A Song of Scale and Shadow - Chapter - 17

The ancient stone corridor narrowed, and Eragon pressed forward into the chill, his staff drawn and ready. Every step echoed with the weight of centuries, as if the ruin itself watched him intrude upon its slumber.

Labyrinthian Chasm.

The name fit too well. The air felt heavier here—like memory.

Eragon entered the first chamber and paused. The walls were jagged, partly collapsed, but the stillness was deceiving. As he descended the crumbling stairs, a glint caught his eye. He scanned the shadows.

To the right, tucked behind a weather-worn stone pillar, stood a bench and a shelf. And just beside them, partially buried in rubble and forgotten by time, sat a chest, cleverly concealed.

“There you are,” he murmured.


Kneeling, he cracked the chest open—inside, a handful of gold coins, a greater soul gem, and a few potions. Enough to make the moment worthwhile.

He moved left, collecting coins from burial urns that lined the wall like ancient sentinels, their contents a quiet reminder of forgotten kings.

Deeper in, he stepped into a chamber where a thick sheet of ice barricaded the next stone door. As he approached, the ice shimmered—and then exploded outward.

From the shards, a figure emerged.

A Frost Spirit, pale blue and howling, took form, its limbs flickering like frozen flame.

Eragon leapt back, thrust his palm forward, and bellowed:

“Yol Toor Shul!” (Fire Breath)


The gout of fire blasted into the spirit, lighting it up like glass in a forge. It shrieked and flared, stumbling.

He followed with bursts of flames from his hand, relentless until the spirit dissipated into drifting snow.

He then turned his flames on the frozen door, watching the ice hiss and melt under his spell. The path beyond groaned open, ancient hinges awakening once more.

“I’ll never complain about being cold again,” he muttered, stepping through.


The next chamber was treacherous. Straight ahead, the stone floor dropped sharply into a pit.

Eragon caught himself before taking the plunge, spotting the safer path curving right.

A Draugr emerged from the shadows—tattered armor, lifeless eyes. Eragon struck with his staff, weaving flame and frost. The Draugr staggered, then fell back with a groan of old death.

Down below, more undead stirred.

Eragon smirked, lined up his breath, and called:

“Fus Ro Dah!”

The Unrelenting Force shout blasted forth like a thunderclap. A Draugr launched into the air like a tossed rag, spinning and plummeting into the abyss with a satisfying crack.

“I could get used to that,” he said, chuckling.

He crossed the stone bridge cautiously and took a right. Another enemy awaited—easily dealt with.

Beyond the next door, he discovered a treasure trove of relics: a spell tome, an alchemy lab, and an arcane enchanter still glowing with residual energy. He took time to study, recharge, and add a flame enchantment to his backup dagger.

Then, retracing his steps, he followed the lower bridge path toward the fork. Rather than take the plunge into the frigid water, he took the path that led to a wooden door, looting another chest along the way before emerging at the same point by the water.


The path snaked beside a subterranean stream, its waters dark and eerily calm. Trolls loomed in the mist like boulders come to life. Eragon engaged each cautiously—keeping his distance, launching Firebolts, kiting them around jagged pillars and using frost to slow their charge.

Then came a deeper cave.

A Wispmother shimmered into being at its heart—beautiful and terrible, surrounded by wailing wisps that flickered like dying stars.

She hissed. The wisps dove.

Eragon summoned a Flame Atronach, ducked behind a rock, and cast bolt after bolt until the ethereal figure vanished in a swirl of white ash.

At the chamber’s end, a blazing fire danced before a sealed stone door.

The heat shimmered, and a Fire Spirit burst from the blaze.

This time, Eragon swapped to Frostbite, stepping back as the spirit lunged. The cold magic hissed into its chest, slowing it, cracking its fiery form. With one last burst, the elemental burst apart, extinguishing the flame.

The door behind it groaned and opened.

On the right, beside the wall, lay a Frostbite Spell Tome—likely left for less prepared travelers.


Through the door, Eragon turned left and passed through a gated corridor. Another flash of light—another spectral memory of Savos and his companions. Their faces were drawn now, strained. Doubt had replaced pride.

“We shouldn't have come,” one said. “This place—it feeds on us.”


But they continued, as did he.

The next room was dangerous—a trap in the floor, set like a jaw. A group of spectral enemies phased in, shrieking. Eragon sprinted forward, baiting them, then leapt back as the trapdoor flung open.

Two enemies dropped with a scream. Eragon nearly did too.

“That could’ve been me,” he muttered.


