
Her hair had been braided over the crown of her head, lending her an illusion of height. White strips of fabric wrapped her hands like makeshift gloves.
Marzanna cleared her throat.
Only then did Eragon realize, with horror, that he had been staring.
Heat rushed to his face.
“I—” Words abandoned him entirely. “What is happening?”
Her expression tightened, eyelids twitching as the drums behind them quickened.
Now they sounded almost like a call to war.
Eragon glanced past her.
The ring carved into the dirt. A crowd surrounding it…
She’ll snap like a twig.
His face dropped.
“You’ve been challenged,” he concluded, turning back to her. “Again.”
Her jaw shifted, eyes refusing to meet his.
“And you accepted?” He frowned, trying to catch her gaze. “Marzanna, you were just taken. You are hurt, exhausted, and—”
He stopped.
And barely slept because of me.
“Do not do this,” he said quietly. “You’ll get hurt.” His throat bobbed. “Please.”
“No.”
The word came simple and final.
“This is how Urgals work. They follow strength, not pity.” Something guarded settled over her expression. “This is not your world, Firesword. Stay out of it.”
“It is not your world either,” he snapped before he could stop himself.
He expected anger. A sharp, cruel retort that would give him something to fight.
Instead—
Nothing.
Dum. Tak-tak. Dum.
“You just…” Eragon dragged a hand through his hair. “You expect me to stand there while you get bloodied ten steps away?”
Marzanna crossed her arms. “I expected you to still be asleep.”
“I am serious.” His voice turned urgent. “I just got you back. Gods, I thought I had lost you.” He swallowed hard. “I cannot watch you get hurt again.”
“Then leave.”
The words landed like a slap.
He stared at her for a moment before the words slipped free. “You can be cruel sometimes.”
That finally made her look at him.
“I—this is absurd. They cannot keep challenging you like this,” Eragon pressed.
Her gaze sharpened. “You do not get to decide what my people do.”
“And you do not get to pretend I should not care!” The words came out louder than intended. Nearby Urgals glanced their way, murmuring in what sounded suspiciously like scandal.
His voice dropped to a rough whisper.
“So what?” he asked, disbelieving. “You think I can simply walk away?” He swallowed hard. “After yesterday?”
“You are reading far too much into things.”
He flinched. “Don’t—don’t do that,” he said quietly. “You always do this.”
Marzanna sighed, impatient. “Do what?”
“Disregard what it meant,” Eragon answered. “Yesterday meant something. You cared for me.”
Her jaw tightened. “You know what it meant?” she said bluntly. “You got embarrassingly drunk and nearly drowned yourself in a river.”
Gods.
“You could barely stand,” she continued, folding her arms tighter. “Someone had to make sure you did not wander into a ditch and die.”
Eragon opened his mouth—
She continued anyway.
“So no,” she finished coolly, though her gaze slipped briefly past him, “do not romanticize it.” A pause. “You needed a babysitter.”
Eragon clenched his jaw hard enough to ache.
What a fool he was—thinking about flowers.
Courtship.
The little forget-me-not slipped from suddenly unsteady fingers.
“Right,” Eragon said too quickly, stepping back. His eyes flicked to the ground, uncertain where to settle. “Of course.” He swallowed. “Go fight your challenge then.”
He turned.
One step.
Another.
Then stopped.
Gods.
With visible frustration, he scrubbed a hand down his face and turned back.
Marzanna frowned immediately. Suspicious.
He crossed the distance before he could reconsider.
“Hold still.”
“What?”
Before she could protest, Eragon caught her forearm. Her skin felt cool beneath his fingers. Her pulse fluttered rapidly against his touch, quick as a frightened rabbit’s. Warmth flowed from him, flooding her body with steady waves of his strength.
Marzanna stiffened, eyes widening. She pulled against his hold, but he did not relent.
“What are you doing?”
He released her promptly, the loss of contact stinging more than he cared to admit.
