The Five Realms

Chapter 37: Fate VI

Chapter 37: Quiet Before the Veil

Fate lingered near the edge of the glade, her arms crossed and her lips pursed in a tight, unreadable line. The sun was low now, its dying gold brushing the grass with fire, but the heat hadn't reached her skin. Not really. The memory of that psychic backlash—Joey's surge, the force of it, the way he screamed—still rattled in her chest like an aftershock waiting for the next tremor.

A few yards away, Chyna crouched beside her dragon, whispering softly into Lavendel's ear. Beanca was silent too, half-focused on Emeraldsa and half not, her shoulders drawn high with thought. No one spoke about what had just happened. No one dared.

Fate let her gaze drift to the adults. Eragon stood straight again, but only just. Arya hovered near him with an unreadable look, and Maria paced like a soldier in a cage. Murtagh... she couldn't even look at him. Not after the way he pinned Joey to the dirt like an enemy. The adults were whispering now, just out of earshot. As usual.

Fate tightened her grip on her own thoughts.
Why do they always keep us in the dark? she thought bitterly. What is a Virtue, really? Why did Joey react like that? And why does no one seem surprised?

Goldenia, her dragon, shifted beside her, tail curling neatly over her feet. The warmth from Goldenia's side did more than the sunlight ever could—it calmed her, grounded her. Still, Fate couldn't ignore the crackling undercurrent between all of them. Every word felt like a lie waiting to be revealed.

Her mind flicked back to the test. To Eragon's hand on her forehead, his voice coiled like incense inside her skull. He hadn't hurt her. Not really. But there had been something too deliberate about the way he moved through her memories—too practiced. He hadn't just been searching for danger. He'd been measuring them. Judging their souls like puzzle pieces in someone else's prophecy.

Fate didn't trust that. She didn't trust him.

A rustle broke her thoughts. Saphira and Fírnen unfurled their wings, their ancient scales catching the full glory of sunset. Even Fate had to pause—those dragons were more than majestic. They were impossible. Like walking legends.

Eragon's voice rang out across the clearing, calm but final. "We fly."

Fate exhaled slowly. Time to leave the doubts behind. At least for now. She turned toward Goldenia, her hand brushing the dragon's warm flank.

"Let's ride," she murmured.

And together, they stepped forward into the sky.

Fate hadn't realized how small the glade was until they were above it.

One moment, she was pulling herself onto Goldenia's back, her fingers brushing the feathers at the base of the dragon's golden neck. The next, the earth dropped away like a curtain being drawn—and suddenly, the sky was all there was.

The wind hit her face like a gasp of freedom. It filled her lungs, stung her eyes, and made her laugh aloud before she even knew she was laughing. Goldenia surged forward, her wings slicing the air with rhythmic confidence. The beat of them was like a war drum—no, like a heartbeat—deep, powerful, alive.

Ahead, Saphira and Fírnen glided like ghosts through the darkening sky, their massive forms guiding the path. Behind them, Rosavlyn and Thorn flanked the rear, ensuring the group stayed in line. But the five of them—their generation—held the middle air.

Beanca's laugh rang out first, sharp and bright. "Last one to the mountain eats Murtagh's cooking!"

"Oh, it's on," Joey shouted, twisting low over Rohan's back.