Roran shouldered his pack. He couldn't quell the nervous anticipation under his skin, nor the sense that he was about to tread somewhere he shouldn't. It was in the witching hours before dawn broke, where the dark navy sky drained of color, shades of flat grey brightening as the night drew to a close.

Horst and his family did not wake up this early. The smithy would be there all day, they had no need to rush. Roran had many fond memories of being roused by Garrow at this time to go out and harvest.

It felt wrong to be the only one up in the house. He missed having Eragon next to him, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he tugged on his boots, hopping towards the door. Making bawdy or grim jokes to Roran while Garrow scolded him, eyes twinkling in that way that said he wasn't really mad.

He could not write, so he could not leave a note saying exactly where he'd gone, but Roran knew he owed it to Horst for sheltering him to say where he'd gone, even if the smith could probably guess.

Roran took a bit of charcoal from the fireplace and sketched a couple of mountains on the front doorstep, then carefully wrote the only word he knew how to write, his own name.

He crept into the kitchen and tiptoed to the counter. The metal raven was there, perched on a towel rack. It tilted its head, smooth iron eyes watching him. Roran scooped it up and stuck it into his pack.

He took a hunting knife and left some coins on the table to cover the cost – both the knife, and room and board.

The air was biting. His cheeks burned with cold. Chilly days felt much more unpleasant without someone to share them with. Roran knew he should have said something to Katrina, but the opportunity was passed now. He walked quickly past Carvahall and out into the predawn dimness of Palancar Valley.

Roran looked up to the north. The Spine rose a shade darker in the sky, a silhouette against the horizon. He gripped Horst's knife tighter.

The closer the Spine got, the bigger it seemed. Silhouettes on the horizon became towering obstacles. Dull, rolling thunder divested from underneath the breeze, the torrential Igualda Falls rumbling ahead.

Roran avoided passing too close to the farm. He wanted a level head, and he had to avoid being seen. If Horst had woken up by now and put the pieces together, he could still send someone on horseback to catch Roran. He had to get into the trees as soon as possible. He skirted around well to the left of the cliff face the falls hurtled down, until he found a slope he could climb that would take him into the Spine.

As soon as he started the ascent, the trees closed behind him and Roran felt like an intruder. It was Eragon's place; neither the rest of Carvahall nor he was welcome here.

Roran quickly came to respect his cousin's ability to navigate the haunted peaks. The ascent was steep and dogged with roots and shrubs. Trees loomed overhead and cut off Roran's vision. He could not see far enough to keep decent bearings.

Determination masked his doubt. What did it matter that he was no woodsman, or that the Spine was considered such bad luck that even woodsmen kept away? Roran did not know a trail from no trail, a path from a dead end, or much of where he was going at all. All he knew was that Eragon was usually back within a week, which probably meant wherever the wizard lived, it was within a day's walk. Roran had three days worth of food and the determination to spend every minute of it searching. He did not want to find the wizard himself – especially if he was on the other side of Alagaesia. Where he had lived, though, where he had taught Eragon magic, there, Roran thought he might find some clues.

Soon his legs were burning, and his lungs were empty, yet the landscape felt the same. Roran had a bite to eat and climbed up a tree in hopes of getting a better view. He chose a tall, sturdy evergreen and climbed up the low branches. There were lots of handholds that made the ascent easy. All the while, he heard the rushing water of Igualda Falls on his right, an audible landmark he used to stay on track for the ascent.

Before long he was looking through the sparse upper needles, clinging to the swaying trunk and looking out to get his bearings.

He could not see Carvahall from his vantage point. The trees were too dense to see so far downwards. Nevertheless, he had been careful to keep his bearings. He knew broadly which way to go to return to the village. Up the slope, Roran saw nothing obvious to head towards.

On the ground, he reached into his pack and pulled out the iron raven. It was as heavy as a boulder and its sharp edges dug into his hands. The moment it was out of the bag, the raven began to stir. Roran knelt and pinned it to the ground while he fished out a coil of rope. Wary of the wickedly pointed talons, Roran bound a leash to one of the raven's legs.

Wrapping it several times around his wrist, Roran gingerly handed the statue a scrap of paper. He had drawn the same mountain picture he'd left at Horst's on this one. It was just a couple of triangles with stylized snow drawn about their peaks. He wasn't sure exactly why this was what he'd put on the letter. Maybe it was to make the wizard uneasy. Even if he never received it, Roran felt like it was the most honest thing he could send.