“For yesterday,” he muttered, gaze fixed stubbornly somewhere over her shoulder. “For your trouble.”
Her lips parted slightly. “You do not owe me for that.”
A humourless laugh escaped him.
“Well.” He stepped back. “It did not sound like it.”
Then he turned before he could stop himself.
“Eragon—”
His name.
Not Firesword.
His jaw tightened as he forced himself to keep walking. He ached to look back, but he knew he would fold immediately. The Urgals watched him strangely as he passed—something unreadable lingering in their expressions.
He should have left.
He knew that.
Yet he let the crowd on the bridge swallow him whole again. Someone shoved past him, spilling watered ale over his boots. Another stood balanced on the bridge’s railing for a better view.
Eragon stared at them, vaguely appalled.
Did they not have enough violence already?
The war had taken thousands. Men bled daily. Widows mourned. Children were left orphaned.
Yet here they stood.
Eager for more.
Urgals cheered as a massive Kull emerged from between the tents, arms raised victoriously as he headed toward the makeshift ring.
Wait… he knew that Urgal.
Wasn’t that… Garog?
The Kull looked even larger inside the ring, broad enough to blot out much of the view behind him. Fresh black markings had been painted across his arms and horns—for good luck.
Then, as one, the Urgals turned back toward the tents. This time, Marzanna emerged.
Unlike the warm welcome Garog received, she was met with silence. She passed them without a glance, entirely too focused on Garog.
The crowd around Eragon murmured.
“Oh, gods,” someone gasped beside him. “That’s her? That thing is fighting her?! She’s so small. Damn it—I should have made a bet.”
Garog moved without haste, stepping into the centre of the makeshift ring as drums rolled behind him. Marzanna stepped into the circle beside him, and the Urgals moved to close it, sealing them inside.
Eragon rubbed damp palms against his trousers.
Gods, she really looked tiny.
And why had Garog challenged her? Garog of all people?
He had seemed almost nice yesterday…
Unease rolled over him.
Had Garog seen Eragon fussing over her as weakness? Had he accidentally stitched a target on her back in the shape of blue flowers?
The drums changed, quickening into an impossible rhythm that sounded like heavy rain hammering against window.
Garog and Marzanna stepped apart, both lowering their heads in a gesture of challenge.
Then—
A sharp rhythm cut through the drumming with startling finality. And then—the drums stopped.
At once.
Garog moved on the first beat of silence.
He was fast for someone his size, yet Marzanna slipped away. The Kull’s arms cut through empty air where, only a heartbeat before, she had stood. She ducked beneath one sweeping arm and rolled aside.
Then she straightened with infuriating ease, brushing a speck of dirt from her shoulder.
Garog growled at the gesture and lunged. Marzanna shifted, shoulder pressing against his arm, redirecting him just enough that his own weight carried him stumbling.
“Damn,” someone shouted. “I thought the little thing would be flattened by now.”
Eragon barely heard them—because he saw something they did not.
Marzanna moved beautifully.
Fluidly.
Yet—
She was slow.
Slower than usual.
And distracted. Her eyes occasionally drifted toward the bridge, wasting precious moments she should have spent gathering herself.
Garog’s fingers brushed her arm, and though his hand closed around nothing, it had been far too close for comfort. The Kull growled in displeasure, a sound that raised the hair at the nape of Eragon’s neck.
Each escape looked narrower than the last, exhausting catching up with her.
And Garog—
Garog only needed one mistake.
“Come on,” Eragon whispered before he could stop himself.
Marzanna ducked beneath a heavy swing, turned, and nearly lost footing. She recovered, but Garog pivoted faster than expected.
Like a bloodhound scenting blood.
His arm caught her across the face with a crack loud enough to echo across the ring. A few people around Eragon gasped, hands flying instinctively to their own faces.
Marzanna hit the dirt hard and did not get up.
The crowd quieted.
