The void stirred. A ripple ran through the infinite dark, and from it came a presence vast and unknowable. A being older than stars, whose thoughts shaped worlds, faltered for the first time in eternity. In its error, two lives—small sparks amid the endless night—were snuffed out.
One spark was a boy of Alagaësia, Eragon, taken before his tale could begin. The other was Richard, a youth from a distant world of iron and glass. Both were struck down not by fate or blade, but by accident—cosmic and cruel.
The being, wracked by regret, reached with trembling power. If it could not restore what was lost, it would forge anew. The two sparks, different as sun and shadow, were drawn together. They fused, woven into a single flame—stronger, stranger, forever altered. Eragon was reborn, though not unchanged: he carried within him the tempered soul of Richard, their essence one, their destinies bound.
From the union came echoes—shadows of powers not meant for this world, remnants of forgotten kingdoms and cursed artifacts. A black key, wrought of ancient steel, glimmered faintly as it descended from the void, tethered now to the boy's fate. It landed in the wild Spine, to be found in its time.
The void stilled. The error could not be undone, only hidden. The being withdrew, and silence fell once more.
A Shade was watching the path ahead, crimson hair like blood in the moonlight. His slitted eyes gleamed with anticipation as he and the Ra'zac crouched beneath the shadows of fir and pine. The night air was cold and sharp.
Three elves fled through the Spine, swift and desperate, the woman clutching a small bundle close to her breast. The bundle glowed faintly, green as a polished emerald.
"Kill them," the Shade hissed.
The Ra'zac leapt, silent as falling leaves. Arrows sang, spells flared, and the dark forest echoed with the clash of magic. Fire blossomed, quenched by darker words; branches cracked, and the smell of blood thickened.
Cornered at last, the elf woman raised her hands in one final desperate act. With a cry, she cast her spell, and the bundle flared brighter than the stars. In a shimmer of white, it vanished—spirited far beyond the Shade's reach.
He screamed, his fury splitting the night, while the Ra'zac shrieked in answer. One by one, the elves fell, until only silence remained. The Shade's triumph was bitter: his prey had escaped him.
Far to the east, in the small mountain cradle of Carvahall, a boy would soon stumble upon a stone that was no stone. Around his neck hung a blackened key, found seasons ago on a lonely hunt in the Spine. Its weight was familiar, almost forgotten, yet its purpose lay shrouded in mystery.
And within that boy stirred the soul of another, bound and fused, waiting for the day when destiny would awaken.
Thus the wheel turned, and the tale began.