A/N: I know there are quite a few POV's in this chapter, but it's so certain scenes can be told better from different perspectives.
The mid-morning sun burned harshly over the Burning Plains, the air already thick with dust and the stench of pitch. Horns blared from both sides—Galbatorix's crimson banners surging forward like a bloody wave, the Varden's lines charging to meet them. The ground trembled as thousands charged, Urgals bellowing, soldiers screaming war cries. Catapults groaned; massive flaming boulders arced overhead, crashing into shields and earth, exploding in gouts of fire and splintered wood. The first clash was chaos—steel ringing, arrows whistling, spells flaring here and there.
Two hours in, the field was a slaughterhouse. Bodies piled in heaps, blood soaking the cracked soil. Smoke choked the sky from burning siege engines. I carved through a knot of soldiers, blade singing, but the Empire's numbers pressed on endlessly. Sweat stung my eyes; my arms ached from endless parries.
Three hours now. The sun climbed higher, merciless. I found myself surrounded—twenty of Galbatorix's minions closing in, spears leveled, faces twisted under black helms. My wards flickered; exhaustion tugged at my limbs. One thrust slipped past my guard, grazing my side. I spun, slashing, but there were too many.
Then the sky darkened.
Shorai arrived like thunder, gray wings blotting the sun, Annabeth astride her back. The dragon's roar shook the ground; a blast of flame swept the circle, soldiers screaming as they burned. Annabeth leapt down mid-dive, dagger flashing—precise, lethal. She carved through the remnants in heartbeats, bodies falling like wheat before a scythe.
I stood panting, bloodied but alive. Embarrassment burned hotter than the flames. "Thanks," I managed, voice tight.
Annabeth wiped her blade, gray eyes calm amid the carnage. "No problem. I have no doubt you'll be returning the favor before this is over." With that, she headed to the sky, looking for her husband.
Across the field, Percy and Furnöst were a storm incarnate—sea-blue dragon breathing fire that flashed like lightning, Percy a blur on the ground, Riptide reaping lives. Annabeth and Shorai were fighting next to them, and combined they were an army unto themselves. Eragon and Saphira followed a slower but relentless path, spells shattering ranks and Saphira's fire burning the rest.
The battle raged on, but with them, hope flickered amid the blood.
The sun climbed mercilessly, turning the Burning Plains into a furnace. Four hours into the battle, the field was a graveyard of broken bodies and shattered shields. Smoke choked the air; screams and steel clashed endlessly. I carved through another wave of soldiers, blade weary but sure, wards flickering against stray arrows as I hunted for the remaining spellcasters.
In the distance, Percy and Annabeth were forces of nature. Furnöst's sea-blue flames swept ranks like tidal waves; Shorai's gray fire scorched swathes of enemies. Eragon and Saphira held the center, Brisingr glowing, wards shattering enemy magic. And yet, even though their numbers seemed to be endless, I was noticing more of the Varden's troops than those of Galbatorix.
I broke from a knot of Urgals who were fighting alongside me and spotted enemy magicians on a ridge—two robed figures, minds linked, clearly trying to break through the defenses of one of our magicians. A black bolt arced toward the Varden's flank. I sprinted, leaping bodies, and struck first. Waíse heill! I healed a gash mid-run. Reaching them, my blade sang—throats opened, wards cracked under precise thrusts. They fell before they could even make a sound. The ridge fell quiet as their bodies dissolved into ash.
Panting, I scanned the field—and froze.
King Hrothgar lay amid his Ingeitum guards, axe buried in an Urgal's chest, but a spear through his own. Blood pooled beneath his beard. His eyes stared skyward, sightless. The dwarves roared in grief, forming a ring around their fallen king. My heart clenched—Hrothgar, stubborn and proud, gone.
However, the battle raged on, but grief sharpened my blade. By the time the sun marked two in the afternoon, exhaustion gripped both sides. The plains burned, bodies carpeting the earth. Yet we held.
However, our luck didn't hold for long as another dragon and Rider flew across the battlefield from Galbatorix's forces, causing them to erupt in cheers while the Varden's ranks shuddered with fear.
Eragon's POV
The enemy dragon's roar rolled across the Burning Plains like thunder, a wave of raw terror that buckled knees and froze hearts. Varden soldiers faltered, shields dropping, eyes wide with fear. Even I felt it claw at my mind, but Saphira's fierce presence shoved it back.
