The Inheritance Cycle: Getting My Wish Fulfilled (Eragon)

[2,712 words]

Navigating the twisting alleys and narrow streets, Eragon finally arrived at a small, inconspicuous bar near the fortress. He slipped inside, choosing a seat in a dark corner where he could watch the comings and goings of the patrons without drawing attention to himself. His mind was sharp, focused on the task ahead.

He waited patiently, sipping a weak drink as he kept his eyes on the soldiers who occasionally entered and left the bar.

Voices were a blend of murmurs and boisterous exclamations, punctuated by the clinking of mugs and the occasional shout.

One man, a burly fellow with a scruffy beard, leaned in conspiratorially, his face flushed from a drink. "You heard about the Urgals? They've been hitting villages left and right. Entire settlements wiped out, some say."

Another, a wiry man with a sharp face, nodded gravely. "Aye, and it's getting worse. They say the raids are more frequent and the destruction more brutal. It's like they're pushing deeper into our lands every week."

The rest of the group murmured in agreement, their faces grim. "Aye, it's bad. My cousin's village was burned to the ground last month. No survivors, they say. People are fleeing to the cities, but even that feels not safe as of late."

A younger man, his eyes wide with concern, chimed in. "And the soldiers are stretched thin. They can't keep up with the Urgals' movements. The whole region's in chaos."

As the conversation continued, Eragon's eyes narrowed in concentration. He kept his posture relaxed but his ears tuned to every detail. The snippets of information he overheard were valuable, painting a vivid picture of the unrest and devastation caused by the Urgals' raids.

It wasn't long before one soldier, who seemed about Eragon's body size, exited the bar alone. Eragon's eyes followed him, his heartbeat quickening.

He stood, blending seamlessly into the crowd as he trailed the soldier through the streets of Gil'ead, keeping a safe distance, ready to make his move.

When they passed a deserted alley, Eragon wasted no time. He focused intently on the soldier's mind, his own mental presence like a shadow creeping across an unguarded landscape. The soldier, too preoccupied with his surroundings, or simply having no mental defense training, was completely unprepared for a mental intrusion. Eragon's thoughts slipped effortlessly into the soldier's mind, encountering no barriers or defenses.

In an instant, Eragon had control, the soldier's own thoughts bending to his will without any resistance.

The soldier's eyes glazed over, as Eragon guided the soldier to a secluded alley, subtly adjusting the man's movements to ensure the approach was inconspicuous.

Once in the alley, Eragon shut down the soldier mind as his body slumped forward, unconscious. Eragon exhaled a relieved sigh. He glanced around the quiet alley, the shadows playing across the narrow walls. 'Luckily for me,' he mused silently, 'this soldier had no mental defenses. It saved me the trouble of having to act physically.'

He allowed himself another short moment to look and prob with his mind around the alley cautiously, before swiftly and efficiently removing the soldier's uniform and donning it himself, then dragging the unconscious man behind a stack of crates. The soldier would wake eventually, but by then, Eragon would be long gone.

'Now let me see what you know...' Disguised in the stolen uniform, Eragon closed his eyes, allowing his consciousness to delve deep into the mind of the unconscious soldier at his feet.

He sifted through the man's memories, discarding mundane fragments of daily life and trivial experiences. The man's fears, his ambitions, and fleeting moments with loved ones—all ignored. Eragon honed in on only the crucial information he needed.

Through a series of vivid flashes, the layout of the fortress unfolded in his mind—hallways, staircases, hidden corners, and the daily routines of the guards. He saw the shifts they took, the areas they patrolled, and the protocols they followed. Though none of these memories offered a direct route to Arya's cell, one fact stood out sharply—the fourth floor of the fortress was restricted, off-limits to all but a handful of authorized personnel.

A shiver of anticipation ran through him. 'That is probably where they're holding her,' Eragon thought, a small frown tugging between his eyebrows. 'If I don't find her there, I'll have to grab a higher-ranking officer and pry the information out of him.'

He opened his eyes and exhaled slowly, his mind clear and focused. "Let's get this done," he whispered under his breath. With newfound resolve, Eragon adjusted his stance, preparing for the next stage of his infiltration.

He felt a surge of excitement mixed with trepidation. In a few minutes, everything would hinge on his ability to move fast and unseen to free Arya. And with Saphira and Brom waiting for his signal, Eragon knew that their success—or failure—depended on his actions.

With a final glance around the alley, Eragon stepped back onto the street, disappearing into the crowd as he made his way toward the fortress.