I haven't forgotten, it said. I know where you live, and this is not over between us.

Roran glanced once more at the charcoal mountains before placing it within the claws of the metal raven.

"Take this letter to your master's home," he commanded, standing up.

He backed away from the sharp metal flapping wings. It made a strange, muted sort of squeaking as it flapped its wings. The metal raven rose into the air in complete defiance of any semblance of obedience to the laws of nature. Roran knew exactly how heavy it was; he'd carried it up half a mountain in his pack.

The raven circled once at the end of its tether before hurtling west. Roran's arm was nearly yanked out of its socket as the metal creature hit the end of its leash. Stumbling and cursing, Roran followed the raven and its squeaking wings.

Flying as high as the line allowed, the raven did not give much consideration to the difficulty of the terrain for land-bound creatures. Roran bulled through bushes and clambered over gullies, all while being nearly dragged off his feet. After a few minutes, he managed to adjust to the pull by leaning back and letting the bird do some of the effort of walking for him, pulling him up the slope.

As he crashed through foliage and narrowly missed twisting his ankles on roots, rocks, and ruts, His cousin had to be either a madman, or a brilliant woodsman to enjoy trips out here.

Several minutes of crashing through the forest later, the raven tugged him through a treeline. Roran stumbled onto a trampled patch of dirt. The raven immediately changed directions, now pulling him directly north. Roran looked up the way it was tugging.

A thin, winding dirt path that led straight up the mountain.

Roran hurried as fast as he could along the dirt path. It was narrow and faded, patches of grass and divots dotted through the tamped dirt, yet it was clear of undergrowth and had to lead somewhere.

His arm was sore, but the raven was relentless. Stronger than any ordinary bird, with enough weight to yank him off his feet if he wasn't careful.

Roran hurried along the path. His breath and heartbeat quickened. There were very few reasons why a path would be worn into an ascent up the Spine. This had to be the wizard's doing. Which meant at the end of the path…

Roran touched his knife. He'd see when he got there.

Even with a route clear of obstacles and straight to his destination, the ascent was still difficult. The path was steep and loopy, twisting around bluffs and gullies and jutting boulders. By the time the sun was directly overhead, Roran was exhausted.

The raven was relentless. When he stopped, the metal bird tried to harass him onward, straining against the leash for a minute before settling down to wait for him to eat. Roran looped the leash around his ankle and stepped on the ground to keep it still.

He sat against a boulder and ate from his pack, drinking a third of his water. He justified the indulgence to himself on the assumption that the descent would be much easier, even as the sinister thought occurred to him that he would not have a guide on the way back. He had a path now. How hard could it be to follow it back to Carvahall?

While he rested, another thought tickled the back of his head. One Roran sought to ignore.

Suppose he found a hut in the woods. What then? The wizard probably wasn't even there; Horst had two letters suggesting he'd left. Maybe Roran could find some clues. That was for the best, wasn't it?

If he was there, what would Roran do? Run in with his knife and try to kill the wizard? Confront him? Roran was not delusional enough to think he could best a magician in combat. Not unless he put his hunting knife in the wizard's back.

It was a thought that circled in his head as he sat on that boulder, waiting to catch his breath.

As he resumed his journey following the tireless raven, Roran continued to think about it. He knew his judgement was unreliable right now. He was angry, bitter, devastated, and looking for someone to blame. Even though he knew he wasn't thinking straight, Roran didn't care.

Harry's presence had smashed a hole in all of Roran's hopes and dreams, his life and his livelihood, and he hadn't even stuck around to explain himself.

Roran followed the metal raven up a steep slope for what felt like eons, squeaking all the way. The sun began to set, his thighs were on fire, and still the bird dragged him onwards. How in the blazes had Eragon done this every week? Even before Harry had arrived in Carvahall, his brother had regularly taken trips into the Spine to hunt.

Night fell. The metal raven was agitated, insistent on continuing, but Roran was not about to risk breaking a leg in the darkness in the Spine. He stuffed the raven back in his pack and tied it firmly shut, then sat on it a bit for good measure. Muffled squeaks lasted for several minutes before it settled.

