A Song of Scale and Shadow - Chapter - 10

Eragon Dovahsil stirred beneath a thick woolen blanket, his body still wrapped in the pleasant warmth of the feather-stuffed mattress. For a fleeting moment, he believed he was still nestled within the stone walls of High Hrothgar. But then he heard the faint sounds of the village beyond—the bark of a dog, the clatter of wooden wheels over cobblestones, and the murmur of human voices. His eyes opened to the slanted wooden ceiling of the inn at Ivarstead.

He sat up slowly, stretching his arms and taking in the cozy room. The single-paned window let in a soft morning light, and his traveling clothes hung near the stone hearth where a fire had dwindled to embers. A scent of baked bread and sizzling meat wafted up from downstairs, making his stomach growl. But before breakfast, he desired something else—cleanliness.

Eragon made his way downstairs to speak with the innkeeper, a stout, rosy-cheeked woman named Lotte.

"A bath?" she repeated, raising a brow.

"Yes, hot water, if possible," Eragon said, reaching into his coin pouch.

"For a few more septims, we can arrange it. The hearth’s already burning hot in the washroom. I’ll have the water brought in.”

"Thank you. I appreciate it," Eragon replied politely.

Soon, Eragon was soaking in a deep wooden tub, the heat easing the knots in his shoulders. He scrubbed himself clean with a rough cloth and lavender-scented soap that Lotte provided. Afterward, he dried himself with thick linens and donned the new tunic and winter cloak he had purchased the day before—charcoal grey with silver embroidery along the collar, giving him a sharp but humble appearance.

He descended to the main hall, where the scent of roasted mushrooms, scrambled eggs, and fried bread greeted him. Several villagers were already eating, seated at long oak tables. The fire crackled at the hearth, and a bard plucked absentmindedly at a lute in the corner.

Eragon sat down at an empty table, and soon Lotte placed a tray before him—fresh goat cheese, a slab of buttered bread, a small bowl of berry jam, and hot tea sweetened with honey.

He had just lifted his cup when a gruff voice cut through the murmur of the room.

"That your dragon outside?"

Eragon glanced up. A broad-shouldered man stood at the next table, armored in studded leather and bearing a longsword across his back. A jagged scar split his jawline. Two more rough-looking men sat behind him, also armed—mercenaries, no doubt.

"Yes," Eragon said evenly, "her name is Saphira."

Murmurs spread quickly. A young woman at the far table gasped.

"Then you're the reason the world’s in turmoil," the mercenary growled. "Dragons are burning the western holds. You and your kind brought back the age of fire and death."

"I'm not one of them," Eragon said, setting down his cup. "Saphira is not a threat to your people."

"Lies." The mercenary took a step forward. "Every beast with wings and breath of fire is a curse upon Tamriel. And you... you’re a dragon-tamer? A servant of Alduin. You should be hunted like the rest."

Eragon stood slowly, calm and composed. "I have no quarrel with you or your village. If you don’t want trouble, let me eat in peace."

But the mercenary’s hand went to his sword.

"Then let's settle it outside. If you’re no monster, fight me like a man. Or are you just a boy hiding behind dragon wings?"

The room held its breath. A hush fell, broken only by the crackling fire.

Eragon looked him in the eye. "Very well. I accept your challenge—but not to kill. If I defeat you, you leave this place and never threaten me or anyone else here again."

The mercenary sneered. "And when I win, I get your saddle... and your beast."

"You will not win," Eragon said quietly, his voice like steel.

Lotte tried to protest, but the villagers were already standing and whispering excitedly. Some rushed outside to clear a space. Others ran to the outskirts, where Saphira lay curled beside a frozen pond, basking in the weak morning sun. She stirred and opened one brilliant sapphire eye, already sensing her Rider’s tension.



The snow crunched under heavy boots as villagers gathered in a wide clearing just beyond the inn. Some perched atop barrels or fences; others whispered nervously behind gloved hands. All eyes turned toward the two figures stepping into the clearing: the towering mercenary Rollo, and the dragon rider, Eragon Dovahsil.

Rollo stretched his neck with a loud crack, his fur-lined cloak fluttering behind him. The steel of his greatsword glinted in the morning light. It was nearly as tall as Eragon himself, worn from use but deadly all the same.

"You still have time to run, boy," Rollo taunted, circling with fluid grace. "No shame in fear. It's the natural response to death."

Eragon silently unsheathed his sword—the one Master Aldric had gifted him. It was shorter, a single-handed blade with a wolf’s head carved into the pommel. It felt light in his grip, too light compared to the mighty blade Rollo swung with ease. But it was a sword forged with heart, and that meant something.

"I don’t wish to hurt you," Eragon said softly, holding the sword in a steady two-handed grip. His stance wasn’t perfect—his feet uneven, his weight unsure—but his breath was calm. Controlled. Just as the Greybeards had taught him.

"You won’t," Rollo grinned. "You’ll die before you land a scratch."

The crowd gasped as Rollo lunged.

His sword cut through the air in a deadly arc. Eragon leapt aside, barely dodging the blade, the wind from its passage brushing his cheek. Rollo pressed forward, his footwork sharp, attacks flowing like a choreographed dance. It was clear this was a man who’d seen real battles.

But Eragon had something else.

Reflex.

A keen, magical instinct coursed through his body—his awareness heightened beyond ordinary limits. His hands responded before thought. Steel rang against steel as Eragon parried with the side of his blade, sparks flying. His footing was clumsy, but his body was strong—dangerously strong.

