As Saphira and Firnen descended toward the valley, Eragon felt a familiar twang. It was not sorrow, not exactly, but something deeper, something rooted in the very bones of this land. The place where his life had been simple. The place where it had all begun.

The wind rushed past him, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, the crispness of the Spine's morning air mingling with something older—something that lived in his memory more vividly than he expected.

Below, the land spread out like a tapestry he had once known by heart. And yet, as he gazed upon it, pieces of the past overlapped the present, flickering in and out of view like ghosts.

He saw the farmhouse as it had been—its sturdy wooden walls, darkened by years of weather but still strong, standing against the vast openness of Palancar Valley. Smoke would curl from the chimney in the mornings, the scent of roasted grain or simmering stew filling the crisp air. The barn stood proud beside it, its beams polished smooth by the touch of calloused hands, the fence that encircled the fields worn but well-kept, marking the boundary between the wild and the cultivated.

He remembered the creak of the porch as Garrow sat with a mug of warm cider on cold mornings, his gaze watchful, the wisdom of years carved into the lines of his face. He remembered the scrape of Roran's axe against wood, the rhythmic swing of his arms as he chopped firewood in the yard. He remembered the sound of his own footsteps as he returned from the Spine, a rabbit slung over his shoulder, eager to share what he had caught.

Then, the memory shifted.

The house was gone.

The walls were nothing but blackened beams, skeletal remains reaching toward a sky that had borne witness to its destruction. Ash coated the ground where the hearth had once burned bright with life. The fence was shattered, its posts charred stumps in the ruined field. The barn, too, had fallen, leaving only the ghosts of livestock that had once filled the air with their familiar sounds.

He could still smell the smoke, thick and acrid, choking the life from the valley. He could still feel the heat of the embers against his skin, see the flickering glow of dying flames as they devoured the only home he had ever known.

Eragon clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe.

The present reasserted itself as Saphira landed smoothly, Firnen touching down beside her. The valley was no longer the ruin he had left behind. Nature had reclaimed what the fire had stolen. Grass had pushed through the scorched earth, wildflowers creeping along the edges where the fence had once stood. The land was still scarred, but it was alive.

And at the edge of it all, near the roots of an old pine tree, lay the grave.

Garrow's grave.

Eragon dismounted, his boots sinking into the soft earth as he approached. There was no headstone, only the simple pile of stones he and Roran had placed there long ago. The land had settled around it, vines creeping over the edges, as if nature itself sought to cradle the resting place of the man who had worked its soil.

Arya followed silently, giving him space as he knelt, his fingers brushing over the rough surface of the stones.

He swallowed. "I wish you were here."

The words felt small, inadequate against the weight of all that had happened. But they were true.

A breeze rustled the trees, whispering through the valley like a voice just beyond hearing.

"I wish you could see what's become of all of this," he continued, his voice thick. "Carvahall is growing. Roran leads them well. Ismira… she's fierce, just like her parents. And… I found love, Garrow." He hesitated, then exhaled. "I'm getting married."

The silence that followed felt expectant. Heavy.

A warmth curled through his fingertips as he rested his palm against the earth. The land pulsed with energy, subtle but undeniable.

And then, unbidden, the magic in him reached.

It was instinct, a longing so deep it bypassed thought entirely. He felt something stir beneath the earth—not life, not a spirit, but an echo. A trace of all that Garrow had been, woven into the fabric of the world around him.

For a single, terrifying moment, the possibility existed.

A thread of power, fragile yet immense, tugged at his mind. He could follow it. He could—

No.

Eragon flinched back as though burned, his breath hitching. The connection snapped, the magic recoiling violently into his core. His heart hammered in his chest as he staggered to his feet.

Not again.

Oromis.

He had felt this before, this terrible, tempting pull toward what should not be. Life was sacred. Death was final. To defy that law was to invite ruin and complications beyond his control.

Arya was at his side before he could steady himself, her hand firm on his arm. "Eragon."

He shook his head, exhaling sharply. "I didn't mean to—"

"But you almost did," she finished, her voice calm, but edged with knowing.

He looked at her then, saw not judgment in her eyes, but understanding.

"I know better," he murmured.

