A Song of Scale and Shadow - Chapter - 16

The vast chamber of the Oculary was unlike anything Eragon had seen before.

The moment he stepped through the ancient brass door, his breath caught. A colossal lens mechanism hung in the center of the vaulted chamber, suspended by massive dwarven supports. Gleaming pipes curved into the walls, and above, three crystalline rings hung like celestial bodies frozen in motion. Sunlight filtered through narrow slits in the dome above, refracted by a bluish energy that hummed in the air.

Paratus Decimius stood at the console below the stairs, arms folded, his face twisted with impatience.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he snapped. “Place the crystal. Let’s get this over with.”

Eragon approached the activation pedestal and carefully set the Focusing Crystal into its socket. It clicked into place with a low hum, and beams of light burst outward—shimmering, chaotic, unfocused.

“The light isn’t aligned,” Paratus muttered. “Of course it’s not. The crystal needs... adjustment.”

Eragon narrowed his eyes at the chaotic prism of energy.

“Then let’s adjust it.”

He climbed the stairwell to the overlook above the crystal and spotted a rack of spell tomes behind the console—Flames, Frostbite, and Sparks.

He grabbed Frostbite, recalling what Paratus had muttered about regulating energy through temperature. Standing before the massive lens, Eragon cast a focused beam of cold onto the crystal.

Hissss.

The beam of light refracted and bent. Again, he cast Frostbite. Then a third time.

With each burst of cold, the beam stabilized—until finally, three thin white rays of light stretched from the central crystal to the ceiling. The rings above began to catch the light and pulse with blue glow.

“Now the controls,” Eragon said.

He stepped toward the three control pedestals, each with a single Dwarven button. The rings overhead turned slowly, each push shifting one of the concentric mechanisms clockwise.

He worked meticulously, watching the light beams strike empty air, and slowly turning the rings until one hit a blue gem embedded in the inner track.

Click.

The first gem activated. Then another. Then the last.

Suddenly, the entire Oculary thrummed with life. A map of Tamriel—faint but unmistakable—appeared in light along the walls. Lines of magic pulsed from distant locations, all converging... on Labyrinthian.

Paratus gasped.

“This... this is it. The Oculary is showing us the source! But... something is wrong.”

He pointed toward the sphere of magic centered on Skyrim.

“That shouldn’t be possible! There’s something interfering with the reading! It must be...”

“The Eye of Magnus,” Eragon finished grimly.

“So you do know something!” Paratus stepped back, eyes wide. “What have you done? What is your College hiding?”

“We’re trying to contain it,” Eragon said. “Not unleash it.”

“You don’t understand! This knowledge belongs to the Synod, not your little band of experimental mystics!”

“Knowledge belongs to all who seek it responsibly,” Eragon growled. “You wanted answers. Now you have them.”

Paratus scowled, backing away. “Take your findings and leave. And pray that what your College plays with doesn’t destroy us all.”

Eragon gave him one last warning glare, then turned away.

“Saphira,” he spoke aloud, “I’m coming back. Tell Savos... something’s gone wrong.”


The shortcut out of Mzulft was tucked through a winding hall to the right of the Oculary. It spat Eragon out into the crisp evening air of Skyrim. The sky was steel-grey, clouds racing overhead. He mounted Saphira, who rumbled a greeting.

“Did you find the Staff of Magnus?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he answered. “But I know where it lies—Labyrinthian.”

“I don’t like what I feel from the north,” Saphira growled. “The College is not safe.”

Eragon nodded. “Then let’s fly.”


Saphira soared over the frozen cliffs toward Winterhold, her wings slicing the wind. By the time they landed at the ruined stone landing near the College gates, something was clearly wrong.

Mirabelle Ervine stood outside the Hall of the Elements, her staff raised.

A shimmering magical barrier sealed the Hall shut, and inside, Ancano stood with his arms outstretched, channeling unstable energy into the Eye of Magnus.

Savos Aren paced, desperately casting counterspells.

“Eragon!” Mirabelle cried. “Ancano—he’s tapped into the Eye! We can’t get in!”

“Let me try.”

Eragon stepped forward. Flames ignited in his hands, and he joined the others in attacking the barrier. Mirabelle switched to Lightning Bolt, while Savos unleashed a torrent of Destruction magic.

With a sound like cracking glass, the barrier shattered.

