A Song of Scale and Shadow - Chapter - 13

The flames from Eragon’s last spell still lingered on the ancient stone, casting flickering shadows along the carved walls. The two slain draugr lay crumpled at his feet, and a strange, heavy silence settled over the chamber. Tolfdir adjusted his robes, his eyes still darting about warily.

“That amulet… the vision… and now this,” he murmured, half to himself. “We must press on, Eragon. Something is calling us deeper.”

Eragon nodded, wiping his blade clean and re-sheathing it. He could still feel the residual pull of the Saarthal Amulet around his neck—it throbbed faintly in time with his heartbeat. Saphira’s presence stirred in the back of his mind, silent but watchful, her mind linked to his through their ancient bond. She too sensed the strange energy growing stronger with each step.

They descended through another hallway, its walls lined with tombs sealed for centuries. A few had crumbled with time, revealing bones and ancient armor long turned to rust. The passage eventually opened into another burial chamber. Dust danced in shafts of pale light, and broken urns littered the floor.

As they stepped forward, three more Draugr Deathlords burst from their crypts, snarling in ancient tongues. Eragon reacted immediately—his training and Saphira’s instincts guiding him. He conjured a protective ward in front of Tolfdir and unleashed a wave of fire at the nearest undead. It caught flame, stumbling backward, but the second one charged with a rusted greatsword aimed for Eragon’s chest.

He met it with a clash of steel. The force nearly knocked him off balance, but he rolled to the side and countered, his blade slicing across its torso. A third Draugr raised a spell to summon frost—but Tolfdir, eyes glowing with sudden fury, struck it down with a blast of lightning.

The chamber fell quiet again.

Tolfdir lowered his hand, breathing hard. “You’re handling yourself quite well.”

“I’ve had… good training,” Eragon said quietly, though he didn’t elaborate. Memories of Master Aldric’s words rang through his mind.

They proceeded deeper still. The air became colder, heavier—as if magic itself weighed on their chests. Eragon’s boots crunched over gravel and old bones. They finally reached a sealed door of immense size, guarded by a puzzle-lock of rotating stone rings. Eragon studied the mechanism, noticing the ancient runes and animal symbols engraved upon it.

“Let me,” he murmured, placing his hand on the lock. Saphira whispered a thought in his mind: “Look to the rings above the door. The answer is always carved in stone.”

And it was. Three faint symbols were etched just above—Owl, Whale, Snake. Eragon rotated the rings carefully, then pushed the central stone.

The door rumbled, groaned, and slowly opened.

The chamber beyond took their breath away.

It was massive—a vaulted, circular room with carvings that pulsed with a soft, blue light. In the center of it all hovered a gigantic orb, suspended in mid-air by invisible magic. It was unlike anything Eragon had ever seen—perfectly smooth, swirling with energy, and glowing faintly like a captured star.

Tolfdir stepped forward, mouth slightly agape. “The Eye of Magnus… by the gods… I had only heard legends.”

Eragon stared in awe. “What is it?”

“No one truly knows. It's said to have been created by Magnus, the god of magic himself. The College has long suspected Saarthal housed something powerful, but this… this is beyond any expectation.”

As they approached, the orb hummed, reacting to their presence. Then, once again, the world shimmered.

Time slowed.

Eragon was pulled from the present once more—and there stood Nerien, the same Psijic monk from his earlier vision. He stood with his arms folded inside his robe, his golden eyes glowing with solemn intensity.

“You’ve found the Eye,” Nerien said. “And with it, the wheel turns.”

“What is it really?” Eragon demanded. “What am I supposed to do?”

“It is a lens,” Nerien answered. “A focus of magical energy. If misused, it could unravel much. Your presence here is not coincidence, Dragon Son. Forces conspire to seize what lies beneath the College. You must be the shield against them.”

Then the vision ended.

Tolfdir was already kneeling by the base of the orb, completely unaware of what Eragon had seen.

“What did it show you this time?” the old man asked without looking up.

