Wind howled through the night, carrying a scent that would change the world.
A tall Shade stepped out of hiding, his crimson hair blowing wildly. He fixed his gaze upon the distant trail, where three elves fled through the forest. In his pale hands he held a sword, and behind him the Ra'zac shifted restlessly, their cloaked forms hunched and silent.
The night deepened. Stars gleamed over the Spine, their cold light falling upon the mountain ranges that loomed like sleeping giants. To the east lay Palancar Valley, a ribbon of fields and farms nestled between peaks. And within it, the small, forgotten village of Carvahall.
There, a boy hunted.
Eragon knelt in the underbrush, his bow steady in his hands. Frost dusted the ground, clinging to the brown leather of his boots. He breathed slowly, watching the trail ahead where deer often passed. His dark hair, longer than most in the village, stirred with the wind.
Around his neck hung a cord of worn leather, and upon it a blackened key — iron and ancient, edges weathered but unbroken. He had found it seasons ago during a solitary hunt deep in the Spine, gleaming faintly in the dirt after a storm. At first, he had thought little of it. But he wore it still, the weight familiar against his chest, though he knew not why.
The forest was silent, save for the whisper of branches. Eragon shifted slightly, and for the briefest moment, something stirred within him — a flicker of awareness not his own. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving behind only a faint impression, like a memory half-forgotten.
He frowned, shook his head, and refocused on the path. The deer would come soon.
A pair of doves fluttered from a branch, their wings clattering in the stillness. Eragon looked up just in time to see a small herd of deer enter the clearing. Their steps were light, their ears twitching at every sound.
Slowly, carefully, he raised his bow. He notched an arrow, drew back the string, and held his breath. The cold bit into his fingers.
One of the deer — a doe — lifted her head, ears pricking. She sniffed the air, muscles taut, then lowered her head to graze.
Eragon released.
The arrow hissed through the night.
The deer bolted. His shot flew wide, thudding into a tree. Eragon cursed under his breath, already leaping forward, sprinting after them. His boots pounded against the frosted earth, branches whipped at his face, and still he ran.
The key thumped against his chest with every stride, and something deep inside him — Richard's faint echo — urged him onward, though he did not know why.
At last, the deer vanished into the trees. Eragon skidded to a halt, breath ragged in the cold night. His muscles ached, and his empty quiver weighed heavy on his back.
Then — the forest shook.
A soundless blast tore through the Spine, a shockwave of light and force. Trees bent and shuddered, snow cascaded from branches, and Eragon was thrown to the ground. He lay stunned, ears ringing, his heart pounding like a drum. The key at his chest seared with sudden heat, pulsing once, then cooling again.
The light faded, leaving the woods eerily still.
Slowly, Eragon staggered to his feet. Smoke curled between the trees, and in the center of the clearing lay something that had not been there before.
A stone.
No — not a stone.
It was smooth and polished, its surface dark as polished sapphire. Veins of blue light shimmered faintly across it, as if the depths themselves held fire. It was larger than a man's fist, heavy and perfect in shape.
Eragon approached, wary. He crouched and touched it. The surface was cool beneath his fingertips, and for an instant, the strange awareness within him flickered again — stronger now, as if something inside the stone stirred in answer.
He pulled back, unsettled.
Still, the stone was precious. Such a thing could buy food for his family through the winter, perhaps even tools or animals. Carefully, he wrapped it in his cloak and slung it across his back.
The forest was silent once more, as if holding its breath.
Eragon turned toward the valley. Snow swirled in the air, and he began the long trek home. The weight of the stone pressed against him with every step, heavy yet comforting, while the black key tapped lightly against his chest.
Unseen, in the depths of the Spine, faint echoes stirred — fragments of kingdoms lost, shadows of a castle hidden across the sea. But Eragon knew nothing of this yet. All he felt was the stone's cold weight, and the sense that his life had just changed forever.