Leon stared at the dragon, his expression unreadable.
The storm of divinity around him had quieted, replaced by a cold, unwavering calm.
Eragon's massive, blackened form heaved before him—smoke rising from his wounds, scales cracked like glass after a storm.
The Dragon Lord's words about prophecy still lingered in the air, echoing faintly between the shattered peaks.
Leon tilted his head slightly.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, voice low, almost indifferent.
"But it seems you still have enough energy to run your mouth."
That simple statement struck deeper than any attack.
Eragon froze, his colossal chest rising and falling. His thoughts stuttered as something ancient stirred within him, something buried in the blood of every dragon since the dawn of their kind. Pride.
His pupils dilated as the words carved through his mind like molten iron.
'I, the great Dragon Lord Eragon… the God of Flames… the Divine Son, Wrath… afraid of a human boy?'
