Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for any characters and places not seen in Eragon or Eldest. Everything else belongs to Christopher Paolini.

Alagaësia is in the midst of the uneasy calm before the storm—the Rider’s Fall is eminent. Yet for the commoners of the world, ordinary life goes on. Oblivious to the impeding end of life as he knows it, a young orphan boy by the name of Anlaf lives in Jupnor, a large center of trade situated on the northern shore of Woadark Lake. Despite the peaceful times of the Riders, Jupnor is riddled with unpleasant characters, and Anlaf’s life has never been easy. Forced by poverty to steal from the more fortunate, he usually ends up fleeing for his life at the end of every day. But his fortunes are about to change, beginning on what had at first seemed like an ordinary day, where his tendency to be running for his life at the end of the day manifested itself several hours early…

Meeting Dârayas

Anlaf woke to the sounds of Jupnor starting its day. Vendors were plying their wares, pans sizzled with hot oil to begin a busy day of making food for wealthy customers, and the sounds of breakfast being made came out of the houses that surrounded the marketplace. Delicious aromas of freshly baked bread, ripe fruit, and spiced meat found their way to Anlaf’s nose. The sun rose, casting a pale ray of light on the alleyway where Anlaf slept. But it was not any of this that woke him up. No, it was the sword that was being held next to his neck. The man who held the blade was in his thirties, tall but thin. A scar stretched across his nose from one cheek to the other. His eyes were the color of mud at the bottom of a lake.

“So you’re awake,” said the man, with a nasal, sneering voice. “Maybe you can explain how half of my eggs disappeared last night.”

It was true; he remembered cracking each individual egg straight into his mouth and feeling the goo coat his mouth. It was a glorious sensation, and he ate until his shrunken stomach was full to bursting.

Anlaf had been stealing food since he was five. The city orphanage had been filled past capacity and he was thrown out to accommodate the new arrivals. His parents had died before he could remember, leaving him with only vague wisps of memory—a smiling face, a warm hug. Of course, Anlaf never thought of them anymore; it was just too painful.

When he was younger he had entertained dreams that one glorious day, somebody walking by on the street would turn to him and take him home. But years had gone by, and when no one came, Anlaf finally lost hope.

But in order to survive, he had to steal the things he needed. He had also learned ways to survive without resources—or at least, with the things he could find in the gutters among the trash and filth. If it was sunny (which it often was in Jupnor), Anlaf could cook various things on a flat rock in the sun. Crude, but it still worked, provided that it was hot enough. Usually he ended up with a partly-raw mess. Not that it particularly mattered; it tasted alright raw, anyways.

He had joined a thieves’ guild and had been taught the basics of picking pockets until it was discovered that Anlaf had too little skill to do well in that line of work. He’d been thrown out of there, too.

But the basic training had saved his life—he had honed his newfound skills with stubborn intensity until he was good enough to steal and not get caught. He was taught little otherwise, but despite this Anlaf invented his own maneuvers and improved his reflexes and speed so he could survive as a thief.

At the moment he stole everything he could get his hands on—mostly food, but some trinkets and jewels that he could sell to the tall, toothless man he met in an alley once. Anlaf had an indistinct feeling the man cheated him, but he needed the money, and no one else seemed willing to trade with him.

Still, knowing how to steal couldn’t save Anlaf from a sword. The boy eyed the man’s sword nervously, looking at the sharp edge. There was little he could do, so Anlaf stared back, straight into the man’s eyes. Bright green met brown. The man wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Lad, I’m going to give you five seconds to answer. If you don’t, I’ll cut your throat and drain your blood out on the street. If you move, I’ll cut your head off. Five.”

What should he do? If he tried to run, he would definitely be killed. The sword was too close to duck. Anlaf had a knife hidden up his right sleeve, but there was no time to get it out.

“Four.”

Maybe he could use his surroundings. But what was there? The pile of rags he was sleeping on; a can and a bottle, both out of his reach.

“Three.”

Time was running out. He needed to think of something, and fast.

“Two.”

But there was nothing he could use! Plus, if he moved, the man would chop his head off. He would have to hope for the best when the man attacked.

“One. Sorry lad, but your time is up.” He brought his sword up for the killing stroke. It was then that Anlaf saw his chance. With a cry, he rolled to one side, the sword missing his left arm by a hairsbreadth (Foolish man; he should've made a straight cut instead of trying to go execution-style, the boy thought). Grabbing a handful of dirt, he flung it into the man’s face. He yelled, the dirt stinging his eyes. He was now effectively blinded. Anlaf ran, but not before cutting open the man’s purse with the knife. A lifetime of poverty told him to never miss a chance to steal some money. With that done, he fled into the marketplace, where it was already crowded. He would never be found now.

He passed a mirror of polished metal and paused to look at himself in it. Anlaf stood out with his dirty, tan skin and youth, when everyone else was a rich, well-groomed adult. His normally black hair was brown with mud and who knows what else, and that would attract unwelcome attention if he looked too suspicious. Fortunately, he was an expert at being unnoticed. Head down, shuffling steps, a timid, nervous twitch. He was just another servant doing his master’s bidding to the nobles’ eyes.