Roran decided to light a fire. As much as he didn't want to be found by anyone going after him from Carvahall, the notion of spending the night in the cold and dark of the Spine terrified him. He did not think he was overly superstitious, merely cautious. The Spine had been haunted long before Harry showed up, and it hosted plenty of dangers that were flesh and blood.

A chilly breeze kept snuffing out his kindling before it took to the branches he'd assembled. The temperature dropped until Roran's fingers began to numb, fumbling with his flint and steel.

When it finally caught, Roran guarded the fire with his hands and blew gently, nurturing the dancing orange flames. He nursed it until it radiated a pleasant warmth and lit the clearing around the path. Roran put out his bedroll and laid down.

His bag kept moving as the raven struggled inside. He reached over and smacked it. The enchanted statue finally settled down.

The trees bowed over him, reaching with leafy arms to encircle the pathway in their grips. Through the smoke of the fire and those swaying green arms, Roran saw dotted stars on the navy depths of the night sky, peeking through the cracks in the leaves.

Far away in the distance, a wolf howled. A moment later, a chorus of its brethren joined it. Roran pulled his bedroll tighter around him. The shadows that flickered at the edge of the fire turned menacing. Many things lurked in the Spine. Roran prayed that none would find him while he slept.

Fear kept him up for hours, even as exhaustion wore him down. Eventually, his eyelids grew too heavy to lift and he drifted off.

The next morning, Roran was woken by frantic flapping and squeaking from inside his bag. Groaning, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and carefully unwrapped the metal raven. It sprang out of his bag and flapped into the air. Roran snatched at the leash still bound to its leg, but the bird yanked it out of his grip. He jumped up and tried to grab it, but the raven was already too high in the air.

Roran cursed foully. It would take its letter the rest of the way and leave Roran too far behind to ever find its master.

Yet the raven did not immediately take off. Rather, it circled overhead, just high enough that the leash dangled almost within reach. He jumped for it a couple of times. Each time, the bird flapped just out of reach. It seemed to delight in letting his fingers barely scrabble for the end, only to pull it one more inch higher.

It swooped low and opened its beak, but no sound came out. Roran ducked and covered his head. Those wings looked sharp.

But the raven was not after him. Rather, it snatched up his pack instead. "Hey!" Roran shouted.

He got the impression that the bird was laughing at him. Roran picked up his bedroll, smothered the fire with a kick, and started running after the foul metal beast.

It soared over the path up the mountain, always just a few inches out of reach. It took the ascent with lazy flaps, letting Roran stay close enough that when he swung his hands, he could just brush the dangling leash with the tips of his fingers.

Furious and worried of being stranded without supplies, Roran charged after the metal raven. The steep slope winded him quickly, but the raven seemed less interested in getting away, and more interested in taunting him with his things. When he slowed to catch his breath, the raven played at flitting further away, yet never left his sight.

It perched on a branch ahead and dropped his bag on the ground. The raven cocked its head, watching him. Roran thought if it was not mute, it would be tittering, laughing at him.

Eyes on the creature, Roran crept closer and closer to his bag. He was within ten paces of it – nine, eight. He paused for a moment, legs bent, watching the raven. Neither of them twitched.

Roran broke into a sprint.

The raven swooped off the branch the instant he moved. It had his bag in hand hardly a second before Roran got there. He jumped to tackle it. His hands missed by an inch.

Roran swore loudly at the raven. He cast about on the ground, fingers closing around a rock, and hurled it at the bird. It banked and let the rock sail uselessly past.

It was not more than an hour of chasing that damned bird before the raven dropped his bag in the midst of a trampled dirt circle and when Roran dove for it, made no effort to stop him from finally recovering his things.

It circled once more over his head before flying north. It got half a dozen paces away before vanishing into thin air. The squeaking of its wings ended just as quickly.

Roran sighed, eyes fixed upon the point where it had vanished.

Somehow, it felt like exactly what he should have expected. A lead that promised answers, ending in a literal dead end.

He examined the spot the bird had left him at. The path terminated in an unremarkable clearing. The grass was patchy in spots, like there had once been some foot traffic that had dried up. A cold breeze blew through the clearing.

Roran wandered about the end of the path for a moment. Nothing exceptional stood out to him. The path he came in on wended down the mountain. Ahead, unremarkable forest stretched to eternity.

He had thought he was clever, but the wizard still got the last laugh.

Bitterly, Roran considered that path back. He'd reached the end of the road, figuratively and literally. Why?

