Reborn as a Dragon in Alagaësia

The Spine was alive with the sounds of approaching winter. The rustle of leaves, the distant calls of birds preparing to migrate, and the gentle whisper of the wind through ancient trees created a melody that spoke of change. Bahamut perched on a rocky outcrop, his sharp amethyst eyes scanning the forest below. His massive frame was hidden by the dense foliage, and he moved with the kind of caution born of necessity.

Something significant was about to happen. He felt it in the magical currents that threaded through the air, a hum of energy that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. Though he hadn't shared his feelings with Brom, Bahamut knew the moment was fast approaching when everything would change. And the center of it all was Eragon.

The boy had matured into a capable young man over the years. Now sixteen, Eragon's lean frame and sharp eyes reflected his years of surviving and thriving in the harsh environment of the Spine. While most villagers avoided the mountain range, citing tales of doom and superstition, Eragon had become one with its rugged terrain. The forest held no fear for him—only opportunity and freedom.

Bahamut had been watching him closely. Careful to remain unseen, the dragon tracked Eragon's movements as he hunted and explored. Bahamut's connection to the boy felt like a string being drawn tighter, and he knew it was only a matter of time before their paths intertwined in a way neither could predict.

Brom and Bahamut: Restlessness

Brom arrived at their usual meeting place in the Spine, his boots crunching softly against the frost-touched ground. His staff was slung casually over his shoulder, and his eyes were sharp as he approached the clearing. Bahamut was already waiting, lying lazily near a boulder, his massive form coiled like a serpent.

"You're restless," Brom said, setting his staff against the boulder and sitting down on a fallen log.

Bahamut's tail flicked once, a sign of his agitation. "And you're observant."

Brom chuckled. "It's hard not to notice when a dragon can't keep still. What's bothering you?"

Bahamut hesitated. Over the years, he had grown to trust Brom, their shared understanding deepening with each encounter. Yet, there were things he kept to himself—secrets about his past, his true nature, and the sense of destiny that loomed like a shadow over Eragon.

"Let's call it instinct," Bahamut finally said, his mental voice carrying a weight that Brom didn't miss.

Brom raised an eyebrow but chose not to press the matter. "Instinct can be a powerful thing. But whatever it is, you've been on edge for weeks now. Does it have to do with Eragon?"

Bahamut's tail stilled, and his piercing gaze met Brom's. "The boy walks a dangerous path. He ventures deeper into the Spine with each hunt, and while his skills are growing, this forest is not without its dangers. He's young and bold—qualities that will serve him well one day but could also lead to his downfall."

Brom nodded slowly. "You've grown attached to him."

"I watch over him because no one else will," Bahamut replied, a touch of defensiveness in his tone.

"And yet, you remain hidden," Brom observed. "Why not reveal yourself to him? You've taken to watching him as closely as you do the stars. Surely he deserves to know."

Bahamut's tail flicked again, this time with frustration. "It is not time. When the moment comes, he will understand. Until then, he must walk his path alone."

Brom leaned back, studying the dragon thoughtfully. He didn't understand the source of Bahamut's restlessness, but he respected the dragon's judgment. Bahamut's instincts were rarely wrong, and if he believed Eragon's time had not yet come, Brom would trust him—for now.

Eragon in the Spine

The crisp air of the Spine was laced with the scent of pine and the faint metallic tang of frost as Eragon moved through the forest, tracking his prey. His steps were quiet, his eyes sharp, and his bow ready. He was deep into the Spine, farther than most in Carvahall dared to venture. This wilderness was his refuge—a place to escape the monotonous grind of farm life and the watchful eyes of the village.

That morning, he had come across the tracks of a lame deer. The creature's uneven gait left a trail that was easy to follow. He had spent hours in pursuit, moving silently through the dense underbrush until he finally spotted it grazing in a clearing.

Eragon drew back his bowstring, the arrow aimed true, his focus steady. But just as he released, a brilliant explosion of blue light erupted in front of him. The arrow veered off course, striking a tree instead of the deer.

The deer bolted into the woods, forgotten as Eragon shielded his eyes from the searing light. When the brilliance faded, he blinked, his vision slowly adjusting. At the center of the clearing, where the light had been, lay something gleaming—a smooth, polished stone that glowed with an otherworldly blue hue.

He approached cautiously, his heart pounding. Kneeling beside the stone, he hesitated before reaching out to touch it. The surface was cool and smooth under his fingers, and a faint hum of energy pulsed through it, sending shivers up his arm.

