The gates of Dras-Leona groaned like a dying beast as they shattered under the combined assault. Eragon's ancient language spells cracked the iron reinforcements, while Percy's summoned waves from Leona Lake hammered them like a tidal battering ram. I stood at the forefront with the Varden's vanguard contributing with more additional spells while assesing the situation. The air reeked of mud and smoke, the church's twisted spires looming overhead like accusing fingers.
"Charge!" Nasuada's voice rang out from her command post as the gates fell, amplified by some spell or another. Roran led the first wave, his hammer swinging in wide arcs, but Percy and I were right behind, Furnöst and Shorai circling above with Saphira. The dragons' roars shook the walls, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the stone.
We poured through the breach like a flood. Imperial soldiers met us in a clash of steel and screams—hundreds of them, pouring from side streets and barricades. Pandemonium erupted instantly. Arrows whistled past my ear; I deflected one with a quick ward Arya had taught me, the air shimmering as the shaft bounced away. Percy was a blur beside me, Riptide flashing in deadly arcs, water coiling around him like living armor.
"Annabeth, left flank!" he shouted over the din.
I spun, my cap of invisibility already on—wait, no, I'd left that back in our world. Here, I relied on wits and the merged magic buzzing in my veins. A squad of twenty soldiers charged us, spears leveled. I muttered a Greek incantation mixed with the ancient language—something experimental Angela had suggested—and the ground beneath them rippled like water, turning to quicksand. They sank to their knees, flailing, as Percy blasted them with a pressurized jet from his palm, knocking them flat.
But that was just the start. The streets widened into a plaza, and that's where the real horde waited. Hundreds—maybe a thousand—warriors swarmed from the cathedral's shadows, priests in black robes chanting dark hymns that made my skin crawl. They weren't just soldiers; some wielded twisted magic, shades of red energy crackling from their hands.
"Percy, we can't let them surround us!" I yelled.
He grinned that reckless grin of his. "Then let's not."
We dove in together. It was insane—waves of enemies crashing against us like a storm tide. Percy summoned a vortex of water from the nearby lake, pulling it through the air in a roaring funnel that swept up dozens of soldiers, spinning them like leaves before slamming them into walls. I flanked him, using my architectural mind to spot weak points: a crumbling archway here, a narrow alley there. With a focused spell—"Brisingr!"—I ignited a barrel of pitch nearby, the flames exploding outward in a controlled blaze that cut off a flanking group.
They kept coming. A burly captain swung a mace at my head; I ducked, slashed his legs with my dagger, then followed up with an elven ward that sent his own force rebounding into him, crumpling his armor. Percy was a whirlwind—Riptide extending into a watery whip that lashed out, disarming five at once. He pulled moisture from the air, freezing it into icy shards that pelted a archer line, pinning them down.
"Gods, they're like ants!" Percy grunted, back-to-back with me now. A priest hurled a bolt of dark energy; I countered with a shield of Greek mist, twisting it into illusions that made the man strike his own allies. We pushed forward, bodies piling around us—not dead, I hoped; Percy's style was more about disabling than killing outright, and I'd adopted that here. But the sheer numbers... it felt endless.
I leaped onto a overturned cart for height, surveying the chaos. Eragon was across the plaza, locked in aerial combat—Saphira clashing with Thorn, the red dragon's scales glinting under the smoke-choked sky. Murtagh, Thorn's rider, hurled spells at Eragon, who parried with Brisingr while elves below wove protective barriers. Arya darted through the fray, her sword a silver streak, taking down threats before they could reach the dragons.
But our side of the battle drew the crowd's awe. Varden fighters paused mid-swing to gape as Percy summoned a massive wave that bowled over a hundred soldiers in one go, the water parting around our allies like Moses and the Red Sea. I amplified it with ancient language precision, shaping the wave into spears that pierced enemy shields without harming the innocent. Cheers erupted—not just from our side, but from Dras-Leona's own people peeking from windows.
"Look at them! Gods among us!"
"The sea lord and the wise one— they've come to free us!"
Worship? No. I shook my head, focusing. A group of fifty charged straight at us; Percy earthquakes the ground—borrowed from Poseidon's playbook—cracking the cobblestones and tripping them en masse. I followed with binding vines summoned from hidden seeds in the earth (thanks, Demeter's lingering influence in this merged mess), wrapping them immobile.
More voices rose: "Praise the divine pair! They wield the elements like deities!"
Percy faltered for a split second, his face twisting. "We're not—"
Then it appeared. From the cathedral's depths, a Shade slithered out—another one, like Durza or Varaug, its form a writhing mass of shadows with glowing red eyes. It laughed, a sound like breaking glass, and unleashed a torrent of black tendrils that snaked toward us.