Why any of this? Why did it have to happen to him? Was it fate, or was his life destroyed by nothing but shitty luck? As infuriating as it might be that some supernatural being hated him, by far the worst – and most likely – reason was simply foul luck that Roran and his family ever had the misfortune of ever laying eyes on such a sinister figure as Harry Evans.

Roran tried to imagine Harry's motives for coming to Carvahall. Magic was trouble, magicians were trouble, he knew as much. Eragon had said Harry had left his home far behind. Ran out, most likely, on the run from the law. Carvahall was practically off the map, there was no other reason for a practitioner of magic to live so far out of the way.

He glanced down at the path. Why make a dead end trail into the Spine? To lure anyone who would unravel his secrets to their demise? Did the path back even lead to Carvahall? Suppose it left him lost on the mountainside, stranded to die alone, so that anyone who might track him down died with his secrets.

No, that was ridiculous. It was too much effort for a false lead. Something had to be here. Or at least, something had to have been here. Uneasy, Roran took his pack and headed to the edge of the clearing.

The wizard had lived somewhere near here, he was sure of it. His bird had brought him here. If the letters Brom and Harry left were true, he lived here no longer.

Roran's ears perked up. The rhythmic sound of footsteps–

It was gone as soon as it came. Roran hurried back to the treeline, stepping behind a tree off of the path.

"Who's there?"

Roran peered towards the noise. It was a man's voice, made artificially deep, yet somehow familiar.

The clearing was empty. Unsettled, Roran held his breath, crouching even lower behind the bushes.

Footsteps trod on dirt again. One-two, one-two, one–

He listened for a second step, but it was not forthcoming. Roran imagined an invisible, one-legged entity haunting the clearing.

For several minutes, Roran sat perfectly still behind that bush.

The thought had not occurred to him – though it loomed large now – that magicians would not leave their secrets unguarded.

Malevolent secrets required malevolent measures of secrecy. Roran thought he might have bitten off more than he could chew. He was no magician; he was a man with a knife that had never truly fought for his life.

When he thought the coast was clear, Roran hurried to the path back down the mountain. He hesitated before the first step.

What if the trail was spelled to lure travelers, then kill them when they tried to leave? He eyed the trampled grass warily. Suddenly, Roran was tempted to find his own way down the mountain. How hard could it be to simply go downhill wherever possible? Carvahall was in Palancar Valley, he only needed to head to the lowest point to find home.

Upon his further consideration, Roran headed to the east side of the clearing. The sound of rushing water grew clearer. He picked his way through the undergrowth until he found the river shortly after.

The river basin made a clear channel of open sky through the trees, a sort of tunnel to the edge of the cliff face. Sloan's wife had died falling from this very river. Roran stepped carefully along the west bank of the river.

He stood at the edge of the cliff and stared out at the valley. For all that he saw, Roran felt like looking through a keyhole to godhood. Therinsford had been the first glimpse Roran had ever gotten of a world wider than the walls of Palancar Valley. What a massive, vibrant place Alagaesia was, that Roran had seen only one tiny corner of it and yet that corner had enough depth to spend a lifetime in.

With his feet rooted to the ground, Roran saw his entire childhood laid out below, from the river to the forest by the farm, Carvahall itself a grouping of toy houses in the center of a patchwork quilt of farms and fields.

What was magic compared to this? Nothing rivaled the raw, savage power of nature. Water gushed past beside him, hurtling through the air, plummeting hundreds of feet, and pounding relentlessly into the river below.

As he stood there, Roran heard the raven's telltale squeaking. He looked up.

The raven flew overhead, watching him. It was heavy, if it charged him–

Roran took a few steps back from the edge of the cliff, eyeing the bird.

"What do you want?" he asked it bitterly. Somehow, it had freed itself from the leash Roran had tied around its leg.

The bird circled in wide loops, turning over his head, then flying west before circling back to check if he was following.

"I'm not going back," Roran scoffed. "I'm not about to sit there and spring whatever trap the wizard set."

Perhaps unsurprisingly of a magical iron statue brought to life, it seemed to understand him. Understand him, and be frustrated.

The raven left. After trying to convince him to follow it, the enchanted bird flew back to the northwest. Roran found an acceptable campsite near the river. He drank from the cool, clean water and ate another portion of his supplies.