He found a safer descent and followed the corridor down to the lower level. The air grew colder, heavier.

At last, he reached a great stone archway. Its carvings were far older than any he had seen before.

Above the door: Labyrinthian Tribune.

The heart of the ruin.



The passage twisted downward, each torch sconce long extinguished, the walls moist with condensation and silence. Eragon’s boots echoed faintly, as did the steady clink of the soul gems he’d collected along the way, tucked tightly into his pouch.

Ghostly murmurs curled around the stone corridors—faint, eerie chants in ancient tongues. The air was heavier here, and it crackled with tension.

He came to a wooden door, aged and weather-warped. To the left, upon a raised pedestal, rested a spell tome, its cover glowing faintly.

“Steadfast Ward,” he read aloud.

He reached out, and as his fingers brushed the cover, the spell surged into his mind—a powerful defensive ward, stronger than his earlier magics. He closed his eyes for a moment and internalized it. Something told him he would need it.


Beyond the door, the air grew frigid.

A spiraling staircase descended into a chamber shrouded in frost. Eragon could already see them—soul gems embedded in pedestals across the room. They pulsed ominously, glowing with internal light.

He took a breath and cast Steadfast Ward, a shimmering blue dome forming before him. As he stepped forward, the nearest soul gem on the right surged to life—a blast of frost lanced out, slamming into his ward.

He gritted his teeth and pushed forward.

He grabbed the soul gem, ripping it from the pedestal, and the attack ceased.

“They’re acting like sentries,” he muttered. “Clever. Deadly.”


He pushed forward, ducking beneath stone arches, and spotted another gem up ahead, slightly elevated on the left. He repeated the process, shielding himself with the ward and claiming the second gem. The air burned his lungs from the cold.

Up ahead, the hallway opened to a wide chamber.

Magical runes shimmered on the ground, fiery red.

Eragon paused and spotted more soul gems embedded in pillars—this time, shooting fire.

He stepped back, summoned a fireball, and launched it at the central rune.

Boom.

The trap exploded, a wave of flame tearing through the middle of the room.

When the fires died, Eragon whispered, “Lok Vah Koor.”

The Become Ethereal shout enveloped him. His form shimmered translucent, intangible. While in this state, he darted through the central runes, unharmed, snatching the remaining soul gems and rendering the sentries inert.


He climbed the staircase on the right, firelight flickering ominously on the cracked walls.

Spectral chanting grew louder as he stepped into a massive hall, thick with cobwebs and dust. His heart thudded. Something ancient stirred here.

At the far end, he saw the carvings.

A Word Wall.

Runes glowed along its base, pulling at his soul like a whisper in the wind.

He wasn’t alone.

A Draugr Deathlord, spectral and terrible, stepped forward in ghostly armor, wailing an unearthly war cry.

Eragon didn't hesitate. He summoned a Flame Atronach, drew his enchanted dagger with one hand and a spell in the other.

“Fus Ro Dah!”


The Deathlord staggered, bones clattering, but did not fall.

A brutal duel erupted—ice, fire, and force colliding. The Draugr swung a great spectral axe, cutting chunks of stone from the walls. Eragon ducked, rolled, and countered with fireballs, searing the phantom flesh.

Finally, with one clean slice from his dagger, empowered with enchantments, the Deathlord vanished into smoke.

Eragon breathed hard. Then, the wall pulsed.

“Tiid... Klo... Ul.”


The word etched into his mind—Slow Time. A shout that would make the world crawl while he moved free.

“This... I’ll need,” he whispered.


He advanced into the next room, only to be met with an onslaught of skeletons and ghostly Draugr. Their blades swung with haunting silence, their eyes alight with pale blue malice.

He ducked and weaved, cast barrier spells, summoned more atronachs. The fight was chaos, swirling with shrieks and the clash of steel on stone. Bones clattered across the floor as he emerged victorious, gasping and drenched in sweat.

He moved forward.

Another flash of light—a final vision of the past.

Savos Aren and his companions… now broken, frightened, desperate. Their words barely made sense, but their fear echoed louder than any spell.

And then Eragon entered a massive chamber. Its ceiling soared overhead, vanishing into shadow.

At its center, suspended in midair by streams of magical energy, floated a figure—Morokei, a Priest of the ancient Dragon Cult. His body pulsed with raw power, held in place by two ghostly mages, incanting unceasingly.

Their robes shimmered, their faces unreadable beneath hoods of light.

Eragon stepped closer.

“Talk to Wizard,” the prompt hovered in his mind’s eye.


