In Eragon as a Mage

Leo tightened the straps of his pack, preparing to leave Morne's tavern and make the journey back to the Spine. His provisions were packed, his gear inspected and polished, yet a small voice in the back of his mind urged him to linger just a bit longer.

"Don't be in such a hurry," Morne said from behind the bar, wiping down a mug with a practiced hand. The tavern owner's tone was gruff but warm, his words carrying the wisdom of a man who had seen too much. "Traders haven't left yet, and you don't want to chance running into trouble on the roads. Stay here until they're ready to move out. You'll have a safer journey."

Leo hesitated, looking toward the window where a soft drizzle blurred the view of the muddy street. "You sure? I don't want to impose."

Morne waved him off. "You're no trouble. Besides, an extra set of hands around here never hurts."

Grateful for the offer, Leo nodded. "Alright. I'll stay a few more days."

The decision proved to be a wise one. Over the next few days, Leo found himself helping Morne around the tavern—cleaning tables, repairing chairs, and hauling barrels of cider to the cellar. The work kept his hands busy and his mind distracted from the growing unease he felt in the pit of his stomach.

It was on the fourth day that something unusual happened.

The midday sun struggled to break through the clouds as Leo stood outside, splitting firewood behind the tavern. He heard the faint hum of conversation drifting from the marketplace, the usual rhythm of village life punctuated by the occasional laugh or shout. But as he stacked the wood and prepared to head back inside, he noticed the sudden hush that fell over the square.

Curious, he set down the axe and walked to the edge of the building, peering around the corner.

Two strangers stood in the center of the marketplace, their figures draped in long, black cloaks that shimmered faintly in the light. Hoods obscured their faces, and they moved with an unsettling grace, their presence like a shadow cast over the village.

The villagers gave them a wide berth, whispering nervously as they hurried to finish their errands. Even the traders, usually boisterous and lively, seemed subdued in their presence.

Leo's gaze narrowed as he studied the strangers. Something about them felt... wrong. They didn't seem like simple travelers. Their movements were too deliberate, their posture too commanding.

From the tavern door, Morne called out to him in a low voice. "Leo. Get inside. Now."

The urgency in his tone made Leo obey without question. Once inside, he found Morne standing by the window, peering out cautiously.

"Who are they?" Leo asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't know," Morne admitted, his expression grim. "But they're trouble. Mark my words. No good comes from folk like that wandering into a village like ours."

Leo crossed the room and joined Morne at the window, watching as the strangers moved from stall to stall, speaking in hushed tones with the traders. Whatever they were asking for, it clearly made the traders uneasy.

As the day wore on, the strangers continued their quiet search, never raising their voices or causing a scene, yet their presence loomed over the village like a dark cloud.

When evening came and the tavern filled with its usual crowd, the tension was palpable. The villagers spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting toward the door as though expecting the strangers to walk in at any moment.

Morne leaned close to Leo as they worked behind the bar. "If you're smart, you'll stay out of their way. Don't let them see you looking too curious. People who wear cloaks like that—well, let's just say they've usually got the king's coin behind them."

Leo nodded, his unease growing with every passing moment. He couldn't shake the feeling that these strangers weren't here by chance. Whatever—or whoever—they were looking for, it was only a matter of time before they found it.

And somehow, Leo feared he might be caught in their path.

Chapter: Whispers of the Stone

Leo sat in the corner of Morne's tavern, absently polishing the blade of his knife. The tavern bustled with its usual evening crowd, villagers and traders alike seeking warmth and conversation over mugs of cider and ale. Yet, despite the lively atmosphere, there was a distinct edge of unease hanging in the air.

He couldn't stop his mind from wandering back to the strangers in black cloaks. Their presence had unsettled the entire village, and though they had not entered the tavern, their shadow loomed large.

It was as Leo sat there, lost in thought, that a pair of traders settled at the table nearest to him. He wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but their voices carried easily over the hum of conversation.

"They're looking for something that was stolen from the king," one of them said, leaning in close to his companion. "Heard it straight from Ferin. Those two've been questioning everyone they lay eyes on."

"Stolen from the king?" the other trader whispered, his brow furrowed. "What could be so important he'd send men like that to search for it in a backwater like Carvahall?"

The first trader shrugged, his expression dark. "Don't know the whole of it, but they're asking about a blue stone—big as a man's head. Said it's priceless, and whoever has it better hand it over before things get ugly."

Leo's blood ran cold. He froze mid-polish, his grip tightening on the hilt of his knife.

A blue stone.

He didn't need to think twice to know exactly what they were talking about. The "stone" Eragon had found in the Spine, the one they'd thought was some kind of carved gemstone, the one Eragon had tried to sell to the traders.

