The Five Realms

Chapter 36: Joey VII

Chapter 36: Fractured Flame

Joey's boots felt heavier than they ever had.

The moment Arya called his name, the glade's hush grew sharper—like every leaf, every breath of wind, every dragon had paused to listen. Chyna had already passed. "Clear." The word echoed in his ears like a tolling bell, less a comfort than a countdown.

He exhaled and stepped forward.

Eragon waited, expression unreadable, the lines of age softened by something else—expectation, maybe. Joey couldn't tell if it was warmth or warning in his eyes. Grandfather. The word didn't fit. It was a name for someone who told bedtime stories, not someone who stood in a grove of ancient dragons, watching you like a sealed door he meant to unlock.

His throat tightened. He risked a glance to Chyna. She stood with arms crossed, eyes fixed on him, her face calm but her aura tense. He felt her before she spoke—a quiet flicker in their link.

You okay?

Joey didn't answer. He couldn't.

He wasn't okay. His stomach was a knot of anticipation and fear. Not fear of pain—not even of failure. Fear of being seen. Of having the fragile barriers he'd built torn down in front of everyone.

Eragon stepped forward, one hand raised—not threatening, but still unbearable. "Are you ready, Joey?"

Joey's lips moved without sound. His jaw tensed. He nodded once.

Eragon's palm touched his forehead.

And just like that, the world changed.

There was no pain. Just pressure. A depth that wasn't physical. A weight behind his eyes, brushing against thoughts he hadn't dared revisit in years. His defenses flared instinctively—walls that weren't built by logic, but by reflex. They wouldn't hold.

Eragon's voice slid into his mind like smoke: "Welcome to Alagaësia, grandson. I'm just taking a look into your memories to better know you and your intentions here. Don't resist. It may break your mind."

Joey's fists clenched at his sides. Cold sweat lined his palms. He told himself to breathe, to trust. But something primal clawed at his spine.

This was too close.

He wasn't ready.

And somewhere inside, in that hidden chamber of memory and shame and rage, something old and silent stirred.

It wasn't just memories Eragon touched.

It was the emotional marrow of them—the smell of scorched air after a fire he didn't start, the cold weight of silence when his father never returned, the sharp sting of being told to stay quiet, to not show what he was. That he was different. That different was dangerous.

He felt Eragon's presence sift through it all with a detached precision, never pausing long, never judging—but never missing anything.

A flicker: Joey at five, hands blistered from gripping a pan he'd pulled from the oven without pain. Maria hadn't seen it. No one had. His father had caught him in the act, knelt, eyes wide—not in awe, but fear.

A voice whispered from the memory: "Never show anyone. Not even your sister."

Joey's mind flinched, and Eragon's voice pulsed behind his eyes: "Why did he fear your gift?"

Joey didn't answer. He couldn't.

The memory twisted, bled into another—Joey older now, standing at Kat's grave, fists clenched, eyes dry. Everyone else cried. Joey stared at the dirt, hollow, cold, burning. Chyna's hand had searched for his. He hadn't taken it.