"You move like a bear cub," Rollo mocked between blows. "Sloppy. Slow. You—"

Eragon’s sword struck back with sudden force. The blow wasn’t precise, but it was heavy. Rollo stumbled a half-step back, blinking in surprise.

Eragon said nothing.

Another flurry of strikes came. Rollo’s blade slashed down—Eragon sidestepped. A jab—parried. Rollo swept his sword low to knock Eragon off his feet, but Eragon leapt, twisted midair, and drove his smaller blade toward Rollo’s shoulder. The mercenary blocked it, but the strength behind the strike made his knees bend.

The villagers stared, breathless.

"This... this isn’t normal," Rollo growled, circling again. His stance was less confident now. "You’ve got witch-blood in you."

Eragon didn’t respond. His eyes were calm, his breathing controlled. He recalled the words of Master Aldric: “A sword isn’t swung by anger. It’s guided by purpose.”

Rollo lunged once more, shouting. Their swords met with a loud crash—and Eragon planted his feet and pressed forward. Muscles coiled, teeth gritted, Eragon’s strength surged. There was a crack like splitting wood.

Rollo’s sword snapped in two.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as the broken steel clattered to the ground. Rollo stumbled back, eyes wide in disbelief.

Eragon stood before him, his chest rising and falling, blade lowered.

"It’s over," he said simply.

Rollo stared at him for a long moment, shame reddening his cheeks. Then, with a grunt, he dropped the hilt of his broken sword and turned on his heel.

"I was wrong," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Without another word, he marched through the crowd, his two companions scrambling to follow. The villagers parted for him, silent.

Saphira let out a low rumble from her place by the pond, her wings slightly unfurled. She had watched everything.

Eragon turned to the watching villagers.

"I mean no harm to you," he said. "Saphira and I are travelers—nothing more. We’ll be gone by tomorrow."

Lotte, the innkeeper, stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. "Stay as long as you need, lad."

And slowly, the villagers began to nod—some in awe, others in newfound respect. The whispers faded into quiet conversation as the crowd dispersed.

Eragon sheathed his sword and walked toward Saphira, her scales shimmering in the morning frost. She bowed her head low, and their thoughts met in silence.

You fought with honor, little one, she said warmly.

And you watched like a proud mother, he teased.

She snorted, a small puff of flame escaping her nostrils.



The clang of hammer on steel echoed through the crisp morning air as Eragon approached the village blacksmith’s shop. The structure stood stout and sturdy, its timbered walls dusted with soot and heat seeping from the open forge. Sparks danced like fireflies above the anvil where a broad-shouldered Nord worked with practiced ease.

Eragon stepped into the smithy’s threshold, holding the battered sword Aldric had once gifted him. The weapon bore scars from the duel with Rollo—nicks, warps, and a slight bend near the edge where steel had collided with steel.

The blacksmith looked up. A face weathered by heat and time broke into a toothy grin. “Ah, you must be the dragon boy,” he said, brushing his calloused hands on his apron. “I saw you yesterday. Took on Rollo, eh? Bastard had it coming.”

Eragon inclined his head respectfully. “My name is Eragon. And yes, I suppose he did. My sword didn’t come through as well, though.”

He held the weapon out.

The smith took it, examining its edge and balance with a critical eye. “Hmph. Good craftsmanship. Old, but solid. You’ve got yourself a fine blade, but it needs more than a hammer tap or two. That’s a few hours of work, at least.” He looked Eragon in the eye. “Name’s Torek, by the way.”

“Torek,” Eragon repeated. “Can you fix it?”

“I can.” Torek’s gaze drifted toward the glowing forge. “But materials are scarce these days. Iron shipments have stopped. And the last batch of ore we got… well, let’s just say it was barely worth smelting.”

“What happened?” Eragon asked, frowning.

Torek sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. “The mine—up the slope past the treeline—used to be full of good iron. We sent miners every week. But two moons ago, the men started coming back with stories.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Strange creatures in the dark. Pale-skinned things that shimmer and vanish. Lights that moved on their own. One miner swore he heard voices whispering to him from the walls.”

Eragon’s brow furrowed. “Spirits?”

“Maybe,” Torek muttered. “Or something worse. Whatever it is, it’s got the miners spooked. None of them’ll go near the place now.”

“And you want me to clear it?”

Torek chuckled, a deep rumble like shifting rock. “I saw you take down Rollo with a half-broken blade and no armor. And your dragon’s been keeping the wolves away from our livestock for two nights straight. You’ve got the strength—and the honor. I’m not asking for charity. You help us reclaim the mine, and I’ll fix that sword and throw in a proper set of armor. Good steel, not some hide-wrapped bandit scraps.”

Eragon considered it. His sword was all he had from Aldric—he didn’t want it to break in the next fight. And he had no armor at all. The road ahead would be long and dangerous.

“Alright,” Eragon said at last. “I’ll do it. But I’d like to go as soon as possible.”

Torek nodded and gestured toward the forge. “Give me a bit to heat the blade and reinforce the edge. You’ll need it sharp before heading in. Come back before dusk. And if you can—don’t go alone. That mine’s no place for pride.”

Eragon gave a slight smile. “I have Saphira.”

The blacksmith blinked, then burst into laughter. “Right. The dragon. I forget you travel with a storm on wings.”

As Eragon left the smithy, the sword still in Torek’s hands, he felt the weight of a new task settle on his shoulders. Whatever lurked in that mine—ghost or beast—it would be another trial to prove himself in this strange new world.

He looked toward the distant mountains, the clouds dark and low above their peaks.

“I hope you’re ready,” he whispered to the wind.

And somewhere far above, Saphira circled the village, her sapphire scales glinting like stars in the morning sun.