Anlaf pretended to browse through the expensive finery, reading off an imaginary list in the palm of his hand. Beside him was a table covered with velvet and jewelry and the shop’s owner, who was talking to a short noble carrying a gold-topped walking stick. Anlaf glanced around. No one seemed to be watching…

Swiftly, he snagged a gold bracelet set with rubies from a velvet pillow and ran, followed by the shouts of the unfortunate merchant.

“Thief, thief!” howled the middle-aged shopkeeper as Anlaf fled with his jewelry. His voice grated like screeching glass, probably not used to yelling. “Someone catch the thief!”

Anlaf sped through the crowd, helping himself to several pockets as he went and ignoring the high-pitched squeaks of ladies as he tread on their toes. He was slim and speedy, perfect for dodging through a crowded market with an angry merchant on his tail.

He maneuvered out of the crowd and scrambled over an ivy-coated brick wall, landing in an abandoned, overgrown courtyard. Anlaf slid under the splintered gate in the opposite wall and headed for the alleyway where he hid the more valuable things he stole to sell later. The tall, toothless man would be coming to visit him in a month, so he could sell it then.

Anlaf paused, looking around him to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The street was empty but for a rather large, fierce-looking cat with a shaggy coat sniffling through a rubbish bin. It stared at Anlaf, who was struck by how intelligent the animal looked. There was something clearly off about the animal, and not just alley-cat cleverness. The cat’s fur was gray with black stripes down its back. Its orange-brown eyes seemed to be looking right into him, strangely piercing even for a cat, and its angular face was surrounded by a shaggy mane.

Quite an odd creature, like no other cat Anlaf had seen before. Anlaf wondered vaguely if the tall, toothless man would take the cat and sell it to a rich noble’s wife for its curious appearance. But there was something wild about the cat… something untamed and fierce that had nothing to do with its intimidating appearance.

Suddenly he felt strange. There was a sudden sense of something huge looming behind him, like backing up and feeling something huge and breathing behind him. He turned around, but there was nothing. Then he realized the sensation was all in his head.

Who are you? asked a voice out of nowhere. Anlaf jumped; he hadn’t been expecting that.

“Was that you?” asked a bewildered Anlaf, looking at the cat, which was washing behind its ears with a paw and giving no indication that it had heard. Anlaf felt rather foolish for thinking a cat was talking to him—in his head, no less—but a sense of affirmation made itself known to Anlaf, and he shivered. It was as if the very air around him was agreeing with him and he could feel it concur.

Werecat, Anlaf thought with a shiver. How had he known that? Certainly he had heard of them before from the orphanage storyteller, but weren’t they supposed to be incredibly rare, only entangling themselves in the most important of situations?

No.

Anlaf blinked. Well, he certainly hadn’t been expecting that. With a sense of paranoia, he wondered, Can it read my mind?

Yes, and I’m a “he”, not an “it”.

Anlaf slowly backed away, reaching blindly for the door handle behind him. One step at a time, and then he could run inside his storehouse (really an old stable that had fallen into disrepair and had been abandoned by its previous owners) and slam the door…

Do not be alarmed. Simply think what you want to say and I will be able to hear you. It is that simple.

Simple? thought Anlaf after a moment of hesitation. Concentrating a bit harder on the message he wanted to convey, he continued, If it were simple, everyone would be able to do it. But if you want to know, my name is Anlaf.

The werecat leapt from where had been sitting and settled down on a cracking wall with ivy hanging over it. On the contrary, Master Anlaf, everyone can speak to me. It blinked at him. Of course, whether or not I’m going to say anything back is an entirely different matter.

What are you doing here?

Breathing, obviously. The werecat smiled, revealing rows of pointed fangs. You’ll have to be more specific, if you want to know.

No, really, said Anlaf, annoyed.

Following you.

Why? asked Anlaf, curious.

You seem like an interesting sort. And it’s been a very long time since I’ve seen any excitement, the werecat drawled, licking a paw dispassionately. Of course, the smell could be coming from someone else entirely, but it’s strongest around you.

Ignoring the werecat’s strange remark, Anlaf said (with several pauses to shepherd his thoughts into a voice the werecat could understand), What is that supposed to mean? You’re a werecat and I’m just… well, a civilian that just happens to be homeless and a pickpocket. Don’t you have some kings to go counsel? I thought that was what werecats do for a living.

Do you see any kings here?

No…

Exactly.

Fine, fine. Anlaf was getting more irritated by the second. What’s your name, anyway?

I have many names, human. But you may call me Dârayas.

The werecat retreated into a triangle of shadow beneath a disused fruit stall. His eyes glowed like orange coals, and Anlaf had an eerie feeling that they were coolly dissecting him. There was an inaudible whisper of surprise in his head, followed by heavy resignation.

Are you here to tell me something? inquired Anlaf. Isn’t that what werecats do?

I already have, haven’t I? My name should be quite sufficient. Dârayas said. Besides, you probably wouldn’t need my help anyway.

Please?

But the werecat had already fallen asleep.