Eragon knelt in a bed of trampled reed grass and scanned the tracks with a practiced eye. The prints told him that the deer had been in the meadow only a half-hour before. Soon they would bed down. His target, a small doe with a pronounced limp in her left forefoot, was still with the herd. He was amazed she had made it so far without a wolf or bear catching her.

Beside him knelt a girl about his age. She too studied the prints with care. Delicate waves of ebony hair were twisted in a french plait down her back. Her face was naturally the colour of fresh straw, with defined, slanting features and was thinly sculpted. Sharp brows perched upon her unusually violet, cat-like eyes. Her visible ears were unnaturally pointed.

She wore soft, leather boots, a weathered olive tunic and patched chestnut leggings. Pinning stray strands from her face, was a thin leather band, resting like a noblewoman's circlet. Slung across her back was a black tube, encasing a hand carved yew bow.

The sky was clear and dark, and a slight breeze stirred the air. A silvery cloud drifted over the mountains that surrounded them, its edges glowing with ruddy light cast from the harvest moon cradled between two peaks. Streams flowed down the mountains from stolid glaciers and glistening snowpacks. A brooding mist crept along the valley's floor, almost thick enough to obscure their feet.

Eragon was fifteen, less than a year from manhood. Dark eyebrows rested above his intense brown eyes. His clothes were worn from work. A hunting knife with a bone handle was sheathed at his belt, and a buckskin tube protected his yew bow from the mist. He carried a wood-frame pack.

Jarnün was fifteen as well. She, like Eragon, carried a hunting knife sheathed in her belt and a long quiver on her right hip.

The deer had led them deep into the Spine, a range of untamed mountains that extended up and down the land of Alagaësia. Strange tales and men often came from those mountains, usually boding ill. Despite that, Eragon and Jarnün did not fear the Spine—they were the only hunters near or from Carvahall who dared track game deep into its craggy recesses.

It was the third night of the hunt, and their food was half gone. If Eragon did not fell the doe, he would be forced to return home empty-handed. His family needed the meat for the rapidly approaching winter and could not afford to buy it in Carvahall. Jarnün always accompanied him on his trips to help provide his family with full stomachs over the bleak months. She had no need of the deer in the spine as her household could afford the expense in Carvahall.

Eragon stood with quiet assurance in the dusky moonlight, then strode into the forest toward a glen where he was sure the deer would rest. Jarnün followed swiftly behind him. The trees blocked the sky from view and cast feathery shadows on the ground. She looked at the tracks only occasionally; she knew the way.

At the glen, he strung his bow with a sure touch, then drew three arrows and nocked one, holding the others in his left hand. Like a mirror, Jarnün parroted his move and nocked a goose feather arrow. The moonlight revealed twenty or so motionless lumps where the deer lay in the grass. The doe Eragon wanted was at the edge of the herd, her left foreleg stretched out awkwardly.

Jarnün steadily slipped closer, towards a young buck with a broken right antler. He rested near the front of the herd.

Eragon slowly crept closer to his prey, keeping the bow ready. Jarnün inched closer to her victim. All their work of the past three days had led to this moment. They each took a last steadying breath and—an explosion shattered the night.

The herd bolted. Eragon lunged forward, racing through the grass as a fiery wind surged past his cheek. With unmatchable speed, Jarnün drew her knife and hurled it after the escaping buck. It sliced down his left back leg before landing in the grass metres behind. Instantly, she strung a second arrow onto her bow. Eragon slid to a stop and loosed an arrow at the bounding doe. It missed by a finger's breadth and hissed into darkness. He cursed and spun around, instinctively nocking another arrow.

Behind them, where the deer had been, smoldered a large circle of grass and trees. Many of the pines stood bare of their needles. The grass outside the charring was flattened. A wisp of smoke curled in the air, carrying a burnt smell. In the center of the blast radius lay two polished stones: one blue, one white. Mist snaked across the scorched area and swirled insubstantial tendrils over the stones.

Eragon and Jarnün watched for danger for several long minutes, but the only thing that moved was the mist. Cautiously, Eragon released the tension from his bow and moved forward. Moonlight cast him in pale shadow as he stopped before the stones. He nudged one with an arrow, then jumped back. Nothing happened, so he warily picked it up.

Nature had never polished a stone as smooth as this one. Its flawless surface was dark blue, except for thin veins of white that spiderwebbed across it. The stone was cool and frictionless under his fingers, like hardened silk. Oval and about a foot long, it weighed several pounds, though it felt lighter than it should have.

After seeing Eragon, Jarnün attentively walked towards the charred area and poked the remaining stone, before picking it up in her small hands. Like the blue, the white stone was extraordinarily smooth. It's flawless surface was a vibrant white, excluding the violet veins that spiderwebbed across it. The stone was smooth and frictionless upon her fingers, and almost seemed to slip from her hands. Her stone, like Eragon's, was oval but slightly larger than his, and also weighed less than it should have.

Eragon found the stones both beautiful and frightening. Where did they come from? Do they have a purpose? Then a more disturbing thought came to him: Were they sent here by accident, or are we meant to have them? If he had learned anything from the old stories, it was to treat magic, and those who used it, with great caution.

But what should I do with my stone? It would be tiresome to carry, and there was a chance it was dangerous. It might be better to leave it behind. A flicker of indecision ran through him, and he almost dropped it, but something stayed his hand. At the very least, it might pay for some food, he decided with a shrug, tucking the stone into his pack.

"Where are you going?" Jarnün whispered.

Eragon turned to look at her and quietly replied, "We might as well keep the stones; they could be worth something. I picked the blue and you picked the white, so it's only fair that you get to keep yours."

Smiling slightly, she nodded in agreement and slowly stood to her feet while cradling the stone. Softly, she walked to the bush she had left her pack in and carefully stored the stone in it. Afterwards, Jarnün returned to the glen.

"I will go find the buck I was tracking." She stated, startling Eragon.

"Why?"

"I hit its back leg with my knife so it won't have run very far and it's trail will be easy to follow."

"Okay." Eragon replied while she stared following the buck's escape route.

When she returned, Jarnün carried the young deer over her shoulders which Eragon took from her and tied to his pack.

"We can take it in turns to carry it." She stated.

"It's fine, I can carry it myself." He replied.

"No. We should take it in turns because it is too heavy to carry by yourself for the whole journey."

"If you insist."

The glen was too exposed to make a safe camp, so they slipped back into the forest and spread their bedrolls beneath the upturned roots of a fallen tree. After a cold dinner of bread and cheese, they wrapped themselves in blankets and fell asleep, pondering what had occurred.