“A warning,” Eragon said slowly. “About danger. Something—or someone—wants to take the Eye. We need to get back to the College.”

“Yes,” Tolfdir agreed, rising to his feet. “We need to inform Mirabelle and the Arch-Mage at once.”

They stepped away from the orb, leaving its cold light pulsing in the heart of Saarthal.

As they exited the ruin, Saphira swooped down from the sky, her blue scales gleaming under the northern aurora. She landed beside Eragon, eyes narrowing toward the ruins behind him.

“There’s something very old in that place,” she said into his mind. “Something that watches.”

Eragon nodded, climbing into the saddle. “And it’s only the beginning.”



The wind howled over the broken cliffs of Winterhold as Eragon stepped out of the Arch-Mage’s quarters, the thick wool of his new cloak fluttering against the bitter chill. Snow crunched under his boots as he made his way through the courtyard toward a tall arch carved with runes of learning and lore. Beneath it sat the Arcanaeum, the College’s ancient and revered library.

Inside, the temperature shifted drastically. Warm candlelight flickered across shelves that stretched high into the vaulted ceiling, stacked with dusty tomes, scrolls, and parchment records older than most empires. The scent of old leather and alchemical ink filled the air.

At the heart of this maze sat Urag gro-Shub, the Orcish librarian whose piercing yellow eyes lifted from a heavy volume as Eragon approached.

“You’re the new one,” Urag grunted, closing his book with a thump. “Dovahsil, they’re calling you. The Dragon Son.”

Eragon nodded politely. “I’ve come about the stolen books—the Arch-Mage said you’d know more.”

Urag leaned forward, resting his meaty green arms on the desk. “Three of them. Rare volumes—part of our protected collection. Taken by a former student, a fool named Orthorn, who ran off to join a nest of rogue mages holed up in Fellglow Keep. They’re playing with things they don’t understand. Necromancy, soul-binding… vampires.”

“Vampires?” Eragon asked, voice quiet but tense.

“They keep them locked up. Use them for twisted experiments. You'll see what I mean soon enough.”

“I’ll get the books back,” Eragon said firmly. “Do you know the way?”

Urag snorted and slid a parchment map across the table. “Southwest of here. Through the mountains and past the old barrows. Take care—you’ll be walking into a den of wolves wearing robes.”

Eragon tucked the map into his satchel and gave a respectful nod. “Thank you, Urag.”

“Just bring the books back intact,” the Orc called after him. “And don’t get eaten.”


The wind had picked up again as Eragon mounted Saphira, her gleaming sapphire wings unfurling with a low growl of anticipation.

“Fellglow Keep,” he told her aloud, sliding into the saddle. “Time to see how dangerous these rogue mages really are.”

“Then hold tight,” Saphira said with amusement, lifting into the sky like a thunderclap.


The journey took less than an hour by air. From above, Fellglow Keep looked like a scar on the snowy hills—a broken fortress wrapped in bramble and fog. Saphira circled once before landing on a distant ridge, well out of sight. She couldn’t follow inside, but they both knew she’d be watching through their mind-link.

Eragon crept to the entrance, his sword sheathed but his fingers twitching with restrained magic. A pair of guards in worn robes patrolled lazily, their staffs glowing faintly with energy. Eragon didn’t give them a chance to react.

With a whisper of the ancient tongue, “Thrysta vindr!”, a burst of wind magic knocked the first guard into the wall. The second raised his staff, but Eragon's hand shot out, flames erupting and engulfing the mage in a scream and a fall.

The doors of the Keep creaked open.


Inside, Fellglow Keep was alive with dark energy. The halls were lit by cold magefire, and the stench of rotting cloth and alchemical reagents clung to the air. Eragon passed shattered bookcases, alchemy tables cluttered with bone fragments, and cages—many cages.

The groan of something inhuman echoed from a side chamber. Eragon pushed the door open and stopped.

Six vampires, their bodies gaunt and their eyes burning red, sat in iron cages. Some hissed. Others simply watched him with unreadable expressions.