But his gut screamed otherwise.

“They’ve been feeding him power all this time,” he whispered. “Keeping him sealed.”



The moment the ghostly mages fell, the air changed.

The blue glow that encased the chamber shattered like breaking glass, and Morokei dropped from the suspended orb, landing with a sharp gust of magical wind. He stood tall and skeletal beneath blue-black robes that shifted like living shadows. His mask—smooth, ancient, and pulsing with a haunting blue light—stared down at Eragon with wordless menace.

A whisper curled in the air, deep and guttural, as if scraping the walls of time itself:

"Dovahkiin... Zu’u fen kos dii kriid."
(Dragonborn… I will be your slayer.)

Eragon didn’t hesitate.

“Tiid Klo Ul!”


The Slow Time shout echoed off the stone, and the world stilled. Dust froze mid-air. Morokei raised a hand, too slowly. Eragon was already moving.

He hurled fireballs, one after another, lighting the chamber in a blaze of orange. His Flame Atronach appeared beside him with a flash, hurling bolts of fire in tandem.

Morokei’s mask glowed fiercely as he retaliated with bolts of pure lightning, cutting through the slow-motion haze. The shout wore off.

Time snapped back to normal—and Eragon staggered under a shockwave of magic. Lightning crawled up his chestplate, hissing under his armor. He rolled behind a broken pillar, panting.

He’s fast. Too fast.

Eragon chugged a Magicka potion, then peeked around.

Morokei floated above the ground now, surrounded by a shimmering blue aura. His hand raised—and a storm of magic burst from his palm.

“He’s draining my magicka!” Eragon gasped.


He backed toward the entrance, heart pounding. His Flame Atronach exploded nearby in a flash of fire, buying him just enough time to cast another fireball, then another.

When he ran out of magicka again, he sprinted toward the doorway and slammed behind a column.

“Wait,” he muttered. He pulled out his journal, glanced at the time, and sat.
He used the Wait function—an ancient trick known to adventurers.

He stepped back out, flames in hand, and shouted:

“Yol Toor Shul!”

The Fire Breath shout washed over Morokei, staggering him mid-air. Eragon fired again and again, emptying his reserves. A shock spell cut into his side, nearly knocking him flat. He rolled. Drank another potion. Returned fire.

The chamber sizzled with energy and scorched stone. Bits of ceiling cracked, dropping rubble. The sound of the two titans clashing filled the forgotten ruin.

Finally—with a roar of pain and fury, Morokei’s body burst into ash and fell to the ground with a metallic clatter.

Eragon staggered forward.

Lying on the cracked floor was the Staff of Magnus, long and elegant, pulsing with restrained power.

And beside it, gleaming with eerie blue light, was the Mask of Morokei.

“This is no ordinary relic,” Eragon whispered. “This… was forged in a forgotten age.”

He knelt, picking it up. The cold metal felt almost… alive.


Just to the right of the chamber, an old Dwarven gate had groaned open.

Beyond it, Eragon found a chest filled with treasures: gems, enchanted robes, an old circlet, and more potions.

As he turned to leave, the air shifted once again.

“Hold it right there.”

A man in Thalmor robes, gold-trimmed and arrogant, stepped out of the shadows.

“I am Estormo, envoy of the Thalmor. I was sent by Ancano. That staff… belongs to us.”


Eragon didn’t bother answering.

Estormo fired lightning. Eragon ducked, then countered with a fireball to the chest. The Thalmor staggered but kept firing. It was a brutal duel—flames against ice, lightning against steel. But Estormo had no Flame Atronach, no shouts, and no dragon spirit.

Soon, he was just another smoldering corpse on the stone floor.


Eragon emerged from the Labyrinthian ruins into a sky turning stormy, snow swirling through the mountain pass.

“The College… it’s gone?”

Winterhold was there, but the College of Winterhold was missing from the map—erased.

“This can’t be good.”

He marched through the snow, retracing familiar paths. When he reached the town, he saw it.

The College was surrounded by a pulsating dome of magical energy, visible even from the cliffs below.

He ran across the bridge.

Tolfdir stood there, along with Faralda and a few other mages, all of them battered and anxious.

“Eragon!” Tolfdir called out. “You’ve returned! Quickly! Something’s happening—Ancano—he’s done something to the Eye. We can’t get through!”

Eragon looked up at the glowing dome. He gripped the Staff of Magnus tighter.

“Then I’ll break through,” he said grimly. “And stop this before it destroys us all.”

The storm above crackled as magic built in the sky like thunder.