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The wind blew cold and merciless around the dark tower of Ristvakbaen. Gray clouds hovered over the three figures with their gloomy countenance. But even if it had been a day of sunshine and heat, Morzan felt that the only fighting going on would still make the whole atmosphere as tense and cruel as that dark sky.
Two dragons, one as scarlet as blood and the other as black as night, crouched on a spike in the nearby mountains, ready to take flight should the need arise.
Forsworn's hand immediately fell to Zar'roc hilt as the white elf seemed to prevail for a moment.
But Galbatorix quickly parried the direct blow to his throat and the duel continued.
Morzan was almost mesmerized by the movements of the two figures. They moved with a refined, ruthless, and elegant speed, swinging their long swords as if they knew nothing else.
He was witnessing one of the most epic battles in the last thousand years, his stomach turning with emotion.
Islingr, the sword white and pure as light, collided with Galbatorix's amethyst blade and the two were locked against each other in a challenge of physical strength.
Their faces were pure concentration and hatred, the Traitor's abyssal eyes fixed on the elf's brilliant ones.
"It's already over, Vrael. Do you think you can fix anything? The era of the Riders is over. But I…" Galbatorix said, and accompanied the words by thrusting with superhuman power against the enemy sword, causing the elf to retreat a few steps. "...I will rebuild them again, this time without your corruption."
Vrael's jaw set and he fought the force against him despite the searing pain in his wounded side.
"There is all but goodwill in your heart, Galbatorix. Whatever you do is corrupt!" He said through clenched teeth.
The Traitor's black eyes filled with unhealthy hatred; Galbatorix freed the two swords by sliding the blade to the side, the two enemies simultaneously leapt backwards away.
They caught their breath for a moment, slowly circling and staring at each other intently.
Morzan swallowed, his throat terribly dry, and almost without realizing it took a step back, as if not daring to break the aura of power that surrounded the two Riders.
Galbatorix lunged at the elf, the two swords hissing as they collided again in dozens of blows at unacceptable speed.
Morzan didn't quite understand how, but at one point Vrael managed to knock the Oathbreaker off balance with his own weight.
But Galbatorix refused to fall on the ground, knowing that the other would have immediately executed him, and without hesitation immediately returned to his knees with a deft back flip. The elf attempted to attack him in his moment of vulnerability, but as Islingr came at him, Galbatorix was quick; he grabbed his black cloak and ripped it from around his neck, throwing it in one fluid motion at his enemy.
Vrael was able to back away in time, but thus gave the Traitor an opportunity to get up.
Galbatorix wasted no time in attacking the elf again with ferocity. The enemy quickly parried the blow, but he had been naive enough to believe in the Traitor's sense of honor: Galbatorix took advantage of his concentration on his sword to strike Vrael's groin hard with a kick, knocking him off balance.
The elf let out a strangled cry of pain as the agony of the unfair blow blurred his vision for a moment.
Before he could stop, he pitched forward, and in that terrible instant time seemed to slow down.
"May the best man win. Goodbye, elf." Said the cruel voice of Galbatorix; Vrael closed his eyes, already knowing what was about to happen.
To Morzan the magenta sword seemed to glow with flame in the distant glow of sunset before it pierced the elf's pale neck.
At the same moment that the Rider's severed head touched the cold rock, the deafening sound of thunder broke dramatically in the frigid air, as if to accompany the beginning of the end he had just witnessed.
The cloudy sky began to cry cold drops, mournfully wailing along with the terrible howls of animals.
Galbatorix didn't move a muscle, his head bent to observe the pool of blood spreading under his leather boots. Morzan watched silently.
After an interminable and excruciating minute, a chilling and creepy sound broke slowly on the wind, softly at first and then louder and louder.
Galbatorix slowly raised his head, never taking his eyes off the lifeless face of the elf, with a chilling and unhealthy smile as he continued to laugh in insane tones.
Morzan's eyes widened slowly; Galbatorix's dark irises glowed darkly
with reflections of power and malice. An unmistakable spark of madness shot through them, sending a cold shiver up the Forsworn's back.
The Betrayer raised his hand and Vrael's decapitated head magically snapped into his palm. Gripping the dead Rider's crimson-stained hair, Galbatorix brought his face, twisted into a deranged expression, in front of the elf's livid one, grinning maniacally.
Barely suppressing mirthless laughter, he stared into the dead eyes of the dead man and exclaimed, "What do you say now, elf?! Who's the loser?!"
Suddenly he threw his head far and hard and approached the edge of the high tower, placing one foot on the low rise and looking out over the vast plains of Alagäesia over which now a strong dark storm raged.
Spreading his arms to the wild wind and always with a disturbing smile to distort his handsome face, he cried out to the mountains and the uncontrollable rain:
"Prostrate yourselves! Tremble and fear! For no one can stop me! I, I have won! I am your king!"
Morzan hardly recognized Galbatorix's deep eyes filled with lust and madness; he watched the macabre scene with a mixture of fascination, admiration, and awe. He couldn't look away, but he didn't know if it was because what was in front of him was too disturbing or too enchanting. Probably both, in unhealthily large measures.
Galbatorix remained in position, breathing heavily, his expression returning to its usual icy cunning and malice, though always veiled by an incurable madness.
Still smiling chillingly, he then turned to Morzan, piercing him with his dark irises.
Not bothering to move the strands of wet hair from his forehead or eyes, he mentally called Shruikan and with a whispered word Islingr stood out in his hand.
"Come on, Morzan, come!" He said over the roaring wind with somber glee.
The Forsworn blinked, recovering from the trance he had fallen into, and swallowing promptly followed the man towards the more open clearing of the tower, waiting for the dragons to land.
"What are we going to do now?" said Morzan, narrowing his eyes, annoyed by the constant stinging rain on his face.
Galbatorix smiled slightly, coldly and full of mischief.
"I will take the crown of Angrenost, and you and I will finally be recognized for who we are." He said, looking at a point in the void, terrifying scenarios mirrored in his eyes.
Morzan did not answer, and looked at the mountains obscured by mist and clouds.
The Traitor shifted his gaze to him. "Are not you happy?" He asked, his voice taking on a different tone, light and casual but with an edge – Morzan frowned – almost anxious? Threatening?
… Worried?
However, the Forsworn returned the gaze and forced a smile despite the previous shock.
"Of course I'm happy. I was just… thinking." He answered sincerely; with a more spontaneous grin, he added, "Let's go get that bastard."
Galbatorix's expression relaxed slightly and the future king smiled faintly, almost genuinely (a rare thing, for the man).
"Yes." He whispered, and after a moment his eyes shifted to the black dragon, who watched in anticipation.
The two got on their saddles and flew away, leaving the assassin behind them and heading towards what would have been the beginning of something terrible and immense in their hands, cruel and destructive, cold and hypocritical:
The Power.