He would have to leave tomorrow at the latest, today, if he intended to find his own path down the mountain. But for now, the prospect of starting the descent at that very moment was too exhausting to entertain.

Roran kept glancing back to the west as he ate. Could he really go back down the mountain empty-handed? Would he be happy with leaving this mystery be? Without the raven, Roran's only chance of getting answers was now, before he left the Spine.

Suppose the wizard had left all his nasty surprises at the trailhead, where he expected anyone who might come snooping to wind up? Roran thought he might be able to circle wide and head around the side to get behind the protections.

At least, it was a chance to get more information. He imagined the questions Horst would have for him after his cryptic, pictographic note and the implied destination of his search.

Roran dusted off his palms and got up. Maybe he shouldn't have given up so quickly.

Quickly, so that he might escape the gaze of the metal raven, Roran headed upstream. The river had to be the best source of water up at the top of the mountain. The wizard had to have set up near it.

He was excruciatingly careful to be quiet and leave the wilderness undisturbed. Every time a twig snapped or an animal moved within earshot, Roran's heart skipped a beat as he froze and identified the culprit.

A bird.

It was watching him. Roran was sure of it. The sparrow's beady black eyes followed him.

He felt the hair on his neck raise.

It felt like the forest had eyes everywhere. A sinister thought occurred to him that the wizard's defenses only had to look like they were natural – like an enchanted raven. He found himself looking up and ducking under the sight of every bird in the trees.

The river continued up the mountain unimpeded, but Roran gave up following it after a bit. It wasn't important.

He followed a sort of trail, instead. The trees had been cleared out in a long line Roran went along. It was an easy trail to follow, even the underbrush had been cleared away, yet it didn't seem to lead anywhere. Even after an hour of walking, Roran had found nothing. It wasn't as if this was part of the trail, the grass was clearly less worn. It was a boundary of sorts, but neither side of the trail was anything special.

Roran kept on until he got hungry again. He risked a pause in his search to quietly eat from his dwindling supplies. A mistake, it seemed, as no sooner had he sat down than he was found.

A faint squeaking noise, growing closer.

Sure enough, that damned metal raven was back.

It had something in its beak, a piece of paper which it dropped on his head. Roran reached up and snatched it out of the air, glaring up at the bird. He didn't think it was reporting back to its master; the wizard had to be far away right now. But it meant that his presence was known.

Roran glanced down. It was his own letter, the one he'd given to the raven earlier.

Except it was not as he had sent it. His charcoal mountains were there, along with an addition, inked between the peaks. A crude drawing of a castle with towers surrounded by a wall with jagged crenellations.

He looked up at the raven. "You didn't do this," he said confidently.

It seemed to be bemused by his assertion.

Roran looked down again. "Why?" What did it mean?

No sooner had he thought upon the idea of a castle up in the mountains than a massive, dark brick wall materialized hardly feet from his face.

Roran nearly jumped out of his skin. How in the blazes had he missed this!? He stood up and backed away from the wall. It was made from fitted, mortared stone blocks bigger than himself.

It did not exactly tower over him, but it was about as high as the treeline. Whatever magic had hidden it from him, it must be mighty, indeed.

He looked down at the metal raven. It took off and pecked the note out of his hands, then soared back the way Roran had come, back towards the path down the Spine.

Roran spent nearly an hour examining the wall. He'd stared at the bricks, too massive to be moved but by a huge workforce or magic. He hadn't touched them – he thought perhaps the walls might be cursed. They were certainly real; rocks he chucked at it bounced off like normal.

He'd even climbed a tree. From the top, he could see a bit through the leaves and over the wall. Not much, but enough to pique his curiosity. Conical roofs that had to be hundreds of feet off the ground to be visible from such an angle. A true castle, hidden in the Spine.

Roran climbed back down the tree. The raven was already back. This time, it had a new payload clutched in its talons.

Roran looked up. It dropped its cargo in his lap; a ripe, red apple. It went and perched on a log near where he sat.

"You must be joking," he said aloud, picking up the apple. It had tiny puncture marks in the skin where the raven's claws had clutched it. Otherwise, it looked as fresh and ripe as an apple straight from the tree.

The raven bobbed its head as if to say 'go on.'

He snorted. "You thought you'd poison me? Curse me?"

The bird cocked its head. Roran got the impression it thought he was stupid. Though it was watching him, Roran would admit he did not sense any malevolence from it.