He once again walked through the crowded streets of Gil'ead, his body encased in the uniform he had stolen. His steps were sure, his eyes focused straight ahead, and his mind constantly reminding himself to act like he belonged. 'Confidence,' he thought to himself. 'Walk with confidence, act as if you belong and no one will question you.'

His stolen soldier's uniform fit snugly around his muscular frame, the stiff fabric barely hindering his natural grace. Every now and then, he forced his shoulders to relax and reminded himself to breathe steadily. He couldn't afford to look nervous.

This was his first time infiltrating into a secure place in both lifetimes, and although he tried to look like he belongs, it was easier said than done...

People were talking, walking, and shouting orders, but none paid him any mind. The city's aura was tense; everyone seemed to be on edge, which played against him but there was nothing he could do to change that.

'The plan will work,' Eragon mused, his thoughts shifting toward his upcoming task. He quickly left the bustling streets behind and made his way to the fortress's main entrance. The tall gates loomed over him, intimidating yet familiar from his knowledge of the soldier's mind.

He walked past the guards stationed at the front, flashing the stolen pass. They barely gave him a glance, too preoccupied with the unrest and growing tension in the city. Inside the fortress, he kept his pace steady, his eyes darting between the stone walls and dimly lit corridors as he made his way to the second floor.

There, he slipped into the guards' resting quarters. The room was empty at this time of the day, chairs scattered about, and the faint smell of ale and sweat clung to the air. Eragon allowed himself a moment to lean against the cold wall, collecting his thoughts. His heart was racing, though not out of fear but anticipation.

He sent a thought to Saphira. 'I'm in position. It's time for you and Brom to start.'

A moment passed before Saphira's deep, warm voice filled his mind. 'Understood. Stay safe, little one.' Though her words were calm, Eragon could feel the underlying concern in her tone.

Outside the city, Brom stood beside Saphira, his eyes glinting with determination. She turned her large head toward him and said, 'It's time.'

Brom nodded, his old eyes reflecting the weight of the moment. "It's my honor to ride with you to battle, Saphira. Let's remind these fools what it means to face a dragon and a rider."

With a quick and practiced movement, Brom mounted Saphira's back, settling into the saddle with ease. He patted her scaly neck, and she rumbled in response.

Bang~ Swoosh~

Then, with a powerful kick to the ground, Saphira launched herself into the sky. The force of her wings sent a gust of wind rippling through the trees around them as she soared higher and higher.

Soon, they approached Gil'ead. The city, with its stone walls and bustling streets, shrank below them as Saphira circled above.

"Roar!!"

Then, with a mighty roar, she announced her presence. The sound was deafening, a roar so powerful that it shook the very stones of the city. People below screamed in terror, and the once bustling streets descended into chaos.

"A dragon!" a soldier on the city walls screamed, his voice high and trembling with terror. The word seemed to freeze the air for a heartbeat before the panic erupted.

"Take cover!" another soldier bellowed, though his command was nearly lost in the chaos that followed.

"Run for your lives!" someone cried as people scattered like ants, their faces pale with fear.

"Dragons are real?!"

The disbelief hung in the air, but the sight of Saphira's majestic, blue-scaled form soaring above was enough to crush any doubt. The streets became a storm of bodies, civilians shoving past one another in a desperate bid to escape, while soldiers stood rooted to their spot, torn between the instinct to flee and their duty to fight. The city echoed with panicked shouts, feet pounding against stone, and the ever-present roar of the dragon overhead.

Yet, despite Saphira's imposing presence, she was still too young to breathe fire. Only four and a half months had passed since her hatching, and though her roar could shake the city, the flames that dragons were so famous for, remained absent.

Brom, perched on her back, could sense this limitation keenly. He grimaced. They needed more than intimidation—they needed absolute chaos.

Brom's hand instinctively went to the silver ring on his finger, a gleaming artifact imbued with decades of his hard work, a deep reservoir of energy stored for moments such as this. His brow furrowed as he tapped into the ring, feeling the surge of magic course through his veins.

"Zor leava shel brisingr mehupe shel Saphira!" Brom whispered softly in the ancient language, his voice barely audible amidst the wind and the distant cries from below.

The air around Saphira seemed to shimmer, charged with raw power. A sudden heat built up in her muzzle, and then—like a floodgate being released—a stream of fire burst forth from her open jaws. The flames, a brilliant orange-red, shot into the air above the city, stretching over fifteen meters long. The blue sky blazed with color, the fire so bright and hot it almost seemed to set the streets below ablaze.

For a moment, time seemed to stop. The people of Gil'ead stopped running momentarily and stared in awe and terror as the sky burned above them, the flames crackling and twisting in the air like a living thing. The roar of the fire was deafening, and the heat radiated downwards, causing the soldiers on the walls to stagger back, shielding their faces from the intensity.

