In Eragon as a Mage

Several days passed in a tense haze for Carvahall. The air seemed heavier, the villagers quieter, as if everyone was waiting for the storm to finally break. The strangers, cloaked in their oppressive black, had lingered longer than anyone was comfortable with. Their presence was a stain on the town, their rasping breaths and hidden faces a source of endless unease.

Leo kept his distance, but his ears were sharp, and his mind sharper. He knew they were searching for something—something tied to the king—and he had a sinking suspicion of what it was. The blue-and-white stone Eragon had stumbled upon was more than an innocent trinket, but its true nature remained a mystery.

He hadn't seen Eragon since the boy had trudged home after Horst's warning. For all Leo knew, the lad had done as told and buried the stone somewhere far from prying eyes. He hoped so. Whatever that thing was, it had drawn danger to their doorstep, and danger always left scars.

The strangers spent their days combing through Carvahall, speaking to anyone they deemed suspicious. Their questions were pointed, though vague enough to conceal their true purpose. Leo stayed out of their path, keeping to Morne's tavern and helping where he could.

And then, just as suddenly as they had arrived, the strangers seemed to lose interest.

Leo stood at the edge of the village, his arms crossed as he watched them prepare to leave. Their horses were restless, snorting and stamping in the cool morning air. The two figures moved with the same unsettling grace, their movements fluid and deliberate.

"What do you think they're up to?" Morne asked, coming to stand beside Leo.

"I don't know," Leo said quietly. "But I doubt they're giving up."

Morne grunted, scratching his chin. "Good riddance, I say. They've been nothing but trouble since they got here."

Leo nodded, though he couldn't shake the feeling that their departure wasn't a cause for celebration. The strangers had been thorough in their search, and while they hadn't found what they were looking for in Carvahall, that didn't mean the danger was gone.

He watched as the strangers mounted their horses, their cloaks billowing like shadows in the breeze. They exchanged a few words—too quiet for him to hear—before urging their mounts forward. The villagers who had gathered to watch their departure gave them a wide berth, relief mingling with lingering fear.

As the sound of hooves faded into the distance, Leo let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"They didn't find anything," Morne said, his tone almost disbelieving.

"Maybe," Leo said, his brow furrowing. "Or maybe they think they did."

Morne glanced at him, frowning. "What do you mean?"

Leo didn't answer right away. He couldn't say for sure what the strangers were thinking, but something about their abrupt departure didn't sit right with him. They had been methodical in their search, relentless in their questioning. For them to leave so suddenly suggested they believed they had what they needed—or at least, a lead to follow.

"Just a feeling," Leo said finally.

Morne gave him a skeptical look but didn't press further. "Well, whatever it is, I'm just glad they're gone. The town can breathe again."

Leo nodded absently, his thoughts elsewhere. The strangers might have left, but the unease they brought with them lingered like a shadow. If they truly believed they had found what they were looking for, it was only a matter of time before they acted on that belief.

And if Eragon was still in possession of the stone...

Leo pushed the thought aside. He couldn't protect everyone, couldn't shoulder every burden. But he couldn't ignore the knot of worry tightening in his chest.

For now, all he could do was wait and see what the day ahead would bring.

The village of Carvahall was unusually quiet, the early morning light bathing the buildings in a golden hue. Leo stood outside Morne's tavern, sharpening his knife as the world stirred to life around him. The strangers' departure had left a tense stillness, as if everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Then the silence was shattered.

A commotion rose from the far side of the village, voices calling out in alarm. Leo froze, his knife stilling against the whetstone. He strained his ears and caught snippets of panicked words: "Help him!" "By the gods, what happened?" "Get Horst!"

Leo bolted down the street, his knife slipping back into its sheath. The crowd had gathered near the butcher's shop, their faces pale and wide-eyed. Pushing his way to the front, Leo's stomach twisted at the sight before him.

Eragon stood in the middle of the crowd, his face pale and streaked with soot. His clothes were torn, his hands bloodied, and he was dragging someone behind him—a man, large and heavyset, his body limp and battered.

"Garrow," someone whispered, and the name spread through the crowd like wildfire.

Leo stepped forward, his gaze locking on Eragon. The boy looked up, his eyes wild with fear and desperation. "I need help," he croaked, his voice hoarse. "He's... he's hurt bad."

Leo rushed to his side, helping him lower Garrow to the ground. The older man's face was pale, his breathing shallow. Blood soaked his shirt, and burns marred his arms and chest.

"What happened?" Leo demanded, his hands moving to assess the worst of the injuries.

"They... they came," Eragon stammered, his voice trembling. "The strangers. They came to our farm looking for the stone. I wasn't there... I was hunting. When I got back, the house was on fire, and Garrow was trapped under a beam."

Leo's blood ran cold. "The strangers did this?"

Eragon nodded, his jaw clenching. "They didn't find the stone. I hid it before I left for the hunt."

Leo cursed under his breath, his mind racing. The strangers had turned their attention to Eragon's family, and the boy hadn't even been there to protect them. But why? Was it revenge for defiance, or desperation to find what they sought?

As they worked to stabilize Garrow, Leo's gaze flicked upward, scanning the horizon. His breath caught in his throat as he saw it—a faint shimmer of blue against the morning sky, like a mirage dancing on the edge of his vision.

"What is it?" Eragon asked, noticing Leo's distraction.

Leo shook his head, forcing his attention back to the wounded man before him. "Nothing," he muttered. "Just focus on Garrow."

Morne pushed through the crowd, his face a mix of anger and concern. "Bring him to the tavern," he barked. "We'll lay him down and get him cleaned up."

With Horst's help, they carried Garrow to Morne's tavern, clearing a table to serve as a makeshift bed. The man groaned in pain, his injuries severe. The burns were the worst of it, but there were deep cuts as well, and his breathing was labored.

Eragon hovered nearby, his hands trembling. "Will he be okay?"

Leo hesitated. "I don't know."

"Do you have anything to help him?" Morne asked, his tone sharp.

Leo thought of the compendium back in his cabin, the spells it held that might save Garrow's life. But he knew the price of such magic, and the memory of his father's death was still fresh in his mind.

"I'll do what I can," he said instead, his voice low.

The villagers whispered among themselves, fear and anger mingling in their voices. The strangers had brought destruction to their doorstep, and now the cost was clear.

As the day wore on, Leo couldn't shake the image of the blue shimmer in the sky. Something was coming—something bigger than he could understand. And if the strangers were willing to burn down a farm to get what they wanted, it was only a matter of time before they returned.

For now, all he could do was wait and prepare. The storm wasn't over—not by a long shot.