“Should I let them out?” Eragon whispered aloud, uncertain.

“They’re victims,” Saphira spoke through their bond. “But dangerous. Choose carefully.”

He hesitated, then pulled the lever. The cages clanged open—and the vampires surged out.

They didn’t thank him. They didn’t speak. But they didn’t touch him either. One snarled and bolted toward the hallway. The others followed, like unleashed wolves seeking vengeance on their captors.

“Good luck,” Eragon murmured, and continued on.


Deeper inside, in a chamber surrounded by bookshelves and locked cells, he found a young Altmer man pacing behind bars. Orthorn.

“You’re not one of them!” Orthorn cried out. “You’re here for the books, aren’t you?”

Eragon nodded. “Urag sent me.”

“Oh thank the stars! I—I took the books, yes, but only because I thought I could learn more on my own! I didn’t know they’d start using necromancy and vampires!”

“Where are the books now?”

“Taken by their leader. A woman named The Caller. She’s deep in the sanctum. I can help you get there.”

Eragon studied him. Orthorn looked weak, gaunt, but sincere. “Fine,” he said. “But stay behind me.”

Eragon opened the cell.

“By the Nine, thank you! I can summon flame atronachs. I won’t be a burden!”


The duo pushed forward. More necromancers lay in wait—summoning frost spells, shock wards, and skeletons—but Eragon’s blade and spells carved a path through them. Orthorn, for his part, stayed close, hurling fire at enemies and panicking often. But he survived.

Finally, they stood before a large door reinforced with runes.

“She’s inside,” Orthorn whispered. “You go ahead. I’ll… wait here.”

Eragon stepped through.


The chamber beyond was circular, its domed ceiling supported by pillars shaped like frozen flames. At the center stood The Caller, her long violet robes trailing behind her, a circlet of glowing gems resting on her brow. On the pedestal beside her lay the three stolen books, untouched, reverently placed.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said coldly. “The College sends a Dragon Son to retrieve their baubles. How quaint.”

“They’re not yours to keep,” Eragon said, stepping forward, hand resting on his sword. “Stand down.”

The Caller’s laugh was musical, but full of malice. “You think me a simple thief? These books contain secrets the College fears. I will not surrender them to their ignorance.”

“Then I’ll take them by force.”

“So be it.”

She raised her arms. Two massive Frost Atronachs rose from summoning circles, howling as they formed, their ice-glimmering fists swinging like battering rams.

Eragon dashed forward.

He ignored the atronachs. She was the key.

His first strike missed as she teleported across the room. One atronach smashed a crater into the stone where he’d stood. Spinning, Eragon loosed a firebolt at the Caller. She hissed, deflecting it, but his follow-up blade strike caught her side.

“Your magic is raw, boy!” she spat. “But you will learn fear!”

Another teleport—and then a blast of frost magic. It coated Eragon’s shoulder in ice. Gritting his teeth, he powered through it. With a roar, he lunged, sword flashing in the dim light.

This time, he caught her throat.

She gasped, eyes wide with shock as her magic faltered.

With a final blow, the Caller collapsed, her conjurations shattering with a screech.

The silence returned.

Eragon breathed hard and stepped to the pedestal. The books gleamed with runic covers:

Night of Tears

The Last King of the Ayleids

Fragment: On Artaeum


He took them gently and turned to leave.


Back at the College, Urag greeted him with an unreadable look.

“You got them back,” he said, examining the volumes. “Untouched. Impressive.”

“I had help,” Eragon admitted. “From a prisoner there.”

“Doesn’t matter to me. What matters is these are back where they belong.”

Urag handed him a stack of other tomes. “Your reward. Knowledge. Use it.”

Eragon flipped one open and saw the ancient runes dancing beneath his fingers. He smiled.

And as he turned to leave the Arcanaeum, a voice echoed from the stone:

“The Eye watches. And the time draws near.”

Good Intentions had begun.