“Now!” Savos yelled. “Go!”

Eragon ran inside—

BOOM!

A pulse of raw magical force blasted through the room, and everything went white.


He came to moments later, still in the Hall. Debris littered the floor. The Eye of Magnus floated silently, ominously glowing.

Mirabelle Ervine knelt beside Savos Aren, who lay still.

“Savos...” she whispered. “No...”

Eragon rushed to her side. “What happened?”

“He... gave his life breaking through Ancano’s power,” she said, tears in her voice. “Ancano is still in there—still feeding off the Eye. We have to stop him, Eragon."

“We will,” he promised.



The sky above Winterhold had darkened to a colorless, rolling ash. Winds howled across the courtyard of the College as if the mountain itself groaned beneath the weight of unnatural magic.

Eragon stepped into the open stone square, boots crunching against the ice-flecked floor. He had just finished speaking with Mirabelle Ervine, whose voice trembled with equal parts grief and urgency.

“Go,” she had said, pressing a silver chain into his hand. “This was Savos Aren’s amulet. He would want you to have it. You’ll need its strength for what comes next.”


The amulet was warm against his skin, resonating faintly with magic. A lingering echo of the Arch-Mage’s power.

Eragon walked into the courtyard toward where he had last seen Savos, his form lying still in the snow—but before he could reach the fallen Arch-Mage, Tolfdir appeared, his face creased with concern.

“Eragon!” he called, rushing toward him with his staff in hand. “There’s no time. Something terrible is happening to Winterhold. The town—it's under attack. Magic itself is unraveling!”

Eragon's brows drew together.

“Ancano’s doing,” he muttered. “This is just the beginning.”

“You must go!” Tolfdir insisted. “We will protect the College. But the town—those people have no defense.”

Without another word, Eragon turned and sprinted down the causeway.

As he crossed the bridge, a familiar voice echoed above the rising winds.

“Wait!”

Faralda, the stern gatekeeper of the College, appeared at the other end of the bridge, her robes whipped by the storm.

“I saw them,” she said, her eyes sharp with fear. “Creatures made of pure magic—horrors unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I’m coming with you.”

“Then let’s move,” Eragon said grimly.

Together, they descended the frozen cliffs and approached the outer wall of Winterhold. The wind screamed louder, and then...

They appeared.

Swirling like specters through the snow, Magic Anomalies—twisted, glowing orbs that shimmered like broken glass and hissed like boiling water—descended upon the town.

One streaked past Eragon’s head, barely missing him. Another dove into a barrel and shattered it into ice shards. A third hovered in place, then lashed out with a jagged bolt of pure arcane energy.

“Split up!” Eragon shouted to Faralda. “Draw them off!”

Eragon raised his hands and let loose a torrent of Fireball, the explosion rocking two anomalies back with a hollow shriek. Faralda responded with a precise Lightning Bolt, cracking one clean through the middle.

But they weren’t going down easily.

“They're fast,” she growled. “Like damned ice wraiths—without bodies!”

Eragon switched tactics, throwing up Wards and dodging in and out of alleyways. He heard screams in the distance—some townsfolk had stayed behind. A child huddled near the tavern steps, and one anomaly circled toward her like a vulture.

“NO!”

Eragon sprinted and dove between the creature and the girl, releasing a Shout:
“Fus—RO DAH!”

The creature slammed into a wall of snow and vanished in a cloud of shattered light.

The battle raged for minutes that felt like hours, but slowly—methodically—the mages began to win. Each fallen anomaly left behind ghostly remains, flickering in the snow like ash from a dying fire. Within, filled soul gems shimmered softly—strange, beautiful, and ominous.

When the last anomaly fell with a final, echoing wail, Eragon stood in the center of the ruined street, chest heaving, his robes scorched and torn.

“It’s done,” Faralda said breathlessly, stepping beside him.

“For now,” Eragon replied, scanning the skies. “But this was just a ripple. The storm is coming.”


Back at the College, Mirabelle met Eragon at the steps. Her face was drawn tight, dark circles beneath her eyes.

“You did well,” she said. “Winterhold still stands, thanks to you.”

“But not for long,” Eragon replied. “Not unless we get the Staff.”

She nodded, reaching into her cloak and withdrawing a folded map. “Then you know where to go. Labyrinthian—deep in the mountains, southwest of Hjaalmarch. No one who enters its halls returns unscarred.”

