In Eragon as a Mage

The morning was brisk as Leo and his father set off from the clearing, the loaded wagon creaking under its weight as it rolled over the uneven forest path. The Spine was alive with the sound of rustling leaves and distant bird calls, the familiar backdrop to their yearly trek to Carvahall.

Leo walked alongside the wagon, his bow slung across his back and his sharp eyes scanning the trees. His father held the reins, guiding their sturdy mule, Bramble, as it pulled the cart forward with determined strides.

"Keep an eye on the path ahead," his father said, his calm voice breaking the peaceful quiet. "The rains last week could've washed out parts of the road."

Leo nodded, stepping ahead to scout the way. The journey to Carvahall was one they had made many times before, but the forest always had its share of surprises. Fallen branches, loose rocks, and deep ruts were common hazards, and it was better to catch them early than risk the wagon tipping.

The first few hours passed uneventfully, the only sounds the rhythmic creak of the wagon and the occasional chirp of a bird overhead. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, they reached a narrow stretch of the path that wound through a rocky incline.

It was here that trouble struck. A sharp crack echoed through the air as one of the wagon wheels struck a hidden stone and splintered. The wagon lurched violently to one side, and Leo scrambled to steady the load as his father pulled Bramble to a stop.

"Damn it," his father muttered, climbing down from the wagon to inspect the damage. The wheel was cracked clean through, the iron rim bent from the impact.

Leo crouched beside him, frowning as he examined the break. "Can we fix it?" he asked, already scanning the area for any sturdy branches that could serve as a brace.

"We'll have to," his father replied, pulling a small toolkit from the back of the wagon. "We're too far from home to turn back, and we can't leave the cart here."

Together, they worked to repair the wheel. Leo gathered branches and stripped them of bark while his father hammered them into place, reinforcing the broken spokes. It was slow, grueling work under the midday sun, and by the time they were finished, their hands were raw and their faces streaked with sweat.

"It'll hold for now," his father said, standing back to inspect their makeshift repair. "But we'll need to be careful. No more sharp turns or sudden stops."

Leo nodded, helping to secure the load once more before they set off again. The delay had cost them hours, and the shadows were growing long by the time they reached the outskirts of Carvahall.

The village was a welcome sight after the long day, its warm glow visible through the trees as they approached. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the distant hum of voices carried on the evening air.

"We'll stay at Morne's tonight," his father said as they guided the wagon into the village square. "We'll unload the furs in the morning."

Leo nodded, his stomach growling at the thought of a hot meal and a warm bed. They pulled the wagon to a stop outside Morne's tavern, the familiar sign creaking gently in the breeze. The tavern was a simple, sturdy building with a thatched roof and a stone foundation, its windows glowing invitingly in the fading light.

As they entered, the comforting smell of roasted meat and fresh bread greeted them, mingling with the chatter of the patrons gathered around the fire. Morne, the burly tavern keeper, looked up from behind the counter and greeted them with a broad grin.

"Well, if it isn't the trappers from the Spine!" he boomed, his voice carrying over the din. "What brings you to my humble establishment this fine evening?"

"The usual," Leo's father replied with a faint smile. "A room for the night and a meal to fill our bellies."

Morne chuckled, grabbing two mugs from the counter. "You've come to the right place. Sit yourselves down, and I'll have the stew out in no time."

They found a table near the fire, its warmth seeping into their tired limbs as they settled in. Leo glanced around the room, his sharp eyes taking in the familiar faces of the villagers and the travelers passing through.

As Morne brought out steaming bowls of stew and fresh bread, Leo couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. The journey had been long and fraught with challenges, but they had made it. Tomorrow would bring its own set of tasks, but for now, they could rest and enjoy the comforts of the village.

Leo glanced at his father, who was quietly eating his stew, his expression calm and steady as always. The man rarely spoke more than necessary, but his actions spoke volumes. He had taught Leo the value of hard work, perseverance, and quiet strength—lessons that Leo carried with him every day.

As the fire crackled and the night deepened, Leo allowed himself to relax, knowing that tomorrow would bring new opportunities and challenges. For now, he was content to sit by the fire, the weight of the day's journey lifting from his shoulders.

