Reborn as a Dragon in Alagaësia

Brom's eyes shifted between Oromis and Islanzadí as the weight of Glaedr's words settled over the group. The golden dragon's words echoed in Brom's mind, his voice full of quiet authority and sorrow.

The idea of the young dragon—a solitary creature without a Rider—was almost unbearable for Glaedr, Brom could tell. Yet there was hope interwoven in the grief. It was a strange and delicate thread, pulling at all of them. Brom sighed, adjusting the hem of his cloak as he turned back to Islanzadí.

The Elven Queen's emerald eyes shimmered with excitement. She stood tall and regal, but her voice betrayed her eagerness. "Another dragon, Brom," she murmured, almost reverently. "It is a miracle, and one I never thought to see in my lifetime. Tell me, what was it like? What did you see? Was it male or female?"

Brom hesitated for a moment, recalling every detail of that fateful encounter on the outskirts of Carvahall. "The dragon," he began, choosing his words carefully, "is unlike any I've seen before. His scales shimmer a deep purple, darker than the twilight sky but with a faint metallic sheen. His eyes… amathyst, intelligent, and piercing. He's larger than I would expect for a dragon so young. Perhaps two-thirds the size of Glaedr."

Islanzadí's brows lifted slightly, her lips parting in awe. "Two-thirds the size of Glaedr? That is no small dragon."

"No," Brom admitted. "He's unusually large for his age—or at least what I assume to be his age. From the brief look I had of him and the feel of his mind, I believe he's male. But there's more. When I attempted to probe his thoughts, his mind felt... layered, older than I expected. There was an intelligence there that made me question how young he truly is."

Glaedr's deep voice resonated within their minds, startling Brom slightly. If he is as large as you say, Brom, then he may not be as young as you believe. A dragon's growth is tied not just to time but to magic and the bond they share with their Rider. Without a Rider to temper him, this young male might have grown unchecked, his magic fueling his size. I suspect he could be a decade old—perhaps older.

The room fell silent as the weight of Glaedr's speculation settled over them. A dragon, alone for so long, without a Rider to guide or temper him... it was a troubling thought. Brom clenched his fists at his sides, feeling a pang of guilt. Had he been too slow to act? Too cautious?

Islanzadí broke the silence. "A decade," she mused, her voice soft. "For ten years, he has lived in solitude. No dragon should endure such loneliness."

Brom nodded, but it was Glaedr who spoke again, his voice tinged with sorrow. Loneliness is a burden that few can bear without consequence. If you have the chance, Brom, bring him here. I wish to meet him. I will not see the last of my kin condemned to such an existence. Even if he has no Rider, Ellesméra would welcome him as one of our own.

Oromis, who had remained quiet until now, stepped forward. "If the dragon chooses to come to Ellesméra, we will offer him sanctuary. But do not force his hand, Brom. Dragons are proud and fiercely independent creatures. He may have a reason for lingering near Carvahall. You must tread carefully."

Brom inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I will do what I can. If he allows it, I will guide him here. But if he chooses to stay in the Spine, I will respect his decision."

Oromis placed a hand on Brom's shoulder, his touch firm yet gentle. "You have always been a man of honor, Brom. Trust your instincts—they will serve you well."

Brom's gaze softened as he looked at his old mentor. "Thank you, Oromis. And please, pass my thanks to Glaedr as well. I will not forget his words."

With that, Brom took his leave, walking out of Oromis's dwelling alongside Islanzadí. The Elven Queen's expression was thoughtful, her usual regal demeanor tempered by a genuine warmth. As they strolled through the twilight-lit paths of Ellesméra, she turned to Brom.

"Will you stay the night, Brom? You have traveled far, and I would offer you the hospitality of my halls before you return to Carvahall."

Brom hesitated briefly, then nodded. "Thank you, Islanzadí. That would be most welcome."

As they made their way toward the Queen's halls, Islanzadí glanced at Brom with a flicker of concern. "You have been watching over Carvahall for many years now. Tell me, how fares my daughter? Was she well the last time you saw her?"

"Arya was well when I last saw her," Brom replied, his tone softening. "Determined as ever, and as sharp as a blade. You should be proud of her."

A faint smile touched Islanzadí's lips. "I am. But I worry for her. The burdens she carries are heavy, and the path she walks is fraught with danger."

Brom nodded solemnly, but there was little more to say. Their conversation drifted to lighter topics as they reached Islanzadí's halls, where Brom was shown to a room. The soft light of the elves' magic filled the space, and Brom allowed himself a rare moment of peace as he prepared for the long journey back to Carvahall.

Bahamut's Watch

Far away, in the depths of the Spine, Bahamut lay curled in his new cave. The rocky walls were adorned with faint scorch marks where he had tested his flame, and the air carried the faint scent of pine and earth. His tail twitched restlessly as he stared at the cave's entrance, his thoughts a tangled web of uncertainty.

Brom had found him once, over a year ago. The encounter had been brief but impactful, and Bahamut still felt the weight of the man's presence. He had been careful ever since, avoiding the outskirts of Carvahall and keeping to the deeper parts of the Spine. But no matter how far he ventured, his thoughts always returned to the small village—and to the boy who lived there.

Eragon.

The name echoed in his mind, a tether he didn't fully understand. The boy was young, barely more than a child, but there was something about him that drew Bahamut's attention. He Knew he was not his rider, and he suspected he will never have one but there was something there that felt like he was destined to watch over the boy. He had watched from the shadows, observing the boy and his family. Eragon's laughter, his curiosity, his quiet determination—they all reminded Bahamut of a time long past, a time before the Riders had fallen.

Bahamut shifted his weight, his claws scraping against the stone floor. Enough, he thought. He could not stay hidden forever. The Spine was vast, but it was not a prison. Tonight, he would venture closer to Carvahall.

The flight was swift and silent, his massive wings cutting through the night air with ease. He approached the village cautiously, keeping to the cover of the trees. From his vantage point, he could see the faint glow of lanterns and the flicker of hearth fires. His amathyst eyes scanned the familiar landscape, searching for the one figure who had always intrigued him.

Eragon was there, playing with his cousin Roran near the edge of the farm. The boy's laughter carried on the wind, and Bahamut felt a strange pang in his chest. He did not understand this connection, but it was undeniable.

For hours, Bahamut watched, his massive form hidden in the shadows. But as the night deepened, he realized something was missing. Brom was nowhere to be seen.

The absence of the cloaked man unsettled Bahamut. For all his caution, he had come to associate Brom with the village's quiet strength. Without him, Carvahall felt... vulnerable.

Bahamut growled softly, his tail flicking with agitation. He did not know what Brom's absence meant, but he resolved to keep watch over the village in the days to come. For now, it was the least he could do.

As the first rays of dawn painted the horizon, Bahamut retreated to the safety of the forest. His thoughts churned with uncertainty, but one thing was clear: his connection to Carvahall—and to Eragon—was far from over.