Down on the blood-soaked ground, Percy and Annabeth fought like gods descended. Side by side, they carved swathes through enemy ranks—Percy's sword flashing bronze, Annabeth's bone dagger a silver blur. Spells flew from their lips: soldiers collapsed clutching throats as poison coursed through veins, lightning cracked from clear sky, fire erupted in walls that swallowed squads whole. They moved as one, perfect sync, almost beautiful in the carnage.
Annabeth's mind(which I could hear through our connection we had place beforehand) touched Trianna's—the Du Vrangr Gata leader—relaying orders, shifting flanks, predicting enemy moves. The Varden held because of her. Annabeth was also having a lively banter with Percy while they both deystoryed groups of enemies like they haven't a care in the world.
Saphira and I circled above. The red dragon, she growled. It slaughters our allies.
The ruby beast tore through our legions below, flames scorching the earth black, claws rending men like paper. Its Rider—armored, hooded—directed the destruction with cold precision.
We end this, I said. Saphira banked hard, diving toward the chaos.
We healed as we flew—waíse heill mending gashes on our wounds—but it wasn't enough. The red dragon sensed us, wheeling with a bellow that shook the air.
We clashed mid-sky. Saphira met it claw to claw, wings thundering as we steadily rose higher. I hurled spells—brisingr, jierda—but the Rider's wards deflected them. The Rider's mind slammed into mine, piercing needles I could barely deflect
Saphira raked the red's flank; it roared, snapping at her neck. We twisted away, but fire raced over her wing, singing me. Pain erupted briefly before I could heal it. We started spiraling downward, and I had Saphira land on a hill away from the fighting.
The Rider removed his helm.
Murtagh.
My stomach dropped. "No..."
He looked older, harder, eyes cold. "Eragon."
We broke apart, circling warily. Saphira's shock mirrored mine. How?
Murtagh's voice cut across the wind. "Galbatorix. The Twins brought me back, and Thorn hatched for me." At his name, the dragon, Thorn, looked at Murtagh, and they shared a small moment of happiness through their bond. "Thorn and I serve Galbatorix now."
Thornrumbled agreement, his sorrow in his eyes mirroring Murtagh's.
We landed on a charred hill, dragons facing off. Murtagh dismounted, sword drawn. "I don't want this, Eragon. But I have no choice."
I stepped forward, Brisingr ready. "There's always a choice."
He shook his head and laughed bitterly. "Not anymore, Galbatorix stripped us of that luxury a long time ago while you were gallivanting with the elves," he sneered.
We circled, blades raised. The battle raged over the hill, but here it was just us—brothers turned enemies.
Then the sky darkened further.
Two massive shadows swept overhead—Furnöst's sea-blue bulk and Shorai's storm-gray wings with Percy and Annabeth astride them, looking like gods.
Percy's POV
I was knee-deep in the mud of the Burning Plains, surrounded by a dozen enemy soldiers who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. They kept coming in these pathetic little waves, spears shaking, faces pale. One swing of Riptide and three went down. A quick flick of my wrist, a muttered jierda, and another five collapsed, bones snapping like dry twigs. The rest just... cowered.
I paused mid-swing, blade dripping. When did this become normal? I remembered my first real fight—barely twelve, heart hammering, Minotaur horns ready to skewer me like a shish-kebab. I'd been terrified, half-convinced I'd die. Now? I was wiping out dozens with a thought or a word. The power felt... wrong yet gratifying. Too much. Too easy.
Was I just too strong? Was this what the gods felt like—watching mortals scurry, knowing one flick could end them? The thought twisted in my gut. I'd have to talk to Annabeth later. She'd have the answer. She always did.
A magician tried to sneak up behind me. I didn't even turn around—just raised a shield and sent some burning water up his throat that quickly killed him. I sighed. Distractions. I just really wish they would give up quicker; it would make this a lot easier.
I vaulted onto Furnöst's shoulder, and we soared upwards.
He launched, wings beating thunder. From the ai,r the battlefield looked like a painting of hell—smoke, fire, bodies everywhere.
See anything particularly scary-looking? I teased Furnöst.
How about another dragon and two damsels in distress? He commented wryly, showing me where to look.
Eragon and Saphira pinned down by a ruby-red dragon twice their size. The Rider's magic hammered at Eragon's wards; Saphira bled from a dozen gashes.
I perked up instantly. Finally. A challenge.
Our grins were sharp. Let's crash the party.
I reached for Annabeth through the bond. Wise Girl—Eragon's in trouble. Red dragon. Coming in hot.
