In Eragon as a Mage

The morning sun streamed through the cabin windows, casting golden light across the worktable where Leo had laid out his materials. The Roc's talons gleamed like polished onyx, their edges so sharp that they could slice through leather without effort. The wood core of mountain ash sat beside them, its pale surface smooth and ready to be shaped. Strands of sinew lay coiled neatly, and Leo's tools were arranged within arm's reach: a small saw, a carving knife, a rasp, and a pot of pine resin for binding.

Leo took a deep breath, steadying his hands. The task ahead wasn't just about crafting a weapon—it was about honoring the hunt and his victory over the Roc. Every piece of the bow needed to fit perfectly, every decision deliberate.

He began with the ash wood, gripping the sturdy plank and inspecting it for flaws. The grain was tight and straight, ideal for a bow's core. Using the saw, he carefully cut the plank to the length he needed, measuring against his own height to ensure it would provide the right balance and draw weight. Once the piece was cut, he took the rasp and began shaping the wood, smoothing the edges and thinning the center where the handgrip would be.

Each stroke of the rasp sent fine shavings drifting to the floor, the sound of scraping wood filling the cabin. Leo worked methodically, his mind focused on the curve he needed to achieve. A good bow wasn't just a tool—it was an extension of the hunter. It had to feel natural in the hand, its weight balanced, its draw smooth.

Once the core was shaped, Leo turned his attention to the talons. He picked up the first one, running his fingers along its wicked curve. The natural arc of the talon was nearly perfect for the bow's limbs, but it would need to be shortened and notched to fit the sinew string.

Using his knife, he began carving into the base of the talon, his strokes precise and deliberate. The material was tougher than he expected, harder than any bone he'd worked with before. The knife's edge struggled to bite into it, and Leo had to pause several times to sharpen the blade.

"It's like carving stone," he muttered to himself, sweat beading on his forehead.

After hours of careful work, the first talon was shaped and notched. He held it up to the light, inspecting the curves and edges, and felt a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn't perfect—nothing ever was—but it would do.

He repeated the process with the second talon, the work just as slow and meticulous. By the time both were ready, the sun had shifted in the sky, casting long shadows across the cabin.

Next came the binding. Leo heated the pine resin over the fire, stirring it until it melted into a thick, sticky paste. He applied the resin to the ends of the ash core and pressed the talons into place, aligning them carefully so the bow would bend evenly. He wrapped the joints tightly with strips of sinew, pulling them taut until the resin seeped through and bound everything together.

The smell of heated pine and sinew filled the cabin as Leo worked, his fingers sticky with resin. He wrapped layer after layer, ensuring the talons were secured firmly to the wood. When he was satisfied, he set the bow aside to let the resin harden, wiping his hands on a rag.

The final step was the bowstring. Leo selected the strongest strands of sinew, twisting them together into a single cord. His father had taught him how to braid sinew for strength, and he worked with practiced ease, his fingers moving quickly as he wove the strands into a taut, durable string. Once the string was finished, he notched it onto the bow, pulling it tight until the wood and talons bent into a graceful arc.

When it was done, Leo stepped back, his breath catching in his throat. The bow was unlike anything he had ever seen. The ash core gave it a sturdy backbone, while the Roc's talons added a fierce, otherworldly elegance. The sinew string glistened faintly in the light, and when Leo drew it back, the bow hummed with tension, as if alive.

He released the string, letting it snap back with a satisfying thrum. A smile tugged at his lips. It wasn't just a bow—it was a symbol of his skill, his determination, and his connection to the Spine.

His father entered the room, wiping his hands on a rag. He paused when he saw the finished bow, his eyes narrowing as he took it in.

"Well," his father said after a long moment, "I'll be damned. That's a fine piece of work, Leo."

Leo's chest swelled with pride at the rare compliment. He held the bow out, letting his father inspect it more closely.

"It's strong," his father said, running a hand along the talons. "And light. You've done well, son. This'll serve you better than anything you could've bought in Carvahall."