"It's breathing fire! It's going to burn the whole city! Ruuunn!!" one of the soldiers yelled, his voice cracking with fear as he turned to flee.

"Run! Run for your lives!" shouted another, his armor clanking as he throw his spear aside while he ran.

The streets, which had moments ago been filled with chaos, descended further into madness. Civilians bolted in every direction, pushing and shoving to escape the wrath of the beast circling overhead. Soldiers, their courage faltering, abandoned their posts, leaving their weapons behind as they scattered into the alleys, desperate to find cover from the firestorm they feared would come.

Saphira continued to circle above the city, her majestic form silhouetted against the backdrop of flames. Her wings beat rhythmically, maintaining her height as the fire lit the sky, casting a reddish glow over everything below. Brom, feeling the energy drain from the ring but satisfied with the result, let out a slow breath. The effect had been exactly what they needed—a dramatic display of power, one that would leave the city trembling in fear of the dragon and her rider.

From the sky, they watched as Gil'ead reeled under the weight of their fear, its people left to wonder if their city would be next to burn.

"Roooaaaarrr!!!"

Saphira roared again, before descending upon a watchtower. She landed with such force that the stones beneath her claws cracked and crumbled. Brom stood tall on her back, his eyes blazing intensely. He raised his hand and mumbled a spell under his breath, his voice low but resonant with power.

"Durza!" Brom's magically amplified voice boomed, reverberating off the walls and streets below. "You twisted abomination! Crawl out from your shadows and face me! Let the world be reminded why no Shade has stood against a Dragon Rider a century ago! You freak will learn why your kind once trembled at the sight of our dragons!"

The sheer power of his words seemed to freeze the already panicked citizens in place. Their fear, which had been directed at the dragon circling overhead, now shifted to the name Brom had called out. Even the soldiers, trembling on the battlements, exchanged wide-eyed glances, fear etched into their faces.

"Face me, Shade!" Brom continued, his voice carrying with it the weight of ancient power, daring Durza to appear. "I'm Brom, the Bane of the Forsworn! Come and fight me!"

"Perhaps you fear me, Durza?" Brom taunted, his voice crackling with barely contained mockery. "Do you intend to hide forever beneath Galbatorix's skirt like a frightened child?"

Above the guard tower, Saphira let out a low growl, as if echoing Brom's challenge. The very air felt thick with tension, as though the city itself held its breath, waiting for the Shade's response.

Brom's voice continued to boom through the air, daring Durza to show himself, to stand against the might of the last Rider who had once brought down the Forsworn. His challenge was not just a call to battle—it was a command, an unshakable force that demanded an answer.

Back inside the fortress, Eragon listened intently to the distant echoes of Saphira's roars and Brom's taunting words reverberating through the air. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. 'The plan is unfolding just as expected,' he thought with satisfaction. 'All that's left now is for the wolf to take the bait.'

This was his strategy—draw Durza out of the fortress with insults and the promise of a fight against a Dragon Rider, leaving the path clear for him to sneak inside and rescue Arya.

A crude plan, but not one Durza can ignore in front of the whole city's people as witnesses.

At first, the thought of confronting Durza directly had ignited a fire in Eragon's veins, a reckless urge to prove his strength against the Shade. But logic had quickly tempered his hot-headedness. Brom's warnings echoed in his mind, cautioning him that Shades were not to be underestimated, and he is right.

The memory of reading about Durza in his previous life fleshed through his mind—the way Durza had effortlessly slain the two elves who had guarded Saphira's egg, how he had overpowered and captured Arya with ease.

So why risk everything now by facing him head-on? Eragon believed himself to be strong, but how strong he didn't know... He didn't even know how his strength compared to that of an elf, let alone a Shade. There was no point in taking a fight he wasn't fully prepared for, especially when there was a much safer route.

'Give me another year,' he thought, clenching his fists, 'maybe even a few months to build my strength, train more, and raise my Magic Resistance. Then I won't mind facing Durza one on one—even without Saphira's help.' The thought fueled him, but for now, patience was key.

Minutes passed in tense silence as Eragon remained hidden, the distant chaos growing louder. The fortress shook with the sound of alarm bells ringing urgently, their piercing cries signaling confusion and fear. He could hear the frantic shouts of soldiers, their footsteps echoing through the stone corridors as they rushed toward the walls. Panic was spreading through Gil'ead like wildfire.

Then, amidst the growing storm, Saphira's voice cut through the noise, a soft but firm presence in his mind. 'He's here.' Her tone carried certainty and focus, confirming what Eragon had been waiting for.

Durza had taken the bait.