CHAPTER ONE

The Arrival

I stared at Eragon, my mouth slightly agape, my heart pounding in my chest.Eragon.Not just a boy with a bow, buttheEragon. The boy who would one day ride Saphira, who would challenge Galbatorix, whose name would echo across Alagaësia for generations. I couldn't believe it. My thoughts raced as I realized what this meant—I was in the story, living it. I wasn't just reading it anymore; I was here, in this world, where everything I knew from the books was real.

I tilted my head toward the sky, my mind buzzing.Was today the night?The night when the dragon egg would come to him? Or was it still years away? I needed more information—needed to figure outwhenI was.

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "How old are you, Eragon?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering in them. "Why does it matter?" he asked, his voice cautious.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Just curious. I mean, you look my age."

He studied me for a moment before answering, "I'm thirteen. And you?"

A wave of relief washed over me.Two years early. Perfect.That meant I had time—time to prepare for what was coming. "I'm thirteen too," I replied with a small smile.

He nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Well, it's good to have someone my age around. Not many in Carvahall are." He paused, his tone shifting to one of curiosity. "You'll have to tell me where you're from, though. You're… not dressed like anyone I've ever seen, and you do not ook familiar, you are not from palancar valley."

I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere.Carvahall.I was going to see it. The village, the people—Garrow, Roran, Horst, and the others. I was actually going to meet them. A thrill of excitement coursed through me, but I forced myself to stay calm.

"Come on," Eragon said after a moment, motioning with his hand. "You can share my camp for the night. It's not much, but it'll keep you out of the rain."

I followed him, my stomach growling faintly as the scent of something cooking hit my nose. The camp was modest—a small fire, a makeshift spit where a rabbit roasted over the flames, and a simple bedroll. It wasn't much, but it was cozy. Eragon handed me a piece of the rabbit after we sat down.

"Here," he said, watching me closely as I took it. "You looked hungry."

"Thanks, this looks good." I said, grateful despite the awkwardness I felt. I bit into the rabbit leg, savoring the smoky flavor. It wasn't much, but it was better than anything I'd eaten at home in a long time.

"I hunt here in the Spine when I can," Eragon explained, breaking the silence. "My uncle and cousin can't always afford meat from the butcher. So I hunt for meat. This bow helps a lot, though." He held up his bow, a simple yet sturdy weapon.

I nodded, inspecting it. "It's… nice," I said, though my mind wandered. My knowledge of future tools and ideas from my world could be useful here—veryuseful. But one thought hit me like a lightning strike as I gnawed on the rabbit leg:Magic.

My pulse quickened. Could I use it? The voice—whatever it was—had said I was its champion and had gifts. Was magic one of them? I had to find out, but not now. Not in front of Eragon.

After the meal, we talked more. Eragon asked about my arm, his gaze flicking to the awkward bend in it.

"It's fine," I said quickly, brushing it off. "Don't worry about it. I set it myself."

His brows furrowed, but he didn't press the issue. Instead, he told me about his uncle Garrow and his cousin Roran, describing them with a warmth that made my chest ache. I knew them from the books, but I pretended to listen as if hearing it for the first time.

When the conversation slowed, Eragon stretched out on his bedroll. "We'll head to Carvahall in the morning," he said, his voice tinged with a kindness I wasn't used to. "The villagers will help you figure out where you belong."

I nodded, my throat tight. I had known Eragon for less than an hour, yet he had already shown me more compassion than my own mother ever had for years.

Soon, Eragon's breathing evened out, and I knew he was asleep. The fire crackled softly, casting shadows that danced across the trees. I waited a little longer, my nerves tingling, then sat up, careful not to wake him.

I grabbed a small stone from the ground and held it in my hand, my heart pounding. I closed my eyes, focusing all my will, and whispered, "Stenr rïsa."

The stone shot out of my palm like a bullet, streaking into the forest with a faint whistle. I gasped, staring at my hand. There was no noticeable energy drain—no weakness. Nothing. I could barely contain my excitement.I have magic,I thought, my chest swelling with joy.I'm free.

I wasn't done. My arm throbbed as I focused again, whispering, "Waíse heill." Warmth spread through my body, and I watched in awe as the swelling subsided and the awkward bend in my arm straightened. The pain melted away, leaving only a faint tingle in its wake.

I flexed my fingers, marveling at how natural it felt. I barely felt the energy drain.Damn, I'm a powerhouse,I thought, my mind racing. That was just me using the words I remembered from the books, If I could master the ancient language, I could become unstoppable.