Leo nodded, gripping the bow tightly. "I'll test it tomorrow," he said, already imagining how it would feel to loose an arrow from it.

His father clapped him on the shoulder. "You've earned a rest. Come eat—dinner's getting cold."

As Leo followed his father to the table, he glanced back at the bow, now resting against the wall. It wasn't just a weapon—it was a part of him. And he knew, deep down, that it wouldn't be the last time he created something extraordinary.

The first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of gold and pink as Leo stepped outside, his breath visible in the crisp morning air. The Spine loomed in the distance, its peaks dusted with snow, while the forest around the cabin remained quiet, still waking from the night. The bow, newly crafted from the Roc's talons and mountain ash, rested in his hand, gleaming faintly in the early sunlight.

Slung over his shoulder was a quiver of freshly fletched arrows, their shafts perfectly straight, and their tips razor-sharp. Leo had spent hours crafting these to match the strength of the bow. He wasn't entirely sure what to expect; the bow felt alive in his hands, humming with potential every time he touched the string.

He trudged down the path behind the cabin, the crunch of frost-covered leaves beneath his boots the only sound. Fifty meters ahead stood a sturdy oak tree, its thick trunk a perfect target for his first test. He took a deep breath, the cold air sharp in his lungs, and set the quiver down.

Leo nocked an arrow, his fingers brushing against the sinew string. The bow felt heavier than his old one, the draw more resistant, but it was a satisfying weight—a testament to the strength of the materials. As he drew the string back, the talons of the bow seemed to flex slightly, their curved edges catching the light.

The tension in the string was immense, the wood creaking softly as he reached full draw. He could feel the power coiled within the bow, a raw energy that thrummed through his hands and up his arms. For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if he could even control it. But he had crafted this bow, poured his effort and skill into every detail. He wouldn't back down now.

Leo exhaled slowly, steadying his aim. The oak tree stood solid and unyielding, its bark rough and dark against the lightening sky. He adjusted his stance, planted his feet firmly, and released the string.

The arrow shot forward with a sound like a whip crack, disappearing faster than his eyes could follow. A split second later, there was a loud, splintering noise, followed by silence.

Leo blinked, lowering the bow. The arrow had struck the tree dead center, but instead of lodging in the bark, it had punched straight through. A jagged hole remained where the arrow had entered, and as he walked closer, his heart pounding, he found the arrow embedded in the ground several meters behind the tree.

He crouched, pulling the arrow from the earth and inspecting it. The shaft was unscathed, the tip slightly dulled but intact. He glanced back at the tree, the reality of what he'd just witnessed sinking in.

The bow was powerful—too powerful. It wasn't just a weapon; it was something else entirely, something beyond what he had intended. He ran his fingers along the talons, their surface cool to the touch, and felt a faint vibration, almost like a heartbeat.

He straightened, his gaze shifting to the forest beyond the clearing. If the bow could do this to a tree, what would it do to a living creature? The thought made his stomach churn, but he couldn't deny the rush of excitement coursing through him. He had created something extraordinary, something that could level the playing field against even the deadliest threats in the Spine.

Leo spent the next hour testing the bow further, aiming at different targets: fallen logs, clusters of leaves, even the icy surface of a shallow stream. Each time, the bow performed flawlessly, the arrows striking with devastating force. But with every shot, he felt the weight of responsibility growing heavier.

As the sun climbed higher, Leo finally slung the bow over his shoulder and gathered his arrows. The forest was quiet again, but it felt different somehow—like it was watching him, waiting to see what he would do next.

When he returned to the cabin, his father was outside, splitting firewood. He looked up as Leo approached, his gaze lingering on the bow.

"How did it go?" his father asked, resting the axe against a stump.

Leo hesitated, then smiled faintly. "It works," he said simply, though the understatement felt almost laughable.

His father raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Good. You'll need it out here."

Leo nodded, glancing back toward the forest. He couldn't shake the feeling that the bow had changed more than just his hunts—it had changed him. And though he didn't know where this path would lead, he was certain of one thing: the Spine was no longer the same.