In a flash of suicidal stupidity and resignation, Roran bit into the apple. It crunched, sweet and flavorful and fresh.

When, after long, deliberate chewing and a tense pause, no horrible curse or poison befell Roran, he looked back to the living metal creature.

"What is your motivation?" he murmured.

The raven actually opened its beak this time, though no noise came out. It gesticulated with its wing, pointing emphatically back to the west.

"Come back in another hour," Roran told it. "I need time to think."

It seemed to shrug. It flew off.

Roran let out a long sigh. Why was it helping him? What was the bird's angle? Trying to lure Roran inside the walls where he could be murdered and disposed of?

If he was honest with himself, the raven needed no such convoluted plans to dispose of him. It was a big, sharp, and heavy metal statue that could fly. If it dove Roran, it could kill him with impunity.

Carvahall's narrative of Harry Evans made less sense with the evidence Roran had. If he was honest with himself, Horst's story was beginning to seem more likely.

It was bitter medicine. Roran hated it – the idea that his life could have been wrecked by the best of intentions. It was too perfect, too comforting an idea to relinquish; that Harry was evil and twisted and deliberately killed his father. It gave him something to cling to, hope for vengeance. And it was a narrative Carvahall was all too willing to accept.

Perhaps it was all the more sour that Garrow himself had given Roran the wisdom to see clearly here. Harry was, behind all the drama and magic and mystery, still a human like any other.

By nightfall, Roran had made it back to where he'd started. The clearing looked very different, now that the castle was revealed to him. Fifty foot high stone gates barred his way, flanked by empty suits of armor Roran had no doubt were just as alive as the raven that had guided him up here. Their silvery features were illuminated by torchlight, and shone white with the light of the moon overhead.

He took another deep breath and approached.

"My name is Roran, I'm the cousin to your master's student, Eragon. I've come to learn what happened to him and my father."

The helmet of the guard on the left turned to him, its visor looking right through him. Roran eyed the sword in its gauntlets warily.

It bowed to him, making a welcoming gesture towards the gate, which slid open. Behind it, the castle and its grounds were revealed.

Roran's jaw dropped.

He had never seen anything like it. It was something out of fairytales, a magical castle hidden in the mountains.

The grounds were beautiful. Immaculate fields of grass, a copse of trees off to the west, and a lake that shimmered in the moonlight. Roran followed the paved path set out from the main gate.

It led to a footbridge that crossed over the river that led to Igualda Falls, next to a sturdy boathouse. Roran stole across the field towards the castle, granite blocks flickering from the light of hundreds of braziers, torches, and firelit windows.

He found his way back onto the winding path where it led onto a grand stone bridge, railings marked in intervals by strange stone beasts clutching bowls of fire. Roran felt impossibly visible, yet utterly alone. As vibrant and alive as the grounds and the castle were, he saw nobody else outside.

How on earth had this gotten here? Roran crept past a fountain in the midst of a beautiful square, empty stone benches waiting for someone to come outside to sit and enjoy a pleasant day. Prismatic rainbow-white firelight shone from beneath the surface of the water, scattering on the splashes of gushing water.

Who had built this? It could not have just been the wizard – this was far too much for one person to do, even with magic. How long had it been here?

Roran came to the doors of the grand entrance with some awe. They loomed dozens of feet over him, taller than Horst's house from the cellar to the top of the chimney.

More suits of armor guarded the main entrance. "Can I enter?" he asked.

The door cracked open. One of the guards mimed tipping his hat to Roran. With a feeling of bizarre surreality, Roran slipped in through the crack. The enormous door shut quietly behind him.

He marveled at the grand foyer. Torch and candlelight illuminated the grand hallways with warm light. Roran knew how much candles cost; it was a luxury to have even one burning at night, let alone thousands. They had to be maintained by magic, or else the castle had to be filled with an army of servants maintaining the place.

Yet the castle was as quiet as a crypt. The quiet breeze of torches breathing and the echo of Roran's own ginger footsteps seemed loud in the silence.

The castle was no brutish fort, either. Everywhere he looked, beautiful artwork was on display. Carved into stone, woven into tapestry, painted onto canvas, set into glass, embellishments were everywhere he looked. They had to have been done by a team of artisans.