But the voice… it still lingered in my thoughts. It had said I was its champion. Was it the hidden dragons? No, it didn't feel like a dragon. It felt singular, ancient, something older than the dragons themselves. The mystery could wait.

For now, I sat by the fire, a grin spreading across my face. I hadn't felt joy in so long, but in this moment, I let it wash over me. This was my second chance, and I wasn't going to waste it. This world was mine to shape, and I would write my own story.

The first rays of sunlight pierced through the canopy of the Spine, casting golden shafts of light into the clearing. Eragon stirred, groaning softly as he stretched. His eyes blinked open, adjusting to the brightness, and then they widened in shock.

"By the gods," he muttered, sitting up quickly. "A doe?"

I stood a few feet away, leaning casually against a tree, arms crossed over my chest. The massive doe lay in the middle of the camp, its neck stretched out unnaturally, its coat pristine except for the single arrow lodged perfectly in its eye. I couldn't help but grin at his expression. "Morning," I said, suppressing a chuckle.

Eragon scrambled to his feet, his gaze darting between me and the doe. "How did you do this?" he demanded, awe and suspicion mingling in his voice. "That thing must weigh more than both of us combined!"

I shrugged, keeping my tone nonchalant. "Got lucky."

"Lucky?" Eragon raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. "You killed it with one shot and brought it here? Alone?"

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to hide my excitement. I hadn't told him about what I'd discovered during the night—my newfound strength and speed. After finishing my magic practice, I'd stayed up, restless, watching the camp. That's when I'd spotted the doe not far off. Testing my limits, I'd picked up an arrow and, the word Jierda, sent it flying straight into the animal's eye.

moving the doe back to camp had brought on another revelation. I was freakishly strong, carrying the creature over my shoulders like it weighed nothing. Curious, I'd tested my speed too, sprinting through the forest with a lightness and precision that felt almost unreal. I was as fast and agile as the elves Eragon would one day meet. The sheer thrill of it had kept me awake for hours.

But I wasn't ready to share all that with Eragon. Not yet.

"Yeah," I said with a half-smile. "Lucky."

Eragon shook his head, still staring at the doe. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?" He crouched down, inspecting the kill. His fingers brushed over the arrow. "This shot is… perfect. Right in the eye. You sure you haven't been hunting your whole life?"

"Beginner's luck," I said again, trying to keep the conversation light.

He laughed, the sound genuine and warm. "Well, lucky or not, this is incredible. Come on, let's not waste it."

Eragon set to work, pulling a knife from his pack and kneeling beside the doe. He glanced up at me. "Have you ever skinned an animal before?"

I shook my head. "Not exactly."

"Well, I can teach you if you want, not my first doe I've killed.." He flashed a grin, and for the next hour, he walked me through the process, explaining each step with the patience of someone who loved what they were doing.

"This is the hide," he said, carefully peeling it back. "If you take your time and cut along the right lines, you can keep it mostly intact. Useful for clothing or trade."

I crouched beside him, watching intently, absorbing every detail. His hands worked deftly, the knife slicing through fur and flesh with practiced ease.

"Next, you have to cut the meat away from the bones," he continued, holding up a chunk of venison. "Pack it tightly so it doesn't spoil. Salt helps, but we don't have any with us."

I nodded, storing the information for later. Watching Eragon in his element was… inspiring. In the books, I'd always known him as a natural hunter, but seeing him like this—calm, focused, and completely at home in the wilderness—was something else entirely.

Once the meat was packed into his bag, Eragon stood and wiped his hands on a rag. "We'll leave the rest for the wolves," he said, glancing at the discarded carcass. "They'll make quick work of it."

I helped him hoist the pack onto his shoulders, then grabbed my own. The weight of the supplies didn't faze me—I could have carried twice as much without breaking a sweat.

"Ready to head to Carvahall?" he asked, slinging his bow across his back.

"Yeah," I said, my heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and excitement. "Let's go."

As we stepped onto the forest path, the sunlight filtering through the trees felt warmer, brighter. Eragon walked ahead, humming softly under his breath, while I followed, my mind racing with possibilities.

I was strong now. Fast. Capable of magic. But more than that, I was here—alive in this world, walking beside Eragon on a journey that would change everything.

The road to Carvahall stretched ahead, and with every step, I felt the weight of my old life falling away. This was my second chance, my new beginning, and I intended to make the most of it.