"Damn," Leo muttered under his breath, his heart hammering in his chest. "I knew it was trouble."

The rest of the traders' conversation faded into the background as Leo's thoughts raced. If the stone was truly as valuable as the king's men claimed, then Eragon was in serious danger. The strangers wouldn't stop until they found it, and they didn't strike Leo as the kind to take no for an answer.

He pushed his chair back, the scrape of wood against stone drawing a few curious glances. Morne noticed him and raised an eyebrow.

"Something wrong, lad?"

Leo shook his head quickly, forcing a calm expression. "Just need some air," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.

Outside, the night was cold and quiet, the chill biting at his skin. He leaned against the wall of the tavern, staring out into the darkness. He felt a knot of guilt twist in his stomach. He'd been there when Eragon had found the stone. 

The door to Morne's tavern creaked shut behind Leo as he stepped onto the main street of Carvahall. The brisk evening air was sharp, carrying with it the faint, earthy smell of wood smoke and damp soil. He pulled his coat tighter around him, his mind churning with thoughts of the strangers. He had barely slept the night before, their looming presence casting an uneasy shadow over the town.

Leo's boots scuffed against the dirt road as he made his way toward the butcher shop. He needed supplies for the coming days—salted meats and perhaps a fresh cut if Sloan was in a decent mood. That, however, was a gamble.

The street was unusually quiet, the few villagers who were out moving quickly, their heads low. Leo scanned the surroundings, his senses on edge. It was then that he heard it—a faint rasping breath, low and guttural, cutting through the stillness like a knife.

He turned the corner, and there it was: one of the strangers, stepping out of Sloan's shop. The figure moved with an unsettling grace, their black cloak flowing as if the shadows themselves clung to them. The hood concealed their face, but the harsh, labored sound of their breathing was unmistakable.

Leo froze, his heart pounding in his chest. The stranger didn't seem to notice him, or if they did, they gave no sign. They moved past him with slow, deliberate steps, the sound of their breath fading as they disappeared down the road.

He let out a shaky breath, his hands clenched into fists. Every instinct told him to turn back, to leave Carvahall and return to the safety of his cabin in the Spine. But he couldn't—something was keeping him here, tethering him to this place and its growing unease.

Pushing forward, Leo passed Sloan's shop, his eyes flicking toward the open door. Sloan was standing behind the counter, his face pale and drawn as he stared after the stranger. Their brief exchange had clearly left its mark.

"Trouble?" Leo asked, stepping inside.

Sloan jumped, his eyes narrowing when he saw Leo. "Nothing you need to worry about," he snapped, though his voice lacked its usual venom.

Leo raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He quickly purchased a few items, ignoring Sloan's curt demeanor, and stepped back outside.

Further down the road, near Horst's forge, he spotted a familiar figure. Eragon stood by the blacksmith, his posture tense as they spoke in hushed tones. The boy's expression was a mixture of frustration and worry, and even from a distance, Leo could tell the conversation was serious.

Curious, Leo approached, keeping his steps light. He stopped just short of the forge, staying out of sight but close enough to overhear their words.

"You have to get rid of it," Horst said, his deep voice firm but not unkind. "Whatever that thing is, it's not worth the trouble it's bringing."

Eragon shook his head, his hands clenched at his sides. "I don't even know what it is, Horst! And what am I supposed to do—just throw it away? What if it's valuable?"

"Valuable or not, it's brought those strangers here," Horst said, his tone grave. "And if they find out you have it..." He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air. "Take it home, Eragon. Hide it. Or better yet, bury it somewhere far from here."

Eragon's shoulders slumped, the weight of Horst's words clearly sinking in. "I'll take care of it," he muttered, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

"See that you do," Horst said, his voice softening. "I don't want to see anything happen to you or your family."

Eragon nodded, then turned and began walking toward the road that led to his farm. He didn't notice Leo standing nearby, his face shadowed with concern.

Leo stayed where he was, watching the boy go. His chest tightened with unease, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together. The stone wasn't just a trinket or a carved gemstone. It was something far more dangerous, something that had drawn the attention of the king's hunters.

And now, Eragon was caught in the middle of it.

As Horst disappeared back into his forge, Leo turned on his heel, heading in the opposite direction. He needed time to think, to figure out what to do next. He had no love for the Empire, but getting involved in its affairs was a risk he wasn't sure he could afford.

Yet, as much as he tried to convince himself to stay out of it, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was already entangled in the web of events unfolding around him. And if he didn't act, it wouldn't just be Eragon and his family who paid the price—it would be all of Carvahall.