He stepped quietly and moved quickly from alcove to alcove as he snuck deeper into the castle. The more he explored, the odder the castle seemed. It felt like it had been built to show off the artwork more than as any defensive bastion. The hallways and stairs did not seem constructed to favor defenders very well, there were few choke points or guard posts.

There were hundreds of suits of armor. Not all of them acknowledged him, but Roran would bet his life that every one of them could come alive in defense of the castle.

Secret passageways and shortcuts, tunnels, twisting corridors and empty rooms, Roran thought this would be a place he could explore for months without finding all of its secrets. For nearly an hour, he wandered. The worry of crossing someone else's path lessened as each successive room proved empty.

After wandering down a colonnade that opened into a courtyard, down another corridor, and through another enormous atrium, Roran found himself in a bizarre room.

It was built entirely from greenish glass, three wings that split from a grand atrium. Little machines, mechanical sprites came and went, filling carts with fresh food. The carts trundled off unpropelled when they were full, rolling deeper into the castle.

The flanking wings were normal-sized, but the central glass hall was enormous, fifty feet high with windows open, the sharp, cool evening air blowing a gentle cross breeze. Roran followed the bucket sprites inside.

Shadowed trees craned high from deep planter boxes, leafy boughs blotting out the moonlight that filtered through the glass. A bucket sprite floated over to an exotic looking tree and plucked a fat bushel of curved, long yellow fruits from its boughs.

This must have been where the apple came from. Roran followed the bucket sprite.

It drifted back to the atrium and dropped the fruits off in a cart. Once it filled, the cart rolled off down a narrow tunnel. Roran followed that, too. It headed underground to a cellar flanked with doors all the way down. The cart drove through a low flap cut out of the door just big enough for it.

Roran opened the door.

It was an enormous room, more of a cavern, cold and dry, mountains and mountains of fruit.

He checked another. Bales and bales of grain.

Roran gazed down the long, long hallway and its many doors. There was enough food down here to feed a city.

Yet the castle was empty. He wandered back up and headed towards the center of the castle, as well as he could tell.

A broad tower with a winding staircase in the center led hundreds of feet up past several levels. Roran craned his neck to peer up at the high ceiling. Paper beasts guarded the rafters, strange horned, skeletal, and bony horses cantered alongside paper dragons, clutching the timber beams and watching Roran down below.

Roran heard footsteps approaching. His heart stopped. Not quite truly empty.

He hurried with quiet footsteps, crouching down beneath the foot of the spiral stairs as the footsteps approached.

Whoever they were, the person walked up the stairs. Roran strained his ears to pinpoint which level the person went to. Up and up they went. He heard the person start walking out of the center of the tower. Roran risked creeping out from his hiding spot just enough to catch a glimpse of movement by a bridge to a corridor near the top of the tower.

Roran crept up after them, circling up and up. The hallway the figure had gone down was a corridor less grand than those on the ground floor, but as handsomely decorated. He crept across the carpeted wooden floor, praying that the floorboards were not creaky.

Even though he lost track of the person, he was fortunate that the corridor did not split into too many different hallways. The end of the hall led to another turret rising even higher into the air. Roran crept up the stairs and snuck through a heavy oak door.

He came out into a lounge of sorts. A hearth crackled merrily, couches, chairs, and yet more artwork decorated the cozy room. He watched from a shadowed alcove for a while before hurrying across the room to the stairs on the opposite side.

The turret went yet higher into the sky. Roran crept past open doors into dark, empty dormitories. Up and up he went, seven floors in total, before finally reaching a door that was cracked open, candlelight spilling out into the stairwell.

He pressed his back up against the door and listened.

Though muffled, Roran heard movement on the other side. He touched the knife at his side. Just in case.

He peered through the crack. A figure, a man, with his back turned to the doorway. He was getting ready for bed. The man turned towards the door to shut it when their eyes met. Roran's breath caught.

"Who's there?" Garrow demanded.

Roran pulled the door open the rest of the way, eyes wet. "It's me, father," he croaked.

AN: I know a lot of the dramatic reveal is undercut by you all knowing Garrow never actually died, but hopefully this will get some of you interested in Roran's storyline. It is going to be fairly different from the canon books. I left about a whole Chekov's arsenal laying around in this fic, planning on making good use out of a lot of those guns.

Thanks to Scarze for beta'ing this chapter and helping me work through some writer's block. You have him to thank for getting this chapter in February.