The air was crisp as we descended into Palancar Valley, the winding road eventually giving way to the charming, rustic village of Carvahall. Nestled beside a gently flowing river, the village was alive with the sounds of hammers on anvils, chatter among farmers, and the occasional whinny of a horse. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of wood smoke and fresh earth filled the air.

Eragon led the way confidently, gesturing to various landmarks as we walked into the heart of the village. "We should go see Horst," he suggested, his tone casual but firm. "He's the blacksmith here. If anyone can help you, it's him."

I nodded, playing along, even though I already knew exactly who Horst was from the books. I kept my excitement bottled up, masking it behind a neutral expression. "Sounds like a good idea," I replied, feigning ignorance.

The blacksmith's house and forge were impossible to miss—a large two-story structure with a sturdy wooden frame, next to which stood a forge that glowed faintly from embers still alive from the morning's work. The rhythmic clanging of metal on metal echoed as we approached, and soon we spotted Horst's two sons, Baldor and Alberich, busy at work. Both stopped when they noticed us.

"Eragon!" Baldor greeted with a wide smile before his gaze fell on me. His smile faded into a curious frown. "Who's your friend? And… what are you wearing?"

I glanced down at myself: Nike sneakers, blue jeans, a striped shirt, and a hoodie. Okay, maybe I stood out a bit, but I couldn't help but roll my eyes internally. Were my clothes really that strange to them? Still, I forced a polite smile and extended my hand. "Hello. I'm Mark Wilson," I said warmly.

Horst himself emerged then, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard and kind but perceptive eyes. He glanced at me briefly before turning to Eragon, who gave him a small nod, as if silently vouching for me. Only then did Horst take my hand, shaking it firmly.

"Well met, Mark," he said, his voice deep and steady. "I'm Horst Ostrecsson, and these are my sons, Baldor and Alberich."

Both boys nodded in greeting, though their curiosity about my strange appearance was evident. I greeted them back politely, keeping my tone measured and respectful.

Horst's sharp eyes returned to me. "Eragon tells me he found you in the Spine. Why were you there, alone, where are your parents?"

I took a deep breath, sticking to my story. "I don't remember much," I said carefully. "Just my name. Everything else is… hazy."

Horst's brow furrowed slightly, and I could tell he didn't fully believe me. His silence stretched for a moment before he finally nodded, though his eyes lingered on me, studying. "Hmm," he muttered. "I see, well, do you have anywhere to stay?"

I shook my head, and before I could say anything, Eragon interjected. "That's why I brought him here. I thought you might be able to help."

Horst scratched his beard thoughtfully, then sighed. "You can stay here, boy, at least until you've made other arrangements. But you'll have to work off your debt. Think you can handle the forge?"

Relief swept through me, and I nodded quickly. "I'll try my best. I'll do whatever you need."

He extended his hand again, and I shook it firmly. His lips quirked into a faint smile. "Good. Then it's settled. But first…" His gaze flicked over my clothes, and his smile turned into a hearty laugh. "We'll need to get you some proper attire. You look downright peculiar in that getup."

I flushed slightly but managed a sheepish smile. "I guess I don't blend in very well."

Horst chuckled. "No, you don't. Come on, let's see what Elain can do for you."

We walked to Horst's home, where his wife, Elain, greeted us warmly. Just as the books described, she was kind and motherly, with a soft voice that put me at ease. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity when she saw me, but she didn't pry. Instead, she welcomed me with open arms, offering me a warm smile that felt almost disarming.

"Mark, is it?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, dipping my head slightly.

"Well, Mark, you're welcome here. Let's get you settled. Follow me."

Elain led me up the stairs to a small, cozy guest room. The bed was simple but looked inviting, covered with a neatly folded quilt. I hesitated at the doorway, suddenly feeling out of place.

As I stepped inside, Elain placed a hand gently on my shoulder to usher me in. The moment her fingers touched me, I flinched violently, instinctively stepping back. My heart pounded as I realized what I'd done, and I immediately scrambled to cover it up.

"I-I'm sorry," I stammered, forcing a nervous laugh. "I don't know what came over me."

Elain's eyes softened, her expression shifting to one of quiet understanding. She didn't say anything, but the look she gave me felt like she could see straight through my facade, as though she knew the pain and fear I carried.

"If you need anything," she said softly, her voice laced with compassion, "just let me know."

"Thank you," I whispered, feeling a lump form in my throat.

After she left, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. My mind raced with conflicting emotions. The kindness of these people was so foreign, so different from what I'd known. Part of me wanted to trust it, to embrace it, but another part of me remained guarded, wary.