Eragon tucked the map away, but Mirabelle wasn’t finished.

“I won’t lie to you. This place... it will test you. You’ll need every ounce of strength, of focus, of will. If you falter, the world will feel it.”

Then she stepped forward and laid her hand over his chest.

“Take this,” she whispered. “Savos’s last gift. He believed in you. I do too.”

Eragon bowed his head, feeling the weight of the amulet once more. A symbol. A torch in the darkness.

As he turned toward the gate, Mirabelle called after him.

“And Eragon... bring it back. Bring the Staff home.”

“I will,” he promised.



The wind howled through the mountain passes like a beast starved of warmth. Snowflakes lashed against Eragon’s hood as he and Saphira stood atop the narrow cliff trail, gazing down at the ancient structure that lay cradled between jagged stone ridges. It was a shattered ruin of archways and broken spires, carved into the very bones of the mountain—Labyrinthian.

Saphira lowered her massive blue head, steam curling from her nostrils.

“You will not let me follow,” she growled, eyes fixed on the cracked marble stairs leading toward the entrance.

Eragon placed a gloved hand on her snout.

“I know. The halls are narrow and old... but your eyes on the skies will keep me safe.”

Saphira rumbled, reluctant. But she stepped back, wings rising.

“Then I’ll wait nearby, and watch for trouble. If you scream, I’ll come. If you fall... I will bury this ruin in fire.”

Eragon smiled faintly and turned toward the winding stone path, heart pounding beneath his robes.

As he approached the ancient steps leading to the northern entrance, something shimmered in the air. A ghostly haze flickered into shape—five spectral figures. Students, young and proud. Leading them was Savos Aren, years younger, robes pristine, voice steady.

“We’ve come so far,” his ghost murmured. “This is the final trial.”

“We’re ready,” one of the specters said. “No turning back now.”

Their images faded, dissolving into the wind as if the mountain itself remembered their courage—and their doom.

Eragon exhaled sharply and entered the ruin.


Inside, silence pressed down like a weight. Dust motes danced in the chill light that filtered from broken stone above. A second spectral scene shimmered near a worn table on the right.

“This place... it feels wrong,” whispered one of the ghosts.

“Then steel your nerves,” Savos's voice replied. “We are mages of the College.”

The scene faded. Eragon noticed a Spell Tome resting on the table. He tucked it into his satchel and advanced into the gloom.

Soon, he stood before a massive iron gate, its frame carved with ancient Nordic runes. The lever that controlled it was hidden back on the left, slightly recessed into the crumbling wall. He pulled it—and the groaning of ancient hinges echoed through the ruin.

From the shadows beyond, he heard it: bones scraping against stone.

The floor trembled.

A skeleton's skull clattered onto the floor from above, followed by the deafening snap of colossal bones reassembling. A skeletal dragon unfolded itself in the gloom—an enormous ribcage held together by necromantic energy, icy mist curling from its broken jaw. Around it, a dozen skeleton warriors armed with frost-enchanted axes and longbows rose from the dust.

“Well,” Eragon muttered, drawing his staff and stepping back toward the gate. “This is new.”


The dragon hissed, a chilling roar echoing down the corridor. But Eragon had a plan.

He ducked behind the gate’s threshold and let it swing shut. Then he took position behind the iron bars, heart steady.

He extended his arm.

“Firebolt.”

The crackling sphere of flame blasted through the bars and struck one skeleton square in the chest, exploding it into brittle shards.

The others hissed and shambled forward—but their attacks clattered harmlessly against the closed gate.

Eragon smirked and continued the rhythm.

Open gate. Firebolt. Close gate.

The skeletal dragon howled, releasing a blast of frost that surged against the metal bars but couldn’t reach him. Eragon waited for the frost to subside, then retaliated with a chain of Firebolts, watching bone melt into cinders.

“That’s right,” he muttered between spells. “Come at me, you ugly pile of regrets.”


One by one, the skeletons fell.

Finally, the dragon collapsed with a thunderous rattle, its ancient frame scattering across the hall. It left behind no soul, no scream—only silence.

Eragon let the gate creak open and stepped over the remains, breathing heavily.

“Not a bad start,” he whispered, readying himself for what lay deeper in the labyrinth.

Behind him, the mountain wind howled through the broken roof—whispering of trials still to come.