"What are you?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Deciding it could be valuable, Eragon carefully picked up the stone and tucked it into his pack. He didn't know what it was, but he figured someone in Carvahall might be willing to pay a good price for it. If nothing else, he could trade it for food for his family.

The Exchange with Sloan

Two days later, Eragon trudged into Carvahall, his pack heavier than usual. The blue stone's weight seemed to press against him, not just physically but with a strange sense of importance that he couldn't quite explain. He ignored the curious looks from villagers as he walked down the main street and headed straight for Sloan's butcher shop.

The shop was dimly lit and smelled of raw meat and sawdust. Sloan stood behind the counter, his hands busy trimming a slab of pork. He glanced up as the door swung open, his sharp eyes narrowing when he saw Eragon.

"What do you want?" Sloan asked, his tone curt.

Eragon stepped forward, ignoring the man's usual unpleasant demeanor. He reached into his pack and pulled out the blue stone, setting it carefully on the counter. It gleamed in the dim light, its polished surface catching every flicker of the lantern hanging overhead.

"I found this in the Spine," Eragon said. "I thought maybe you'd be interested in buying it."

Sloan wiped his hands on his apron and leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he examined the stone. "What is it?" he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

"I'm not sure," Eragon admitted. "But it looks valuable, doesn't it?"

Sloan reached out to touch the stone but hesitated, as if wary of it. Finally, he shook his head. "Could be worth something. Could be worthless. I'll give you three crowns for it."

Eragon frowned, his brow furrowing. "Three crowns? That's hardly anything for something like this. Look at it! It's not just some ordinary rock."

Sloan shrugged. "It's worth three crowns to me. Take it or leave it."

Eragon hesitated, frustration bubbling under the surface. He needed food for his family, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Sloan was trying to cheat him.

Before he could respond, Sloan's expression darkened. His eyes darted back to the stone, and his lips curled in a sneer. "Wait. You said you found this in the Spine?"

"Yes," Eragon said cautiously.

Sloan slammed his hand on the counter, startling Eragon. "Then I don't want it. I don't deal with anything that comes out of that cursed place. Take your stone and get out of my shop."

"What? Why?" Eragon demanded, his voice rising.

Sloan leaned forward, his face inches from Eragon's. "Because the Spine is a place of death and misfortune. Nothing good comes from there. If you're smart, boy, you'll get rid of that thing before it brings you trouble."

At that moment, the shop door creaked open, and Katrina, Sloan's daughter, stepped inside. She froze when she saw the tension between her father and Eragon, her eyes flicking to the blue stone on the counter.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice soft but firm.

"Nothing that concerns you," Sloan snapped, but Katrina ignored him and turned to Eragon.

"Is he giving you trouble again?" she asked, her tone gentler now.

Eragon nodded, glaring at Sloan. "He won't buy the stone, and he's being a stubborn fool about it."

Katrina sighed and turned back to the door. "Wait here."

A few moments later, she returned with Horst, the blacksmith. The large man filled the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the scene.

"What's this about, Sloan?" Horst asked, his voice calm but commanding.

Sloan scowled but didn't answer. Instead, Katrina explained the situation, pointing to the blue stone on the counter.

Horst stepped forward, examining the stone with a critical eye. Then he turned to Eragon. "How about this, lad? I'll buy you the best steaks and roasts Sloan has, and you can work off the cost in the spring."

Eragon's eyes widened in gratitude. "Really? Thank you, Horst."

Horst nodded, then glanced at Sloan. "Wrap up the meat, Sloan. Don't make me wait."

Sloan grumbled under his breath but obeyed, quickly packing the promised meat. Eragon took the bundle, thanked Horst again, and left the shop, feeling a mixture of relief and frustration.

Returning to the Farm

When Eragon returned to the farm, he showed the blue stone to his uncle, Garrow. The older man frowned, his expression a mix of concern and disapproval when Eragon explained the encounter with Sloan.

"He's a fool," Garrow said gruffly. "But he's not wrong about one thing. That stone could bring trouble. The Spine has a way of touching everything it spits out."

Eragon sighed. "It's just a stone, Uncle. And thanks to Horst, we have enough food to last us a while. I'll find a way to make up for it in the spring."

Garrow nodded but didn't look entirely convinced. As Eragon placed the stone on the mantel, its gleaming surface catching the firelight, he couldn't help but wonder what secrets it held—and why it had found its way to him.