Shorai's gray wings flashed beside us a second later. Annabeth's voice rang clear in my mind: Can we tag along for the show Oh noble knight?
We all chortled at that until it was time to help out Eragon.
We dove together—two house-sized shadows against the sun. Furnöst slammed into the red dragon's side like a tidal wave; Shorai raked claws across its back. The Rider—a dark-haired guy in black armor—snarled, eyes widening when he saw us.
I leapt off Furnöst, landing beside Eragon. The guy's mind slammed into mine like a buzzing fly. Annoying. I swatted it away without thinking—the recent training still fresh in my mind.
He stumbled, stunned. "Who are you?"
I stepped forward, Riptide humming as I mentally pinned him to the floor. "I'm Percy Jackson. This is my wife, Annabeth Jackson." I paused for a second, relishing the sound of her new name.
Turning to Annabeth, I said, "Doesn't that have such a nice ring to that, it's almost like it was meant to be..."
Way to be subtle Seaweedbrain Shorai responded, adopting Annabeth's nickname for me.
Also, we don't want our guest to think we forgot about him, Furnöst responded, looking pointedly at the rider who was making a desperate attempt to flee. Sighing, I reeled him back in.
"Where were we...? Oh yeah! So why don't you tell your little Galbatorix buddy he's about to lose this war?"
Annabeth didn't wait for his answer. She raised a hand, and the air cracked. The Rider and his dragon were suddenly airborne—hurled backward like rag dolls, tumbling toward their retreating army in a trail of smoke and screams.
Eragon stared at us, panting, blood on his face. Saphira rumbled gratitude.
I offered him a hand up. "You good?"
He took it, shaky. "I... yeah. Thanks."
Annabeth smirked. "Don't mention it. Now let's finish this."
The red dragon crashed into the distance. The Empire's lines wavered as they finally, slowly started falling back, even as the Varden quickly tore down their ranks, stripping the army that had nearly outnumbered them 2:1 into an army of 1:10.
An hour later, the Varden had officially won the war, capturing a few hundred prisoners while most dug pits for the dead, Furnöst and Shorai helping out with that task immensely.
Murtagh's POV
The wind howled past as Thorn and I fled the Burning Plains, blood dripping from his torn wing, my side burning where Percy's bronze blade had grazed me. Behind us, the Varden's cheers rang like distant thunder. I clenched my teeth. Who were they?
Thorn's mind brushed mine, weary but steady.
Those Riders are strong. Too strong.
I agreed with him wearily, knowing that Galbatorix wouldn't care either way. We landed on a barren hill long about ten minutes in, to heal our wounds, using the Eldunari Galbatorix had given us. I whispered the ancient words. Magic flowed—warm, painful, healing. Scars faded, gashes sealed. My own cuts knit shut. But the ache in my chest remained. Not from the wound. From shame.
Galbatorix's pull tightened like a chain around my heart. He'd felt the defeat. The anger rolled through the bond, cold and vast. Come, it commanded. Now.
We flew for a few more long hours. When the black spires of Urû'baen rose against the moon, dread coiled in my gut. We landed in the courtyard; soldiers scattered. I walked the halls I hated, Thorn trailing behind like a wounded shadow.
Galbatorix waited on his obsidian throne, eyes burning like coals. "Why is it that I was told we had lost against these pitiful rebellers?"
I knelt. " We... lost the field."
He rose slowly. "And the new Riders?"
I swallowed even though it did not surprise me he knew of them. "Percy and Annabeth Jackson. They command dragons the size of Glaedr. Their power... it's not of this world."
Galbatorix paled. His hand gripped the throne arm, knuckles white. "Damn them," he hissed. "They always have to ruin everything!"
I stared. He knew them.
"How?" I asked, voice rough, tempting fate for the second time today. "How do you know their names?"
He paced, robes whispering. "They come from a different world. Camp Half-Blood. A place of demigods—children of gods. Percy Jackson, son of the sea god. Annabeth Chase, daughter of wisdom. They fought wars against titans, against chaos itself. I..." He stopped, eyes distant. "I was one of them once. Their friend. Their enemy. They called me Luke Castellan. They watched me die, but how oh very wrong they were. Now begone, this is not for the ears of a Rider who has no understanding of his power."
His sudden anger woke me from his story, and I left, contemplating what he had said.
A/N: Well, that's probably something you guys didn't expect! Anyway, thanks for the support and all the comments! Also, this story will be about 20 chapters, just to let you guys know.