"Percy!" I warned.
He nodded. "Together."
We charged. The Shade's magic clashed with ours—dark bolts meeting Percy's water barriers, shattering into steam. I circled, analyzing: Shades were spirits possessing bodies, vulnerable to light and true names. Angela had briefed us. As Percy distracted it with a hurricane-force gale, pinning it back, I probed its mind—elven training letting me glimpse fragments. "Your name... Varith," I whispered, the true name hitting me like a vision.
The Shade howled. Percy seized the opening, channeling water infused with ancient language fire—steam exploding into scalding mist that burned away its shadows. I struck the final blow: my dagger, enchanted with the name, plunged into its core. Light erupted; the Shade dissolved in a scream, its essence scattering like ash.
The plaza fell silent for a heartbeat. Then erupted in cheers. Varden and civilians alike surged forward, kneeling, chanting. "Gods! Saviors! Worship the sea king and his queen!"
"No!" Percy shouted, sheathing Riptide, his voice cutting through. "We're not gods! Stop that!"
I stepped beside him, heart pounding from the fight, but more from this. "Please, stand up. We're just people—like you. We fight for freedom, not adoration."
A young woman looked up, eyes wide. "But what you did... hundreds fell before you. Magic like legends!"
Percy rubbed his neck, uncomfortable. "Legends are just stories. We're here to help, not rule. No bowing, no praising. Got it?"
I nodded firmly. "Exactly. If you want to thank us, join the fight. Stand with the Varden. But don't put us on pedestals—we'd hate that more than anything."
Murmurs spread, some hesitant, but they rose. Respect lingered in their eyes, but the worship faded into gratitude. Across the way, Saphira landed with a thud, Eragon dismounting, Thorn and Murtagh retreating in the distance—wounded but not defeated, it seemed. He met our gazes, nodding once, the battle's toll etched on his face.
The city was ours, but the war pressed on. And as Percy squeezed my hand, I knew: we'd take the victories, but never the crowns.
A/N: I know that's a really short part; however, I have been writing my own story and wondered what guys would think of it! Here's part of the 1st chapter:
The road stretched for miles, lazily curving between the vast plains, the perpetual flatness of it similar to a map. Soren smiled contentedly as he admired the beauty of it all, especially enjoying the shade of one of the few scattered trees that offered a pleasant retreat from the general vapidity of the plains.
"Come on Soren! The King's letters aren't delivering themselves!" Garrison called out. With a last look at the golden plains against the cobalt blue noon-sky, Soren returned back to the road, where Garrison was waiting with a grain of impatience twinkling in his forest green eyes, accented with a mess of blonde hair that added an extra bit of height to his already tall yet well-built frame.
"Hurry up now," he repeated kindly, first looking to me and then ahead of us, "Looks like we'll be heading to cooler lands in an hour or so." Soren nodded, accepting his statement as from spending so much time on the road, close to 45 cycles, Garrison seemed to have a knack for weather that had proven useful on many different occasions.
"Who are they for now?" Soren asked, moving slightly for a position of greater comfort. After consulting the papers one handed, the other on the reigns, he replied.
"The duke of NAME OF LAND AREA"
"Wasn't he the one having an affair with the king's cousin?" Soren recalled after a moment's pause.
"I believe so, and I feel there is a great chance our letter," at this Garrison held up the letter, "contains some part of the king's wrath." It was then that Gudio reared up like a violent storm, shaking the wagon and causing Garrison to lose the envelope that had been clasped tightly in his hand.
"Dravir!" Garrison swore, using a centuries-old Solvientas swear word. He pulled on the reins and Soren rushed out of the carriage and in the general direction he had seen the letter fly. Garrison followed close behind him, their hurried footsteps accompanied only by the twirling wind and the braying of impatient horses.
"There!" Soren exclaimed upon seeing the envelope resting in a haughty manner against a tree. The sigh of relief was heard from both, and after a triple check that all the other letters were safely stored in their covered wagon, whose sides were bare and plain, making it an unusual mail wagon. While most of the king's mail wagons were proudly emblazoned with the Corvintian coat of arms, this particular wagon did not, as the king preferred secrecy over a traveling group of ten wagons brimmed with soldiers. Armed with this secrecy, and of course, Garrison's partial mastery in the arts of Aetheral, the magic of the mind, their travels were interminably safe.
After a span of an hour or two, the sun had lazily reached its peak, seeming to take a break before it finally struck noon, leading to the nephew and uncle to stop for lunch. After tying the horses, Soren started a quick little fire while Garrison grabbed a pot, seasonings, and some skinned fish they had caught a few days ago. Not long after Garrison worked his wizardry in cooking, the aroma of food was so enticing that one could almost sample the air for a bite.