Eragon’s stomach clenched with nausea that had nothing to do with last night.
No.
No—
He shoved forward instinctively, only to stop when no Urgal reacted. They simply watched her motionless form. Patiently.
Move! Eragon shouted silently. Help her. What are you waiting for? His eyes sought Garzhvog. Come on. It is your sister. Interfere!
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Then finally—she twitched.
Her eyes opened slowly. When she lifted her head, blood streaked down her face, staining the white bandages crimson.
Garog lowered his head slightly, stepping closer. When he spoke, the silence around him felt sacred. “Death,” he asked evenly, “or exile?”
Marzanna said nothing.
Her eyes drifted slowly around the tightening circle surrounding her, as though measuring something only she understood.
Eragon’s panic surged.
Oh—she could not seriously be hesitating. Right?
He closed his eyes.
It was Marzanna.
Of course she was considering it.
Her eyes finally settled on Garog. “Exile.”
The word came quiet.
Shameful.
Garog nodded, yet there was nothing triumphant about him. If anything—the Kull looked dejected. He stepped back, allowing the Urgals to pass around him like water. They formed a tightening half-circle around her like a noose.
They stepped forward as one, forcing her to retreated—crawl away to not get stomped on. Marzanna pushed herself upright with trembling hands. Every movement looked costly. Painful.
Yet despite the shaking in her legs, she stood.
The Urgals opened a path without words or signal, creating a corridor leading out.
Out of the camp.
Into the unknown.
The faces surrounding her carried the gravity of the moment.
Shock.
Unease.
For how many years had Marzanna remained undefeated? Only for this—for what many had quietly hoped for, yet never truly expected—to finally happen?
And now it had.
Yet they looked uncertain, shooting more than one glance toward Garzhvog. Toward Garog.
Garzhvog stared at the ground before him, face unreadable. And Garog—nothing about him suggested triumph at removing an outside. At becoming second-in-command.
Marzanna never looked back. Her boots crunched once. Twice. Then she was gone.
Eragon stood frozen in place, heart pounding.
No. This just didn’t happen…
The crowd slowly drifted apart, muttering among themselves. Some wore satisfied grins, coins already changing hands. One man even stretched and yawned as though the whole thing had been a tavern show.
Eragon stayed behind.
Alone.
֍
“You need to fix this.”
The guards outside barely had time to announce him before Eragon stormed into the tent, breathless from crossing half the camp at a run. “They exiled her.”
Nasuada did not look up from the parchment in her hands.
“You will need to be more specific.”
“Marzanna,” he said, pacing before her desk. “The Urgals exiled her. That—that—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “You need to make them take her back.”
Only then did Nasuada set down her quill.
“Eragon,” she said carefully, “The Urgals are our allies. Not our subjects. We do not command them.”
“They respect you,” he shot back. “Garzhvog listens to you. They all do.” His voice tightened. “Please. We can still fix this.”
“Fix this?”
“Yes.” He spread his hands helplessly. “Or if they refuse—then we take her in. She can stay with the Varden.”
Nasuada regarded him for a long moment.
“And publicly undermine their newly chosen second?” she asked mildly. “After a ritual challenge witnessed by half the camp?”
His jaw flexed.
Nasuada shook her head.
“You know Urgals better than most,” she continued. “A defeated member is killed or exiled. To interfere now would humiliate Garog and insult their customs.” She folded her hands atop the desk. “That is not a small matter.”
“But she matters,” Eragon said, frustration bleeing through. “She’s… valuable.”
“Valuable,” she repeated.
He exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. “You know what I mean.”
At that, Nasuada leaned back slightly. “Has it occurred to you,” she asked after a moment, “that Marzanna may be safer away from us?”
He stared at her.
“What?”
“The Empire can find her here,” Nasuada said evenly. “Galbatorix has spies. Informants. We know this.” She gestured vaguely toward the camp outside. “But one woman wandering the wilderness? That is far harder to hunt.”
