The clock showed a quarter to twelve. Not by Earth time, of course–the chronometer that once counted days, weeks, and years has long since turned into a rusty shard. Now time was measured in heartbeats, in the flickering of candles, in the rising hum that heralded the end. The apocalypse was not just on the threshold – it was already raging outside the walls of your shelter, scattering the fragments of civilization like a children's mosaic. The Mother of life, a being whose nature remained a mystery, shrouded in darkness and despair, was approaching. Her breath, chilling to the bone, could be felt in every gust of wind that penetrated through the cracks in the walls.

The last supper. Rather, it's a pathetic snack made from leftover canned vegetables and dried bread. You ate your share, feeling not so much satiety as a bitter realization of emptiness in your stomach and even more so in your soul. Your strength was leaving you, hope was melting like ice under the scorching sun. A chance to win? It is minimal, ghostly, like a spark in the pitch darkness. But even a pale spark is better than no light at all.

Suddenly, Eragon, your silent leader, the man who bore the responsibility for the fate of the survivors, pushed his plate towards you. There was some food on it, the only thing he had left for himself. His gaze, usually hidden behind an impenetrable mask of concentration, was full of determination and... hope?

— «Eat,» —he said simply, his voice hoarse with fatigue and seemingly soaked in ash and smoke. — «Your strength will be useful to us in the final battle.»