Morne's tavern was alive with the hum of conversation as Leo leaned back in his chair, his bowl of stew nearly empty. The warmth of the fire and the clink of mugs created a lively yet comfortable atmosphere. The day's exhaustion had settled into his bones, but his mind was restless, observing the people around him.

It was then that Leo noticed a familiar figure sitting near the hearth. Eragon. The boy sat with his elbows on his knees, his dark hair slightly unkempt, listening intently to an elderly man who occupied the central chair near the fire.

Leo's curiosity piqued. Eragon wasn't the kind of boy to sit idly and listen unless something truly held his interest. The man he was listening to—Brom, the village's storyteller—had a reputation for weaving vivid tales that enthralled listeners of all ages.

Leo excused himself from the table where his father sat nursing a mug of ale and drifted toward the small crowd gathered around the fire. He quietly took a spot against the wall, close enough to hear but far enough to remain unnoticed.

"…a time before the Fall," Brom was saying, his voice rich and dramatic, filled with the weight of centuries. "When the Dragon Riders were the protectors of Alagaësia. They were wise, powerful, and just. Their bond with their dragons was unbreakable, their magic unmatched."

The room grew quiet, the chatter dying down as more patrons turned their attention to Brom. Even Morne, who rarely left his post behind the bar, seemed to be listening in.

"What happened to them?" a young boy asked, his voice small but eager.

Brom sighed, leaning back in his chair. His weathered face caught the flicker of the firelight, casting shadows that made him appear even older. "Ah, what always happens when men are given too much power—greed. One among them, a Rider named Galbatorix, turned against his own kind. He sought power not for the good of the people, but for himself."

Eragon leaned forward, his blue eyes wide with fascination. Leo could see the hunger for knowledge etched on his face, the same hunger he often felt when poring over the pages of the compendium.

"Galbatorix and his followers—those traitors we call the Forsworn—brought ruin to the Riders," Brom continued, his voice dropping to a grave whisper. "They hunted them down, one by one, until none were left. The dragons were slaughtered, their eggs stolen. And now, he rules with an iron fist, his empire stretching across the land."

The crowd murmured in hushed tones, some shaking their heads while others simply stared into the fire.

"But what about the dragons' eggs?" Eragon asked, his voice breaking through the quiet.

Brom turned his sharp gaze to the boy, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. "Three remain, hidden by the king himself. They are guarded zealously, for Galbatorix fears what might happen if a new Rider were to rise."

The old man's words sent a shiver down Leo's spine. He couldn't help but think of the compendium in his pack, its secrets still unfolding. A part of him wondered if it held knowledge about the Riders, about the dragons and the magic they once wielded.

"What would happen if someone found one of those eggs?" Eragon pressed, his curiosity unrelenting.

Brom's lips curved into a thin, knowing smile. "That, my boy, is a tale for another time."

The crowd groaned in disappointment, but Brom waved them off with a gruff chuckle. "Stories are like fine wine—they must be savored, not gulped all at once. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've had enough storytelling for one evening."

As Brom rose from his chair, the crowd began to disperse, conversations picking up once more. Eragon remained seated by the fire, his gaze distant as he turned Brom's words over in his mind.

Leo approached him, leaning casually against the wall. "You seemed pretty into that," he said, his voice light.

Eragon glanced up, startled at first, but then relaxed when he saw it was Leo. "I've heard stories about the Riders before," he admitted. "But never like that. It makes you wonder what the world was like before Galbatorix."

Leo nodded, his own thoughts drifting to the compendium and the secrets it guarded. "It must have been different. Better, maybe."

"Do you think Brom's right?" Eragon asked, lowering his voice. "That someone could still become a Rider if they found one of the eggs?"

Leo hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Anything's possible, I suppose. But if the eggs are as well-guarded as Brom says, it wouldn't be easy."

Eragon frowned, his expression thoughtful. "Still… it's nice to think about. A world where the Riders came back and made things right."

Leo didn't reply, his gaze fixed on the fire as his mind churned with thoughts of magic, dragons, and the mysteries still waiting to be uncovered.