Unbearably slow, he swung Zar’roc over his head and brought it down again with both hands as if to cleave an enemy’s helmet. He held the position for a brief moment. With complete control over his movements, he turned to the right—while he swung Zar’roc’s tip to deflect an imagined attack—and then stopped with his arms stiffly extended forward.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon noticed that Arya, Orik, and Thorv were watching. He ignored them and focused only on the ruby-red blade in his hands; he held it as if it were a snake that could twist free of his grip and bite his arm.

Again, he turned and began a series of stances; he moved from one to the next with disciplined ease, gradually increasing the speed. In his mind, he was no longer in the shadowy grove, but surrounded by a band of bloodthirsty Urgals and Kull. He ducked and struck, parried, riposted, leapt to the side, and stabbed in a whirlwind of activity. He fought with senseless energy, just as he had in Farthen Dûr, without thought for his own safety; he ran and simply tore through his imagined enemies.

He spun Zar’roc around—in an attempt to flip the hilt from one palm to the other—and then dropped the sword, as a sharp stripe of pain tore through his back. He cried out and collapsed. Above him he could hear Arya and the dwarves talking, but the only thing he saw was constellations of glittering red mist, as if a bloody veil had settled over the world. No sense of time or pain existed anymore. All thoughts and reason vanished, and all that remained was a wild animal screaming for release.