Reborn as a Dragon in Alagaësia

Six months had passed since James had woken up in this strange, scaly form. Each day, he carved a mark into the stone wall of his cave—a small act of control in a world that felt vast and uncertain.

His progress with Occlumency was slow, painfully so, but he had developed what he thought were basic defenses. He wasn't sure if they would stand up to a skilled magician, but it was better than nothing. Still, every time he meditated, he resolved to make those defenses stronger.

Tonight, however, his mind was occupied with another challenge.

When am I?

If he could figure that out, it would give him a better sense of the dangers ahead. The only way to do that, he reasoned, was to investigate the nearest landmark tied to the story: Carvahall. Specifically, Garrow's farm.

The night sky was a blanket of stars as James soared over the Spine, his dark scales rendering him nearly invisible in the shadows. Flying was becoming second nature now, and he navigated the valleys and peaks with ease.

When he reached the edge of Carvahall, he slowed, circling high above. The village below looked quiet, its small cluster of homes lit only by the faint glow of moonlight. Beyond it, to the east, was farmland.

He scanned the area, searching for the telltale barn and modest house that marked Garrow's homestead. His sharp eyes caught sight of a likely candidate—a humble farmhouse surrounded by fields and bordered by the forest.

James descended to the edge of the woods, landing softly in the underbrush. He tucked his wings close to his body and settled down to wait, keeping his eyes on the house.

Dawn broke over the Spine, bathing the fields in golden light. James's patience paid off when the farmhouse door creaked open.

A man stepped out. James's heart leapt in recognition—it was Garrow. But something was different.

This Garrow was younger, his features less weathered by time and hardship. His dark hair had yet to turn gray, and his posture was straighter. James's mind reeled. This was Garrow in his prime, perhaps twenty years younger than the man described in the books.

Then, to James's utter surprise, the door opened again, and a young woman stepped out to join Garrow.

James blinked, his jaw hanging slightly open. The woman had long auburn hair tied back and a warm smile that lit up her face as she greeted Garrow. She was beautiful, with a graceful yet practical air about her.

Who is that? James thought, his mind racing.

Then it hit him.

Marian. That's Marian—Garrow's wife.

The realization was like a lightning bolt. Marian, who had died when Roran was young. Marian, whose death had driven Garrow to raise Eragon and Roran alone. But here she was, alive and well, laughing softly at something Garrow said as they walked into the yard.

James's gaze darted back to the farmhouse. There was no sign of a child. Roran hadn't been born yet.

His chest tightened as the weight of the discovery settled on him. He wasn't just years before the events of Eragon—he was decades. If Roran wasn't born yet, it had to be at least eighteen or nineteen years before the story began.

The thought left him both awed and unsettled. He was seeing a version of this world that no one in canon ever had. A version untouched by the events that would eventually unfold.

He watched as Garrow and Marian began their morning routine, tending to the farm. They looked happy, their movements in sync as they worked side by side. It was a glimpse into a life that had been lost in the books, and James felt a pang of guilt for intruding on their peace.

A faint breeze stirred the forest, and James instinctively shifted deeper into the shadows. He couldn't risk being seen, especially not now.

Garrow's Point of View

Garrow stretched as he stepped out into the cool morning air, the first rays of sunlight spilling over the Spine. Beside him, Marian followed, her presence a comforting constant in his life.

"Beautiful morning," she said, her voice soft and warm.

"Aye," he replied, glancing at the fields. There was always work to be done, but today felt like a good day for it. The wheat needed tending, and the barn roof was due for repairs. He made a mental list as he surveyed the farm.

Marian walked ahead, heading toward the garden to check on the vegetables. Garrow lingered for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the forest.

Something caught his eye—a flash of color, deep and rich, like purple silk against the green backdrop of the trees. He frowned, squinting into the distance.

"What is it?" Marian called from the garden, noticing his hesitation.

"Nothing," Garrow said after a pause, shaking his head. It was probably just a trick of the light.

He turned back to the fields, dismissing the fleeting glimpse as his mind returned to the tasks of the day.

But even as he worked, the image of that purple glimmer lingered at the edges of his thoughts.

James's Point of View

James flew back to his cave as the sun climbed higher in the sky, careful to stay hidden in the shadows of the forest. When he landed, he folded his wings and let out a deep breath.

He had learned far more than he expected. Knowing that he was nearly two decades before the events of the books gave him a timeline to work with. It wasn't just Saphira's hatching he had to prepare for—there were so many other events, so many potential dangers.

Sitting on the cool stone floor of his cave, James began to form a plan. At night, he would perfect his flying skills and hunt to sustain himself, ensuring he remained unseen. During the day, he would continue his meditations, honing his Occlumency.

And he would keep an eye on Garrow and Marian. He needed to know when Roran was born and how much time he had until Saphira hatched.

For now, though, he allowed himself a moment of quiet. The world was vast, and his place in it uncertain. But with each day, he was learning, adapting, and preparing.

I'll be ready, he thought, determination burning in his chest. No matter what comes next.