His mouth opened.
Closed.
“You have been unusually distracted where Marzanna is concerned,” Nasuada continued.
Distracted tonight, Eragon?
Eragon frowned immediately as Murtagh’s words floated through his mind. “I am not distracted.”
Nasuada tilted her head, unconvinced. “You care for her.”
The certainty in her tone irritated him.
He ran a hand through his hair, keeping his eyes pinned to the ground. “It hardly matters.”
“How so?”
He hesitated, closing his eyes as Marzanna’s voice surfaced uninvited.
You are reading far too much into things.
You needed a babysitter.
“She does not…” He stopped.
Nasuada waited.
His jaw tightened, and he swallowed with great difficulty. “She made herself clear,” he muttered vaguely, gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor. “I just wanted to make sure she was safe.”
“She is safe,” Nasuada said. “Safer without you.”
His head snapped up.
“Your movements are watched by half the Empire,” she continued evenly. “Galbatorix has already tried to capture you repeatedly.” A pause. “Together, the two of you would make a very tempting target.”
He hated that some part of him knew she was right. Nasuada watched him for a moment before continuing.
“I need your attention elsewhere.”
He frowned. “What?”
“The dwarves are about to choose a king. And as you can imagine,” Nasuada took a moment to inhale, “it is a delicate matter.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“Everything,” she interrupted. Her fingers tapped once against the desk. “My presence would be unwelcomed there, and deeply missed here. But you—you are one of them.”
He blinked.
She just sighed. “You belong to Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. You have a standing among them. Influence.” Her expression hardened. “We need the next king on our side, Eragon.”
His thoughts still snagged helplessly on Marzanna.
“You want me to go to Farthen Dûr?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“With Saphira.”
“No.”
That finally made him stop. “What?”
“No,” she repeated. “Saphira stays here.”
“What? Why?”
“The longer we conceal your absence, the better,” Nasuada explained. “A missing Rider can be hidden for a time.” A small pause. “A missing dragon cannot.”
He stared. “So what?” he asked slowly. “You expect me to run there?”
“You have crossed Alagaësia on foot before,” she reminded him. “Helgrind.”
“But Saphira—”
“Arya can stand in your place if it comes to that.”
Something ugly twisted in his stomach.
“And I suppose I’ll travel alone?”
The pause before Nasuada answered dragged on.
“No.”
He narrowed his eyes in suspicion as the silence stretched. Then understanding struck. “No.”
Nasuada said nothing.
“No,” he repeated, sharper now. “Absolutely not.”
“You need an escort.”
“An Urgal?” His voice cracked. “An Urgal?! After today?”
He threw a hand toward the camp outside so sharply he clipped the chair beside Nasuada’s desk, sending it toppling sideways with a loud crack.
He did not even seem to notice.
For the first time, Nasuada looked faintly tired.
“Yes.”
He took a step back like he had been struck. “I refuse.”
“This is not a request.”
“Then punish me,” he snapped. “Strip my rank. Publicly whip me. Do whatever you like.”
For the first time, something cold entered Nasuada’s expression. “That would be foolish.”
He opened his mouth—
“You are a symbol,” she said flatly. “If I punish you, the Varden will not see discipline.” Her gaze sharpened. “They will see a leader unable to command her own Rider.” A pause. “And by tomorrow, you would heal every lash I gave you.”
“If you wish to defy me,” she said quietly, “then do so properly. Take command of the Varden. Set me aside,” she continued. “And lead us yourself.”
The tent went utterly silent.
Eragon clenched his jaw hard enough to ache. He hated this. Being cornered like this.
“Fine,” he bit out.”
Nasuada relaxed by a fraction.
He turned, grabbed the overturned chair near the desk, and shoved it upright with entirely too much force. Wood splintered. One leg cracked clean through.
Nasuada closed her eyes briefly. “You really need to get that out of your system,“ she muttered.