No one's this nice for no reason,I thought bitterly. But my other voice, quieter and more hopeful, whispered,maybe things really are different here.

Pushing the thoughts aside, I stood and headed back downstairs to join the others, determined to take this chance and make the most of it.

The days passed in a steady rhythm, each one folding into the next as I earned my keep working in Horst's forge. The physical labor was grueling, but it was rewarding in a way I hadn't experienced before. The heat of the forge, the clang of hammer on metal, and the smell of molten steel became oddly comforting. Baldor and Alberich had become like brothers to me. Their easy camaraderie, jokes, and banter helped me settle into village life. I found myself laughing more, working harder, and slowly, I stopped being "the strange boy" and simply became Mark—the boy who lived in Carvahall.

I made a point to talk to the other villagers, introducing myself to notable figures like the butcher, Gedric, and the tavern keeper, Morn. Though they regarded me with initial suspicion, their wariness eventually softened. They didn't know my true origins, and I had no intention of revealing them—not yet. For now, I just wanted to belong.

One night, however, I couldn't sleep. The walls of the house seemed to close in on me, the weight of my thoughts pressing down. Restless, I padded softly through the house, heading to the kitchen for a drink of water. As I passed by Horst and Elain's room, the soft murmur of voices caught my attention. I hesitated, the polite thing to do being to move on. But something about their tone made me stop, lingering just outside their door.

"I'm telling you, Horst," Elain's voice was gentle but firm. "I recognize the signs. That boy's been hurt. Abused."

I froze, my breath hitching in my throat.

"Elain…" Horst began, his voice deep and skeptical. "You don't know that. Maybe he's just quiet. Maybe it's something else entirely."

"No," Elain interrupted, her voice steady with conviction. "My uncle used to beat his wife and children. I saw how they behaved—flinching at every touch, avoiding eye contact, apologizing for things that weren't their fault. Mark is the same. I see it in the way he moves, in how he reacts when someone raises their voice."

There was a long pause. I could hear the bed creak as one of them shifted. Then Horst spoke again, his voice softening. "If you're right… what do we do? Should we ask him?"

"No," Elain said firmly. "Let him tell his story when he's ready. The best thing we can do is support him. Show him kindness, patience, and understanding. That's all we can do for now."

Horst grunted in agreement. "Alright, Elain. But I'll keep an eye on him. If he needs anything, I'll make sure he knows he can come to me."

My chest tightened, a complicated knot of emotions forming. Gratitude, embarrassment, and a lingering sense of shame warred within me. I quietly crept back to my room; the water jug forgotten. I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying their words in my mind.

In the following days, I began noticing subtle changes in how Horst and Elain treated me. Horst became more patient, his gruff demeanor softening as he showed me the ropes at the forge. He offered words of encouragement, often clapping me on the shoulder, though he was careful not to surprise me. Elain, meanwhile, was even more motherly than usual, always asking if I needed anything or if I was comfortable.

At first, I enjoyed the attention. Having grown up in a household devoid of kindness, this was new and refreshing. But as the days stretched on, it became suffocating. I wasn't fragile, and I didn't want to be treated like I was. Still, I held my tongue, unwilling to hurt the two people who had shown me nothing but generosity.

Three weeks passed, and I had settled into life in Carvahall. It was then that I finally saw him—Brom.

He was exactly as I remembered from the books, an older man who appeared unassuming, with his slightly hunched posture and the cane he leaned on as he walked. His sharp eyes, however, gave away the truth. He was no feeble old man. There was a quiet intensity to him, a sense of power carefully hidden beneath his grizzled exterior.

I knew better than to underestimate him. Brom was dangerous if provoked, and I had no intention of starting an unnecessary fight. Instead, I decided to confront him carefully, using the ancient language as a gesture of goodwill.

I waited until the street was clear, ensuring no one was within earshot. Then, with measured steps, I approached him. "Kvetha, elda Brom," I whispered, inclining my head slightly. "Eka eddyr aí fricai, un eka mulabra ono né haina ne nor ill weohnata."

Brom froze mid-step, his body going rigid. Slowly, he turned to face me, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes scanning me as if trying to unravel a mystery.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice low and sharp, filled with suspicion.

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, he raised a hand to stop me. "No," he said curtly, his tone brooking no argument. "Not here. This is not the place for such talk. Come with me, boy."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began walking briskly toward his home, his cane tapping against the ground. I followed silently, my heart pounding in anticipation of what was to come.