In Eragon as a Mage

Winter's icy grip had finally begun to loosen its hold on the Spine. The heavy snows melted into trickling streams that carved paths down the mountainsides, and the skeletal trees showed the first hints of budding leaves. But the promise of spring's renewal was not mirrored in Leo.

For weeks now, he'd been fighting an unrelenting fatigue. No matter how long he slept, he woke with a heaviness in his limbs and a fog clouding his thoughts. The vibrant energy that had once propelled him through the wilds seemed to have been drained away, leaving him struggling to keep up with the simplest of tasks.

He adjusted the strap of his quiver, glancing up at the sky. The sun hung low over the horizon, its pale light casting long shadows through the trees. He hadn't caught anything yet, and he was starting to wonder if he had the energy to.

The necklace rested against his chest, its familiar weight a constant reminder of its presence. He'd started to suspect it was the source of his exhaustion, though he couldn't explain how or why. Yet, the idea of removing it filled him with an unshakable unease, as though it had become a part of him now.

He crouched low, scanning the ground for tracks. The forest was quieter than usual, the animals still wary after the long winter. He followed a faint trail deeper into the woods, but his mind wandered as he moved.

The silence was broken by the distant sound of crunching snow. At first, Leo thought it might be an animal, but the rhythmic beat of boots quickly dismissed that notion. Curious, he climbed a small rise to get a better view.

Through the thinning trees, he saw them—a line of traders marching along the forest road toward Carvahall. Their wagons creaked under the weight of goods, and their cloaks were dusted with the remnants of late snow.

Leo frowned, his weariness momentarily forgotten. The traders were late. Very late. They should have arrived weeks ago, just as the first signs of spring began to emerge. Instead, they were only now making their way toward the village.

He watched them for a moment, his sharp eyes noting their tired expressions and the way they walked with a hurried, almost nervous energy. Something was off.

He stood and turned back toward home. The hunt would have to wait. He needed to speak with his father's old friend, Morne. If anyone would have answers, it would be him.

By the time Leo reached the cabin, the sun had begun its descent, casting a golden glow over the forest. He hung his bow on the wall and set about preparing for the journey to Carvahall. If the traders had arrived late, there was a reason for it—and Leo had a nagging feeling that it wasn't a good one.

As he packed his things, the necklace pulsed faintly against his skin, sending a wave of warmth through his chest. He paused, his hand resting on the strap of his satchel.

"What are you trying to tell me?" he muttered, though he knew better than to expect an answer.

The fatigue weighed heavier on him than ever, but Leo shook it off. There were too many questions to ignore, and if the necklace wouldn't give him answers, he'd have to find them on his own.

Tomorrow, he'd head to Carvahall. Something was stirring, and Leo intended to find out what it was.

The next morning, Leo slung his satchel over his shoulder and stepped out into the crisp air of early spring. The forest was alive with the sounds of melting snow dripping from branches and the distant calls of birds. Despite the renewed vitality of the world around him, Leo felt the ever-present weight of exhaustion clinging to his limbs.

The journey to Carvahall was uneventful at first, though his mind wandered as he trudged along the familiar paths. The late arrival of the traders still gnawed at him, and his unease only grew as he neared the village.

The sun hung low on the horizon when he reached the outskirts of Carvahall. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the faint hum of activity reached his ears as villagers bustled about their daily routines. Leo made his way toward Morne's tavern, his thoughts heavy with the news he carried.

Pushing open the creaking door, Leo stepped into the warmth of the tavern. The familiar scent of roasted meat and ale greeted him, along with the murmur of voices. Morne stood behind the bar, wiping a tankard with a cloth, his sharp eyes flicking up as Leo entered.

"Leo!" Morne called, a broad smile breaking across his face. "You've been away all winter. Thought you'd disappeared into that cursed Spine for good."

Leo forced a small smile and approached the bar. "It's good to see you, Morne."

Morne's smile faltered as he studied Leo's face. "You look tired, boy. And you've got that look about you—like there's something weighing on your mind."

Leo hesitated, his hand unconsciously brushing against the necklace beneath his shirt. "There is," he admitted quietly. "My father… he's gone. He passed at the start of winter."

Morne froze, the tankard slipping from his hands and landing with a dull thud on the counter. "Gone?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "By the gods, Leo, I'm sorry. I had no idea."

The room seemed to quiet as those nearby overheard the news. Morne rounded the bar and placed a comforting hand on Leo's shoulder. "Your father was a good man. Hard as stone, but with a heart to match. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Leo said softly, his throat tight.

Before the moment could linger, a sharp voice cut through the air.

"Bah! The damned Spine!"

Leo turned to see Slown, the grumpy butcher, glaring at him from his seat near the fire. The older man's face was red, and his voice was thick with irritation. "That cursed place takes more than it gives. Always has, always will. People who live up there should stay there and not drag their bad luck down here!"

"Slown," Morne snapped, his tone sharp. "Have some respect. The boy just lost his father."

Slown snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "Respect? The Spine doesn't deserve respect. It's nothing but death and misfortune. Mark my words, anyone who spends too long up there is bound to bring trouble."

Leo clenched his fists, his exhaustion giving way to a spark of anger. "My father was no trouble to anyone," he said evenly, though his voice carried an edge. "He lived his life providing for me and trading fairly with this village."

Slown scoffed but didn't press further, muttering under his breath as he turned back to his drink.

Morne patted Leo on the shoulder and guided him to a seat at the bar. "Ignore him, lad. He's bitter as old stew and twice as sour."

Leo nodded, though Slown's words lingered in his mind. "I didn't just come to share the news," he said, lowering his voice. "I saw the traders coming late this year. Something feels… off."

Morne frowned, his expression darkening. "Late traders? That's not like them. What else did you notice?"

"Nothing specific," Leo admitted, "but they seemed nervous, like they were running from something."

Morne leaned in closer, his voice a low rumble. "The Spine isn't the only place trouble brews, lad. Keep your ears open. Things aren't as quiet as they seem."

Leo nodded, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as unease crept back into his thoughts. Whatever was happening, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was only the beginning.