The Dragon Lord materialized within the depths of his palace, the air shuddering with the echo of his arrival. The dungeon was silent, eerily so. Rows of empty cells lined the stone hall, cold and lifeless, save for one at the far end. From that single cell came the faint rattle of chains.
Eragon's boots echoed softly as he walked, each step stirring dust that had settled for years. When he reached the occupied cell, he stopped.
The figure within was a woman or what remained of one. Her silver hair hung in tangled strands, dull from neglect. Her skin was pale, bruised in places, and her frame spoke of hunger and time. Yet beneath the frailty, there was something else, something that pulled at the primal senses of the Dragon Lord.
Eragon narrowed his eyes, his golden pupils igniting faintly as he peered closer. Then he saw it.