"And yet," Arya said softly, "you are still human."

He exhaled heavily, pressing a hand to his chest as if he could still feel the remnants of the magic lingering there. "I will not reach for him again."

She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Good."

"Eragon..." Arya began.

"It won't happen again, Arya." Eragon said.

"If anything should ever happen to me..." she started again.

Eragons face fell. He himself had often trailed this line of thought, but that was before. It was now possible for him to reverse it, and she was about to ask him to swear

not to. They both knew it mattered little, him swearing it now. Her death would undoubtedbly change him even if he didn't know the word, releasing him from his oath.

These thoughts and more hit him within a second before she could even get the rest of the words out, and then she cemented them.

"I don't want you to bring me back." Arya said with a tone of finality. "It would undo everything we've worked for. People can't know this ability exists. We're already

risking everything with Oromis being known. We can pass that off as the will of the dragons only once Eragon. It will not work a second time. If they know you can bring

people back with only a thought, we will be feared and eventually the scales will tip against us and the entire order with us. More than that though, it wouldn't be rig.."

"I understand." Eragon said abruptly, relieved she hadn't asked him to actually swear it. "Let's go see this statue."

As they walked toward the ruins, Eragon felt the weight of familiarity pressing against his chest. He had already noted how different the land looked—how time had softened the scars left behind, how nature had reclaimed what was lost. But as they approached the remains of his childhood home, it was impossible not to see the past layered over the present.

The farmhouse was gone, but something new stood in its place.

A statue—his statue.

Eragon came to a halt, his breath catching in his throat as he took it in. The figure was unmistakable. He stood with his sword at his hip, his stance strong but not imposing, his gaze set toward the horizon as if looking for something beyond what was visible.

The craftsmanship was exceptional. Every detail had been painstakingly carved—the folds of his tunic, the slight furrow in his brow, the hint of something thoughtful, almost weary, in his expression. This was not a monument to a legend. It was a tribute to the boy who had left this place and never truly returned.

He had never seen it before.

"Who…" he started, then stopped, his mind spinning.

Arya stepped beside him, watching him carefully before answering. "Roran."

Eragon turned to her sharply. "What?"

She nodded toward the statue. "Roran made it."

The words didn't seem to fit in his mind. He looked back at the sculpture, as if seeing it for the first time. "But—how? When?"

Arya exhaled softly. "Slowly. Over the years. He never spoke of it, not to me, not to Katrina. I only found out by chance when I was passing through Carvahall years ago. He worked on it in secret, whenever he could find the time. He did not use magic—only his own hands, his own memory of you."

Eragon swallowed hard. His fingers curled into his palms as he stepped closer, examining the way the stone had been shaped.

It was impossible to fathom. Roran, who had always been practical, had done this. The same man who had built homes, who had forged a future from the ashes of their past, had also carved this tribute to his cousin in the very place they had both lost everything.

Eragon traced his fingers lightly over the edge of the stone blade at the statue's side. The hilt was rougher than the rest, as if it had been the last piece completed, or perhaps the one Roran had hesitated over.

"He never told me," Eragon murmured, more to himself than to Arya.

"No," Arya said gently. "He never intended to."

A silence settled between them. The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the wild grass that had grown over the ruins.

Eragon turned his gaze to the valley beyond, his mind piecing together the image of his cousin alone in this place, chipping away at the stone, shaping his memory into something tangible.

"He used to come here when he needed to be alone," Arya added after a moment. "After battles. After difficult decisions. This was where he found peace."

Eragon closed his eyes briefly, absorbing the weight of her words. He could see it now—Roran standing here, hands dusted with stone, the chisel in his grip steady as he worked.

This was never meant to be a monument for others. This was something personal. A conversation never spoken aloud.

"He missed you," Arya continued, her voice quiet. "Even when you were close, even when you were writing letters. This was his way of keeping you here."

Eragon's throat felt tight. He swallowed against the emotion welling inside him, trying to find something to say that wouldn't diminish what this meant.

"Roran…" He let out a breath, shaking his head. "He never does anything halfway, does he?"

Arya allowed a faint smile. "No. He does not."

As they stood before the statue, lost in the weight of unspoken words, a soft rustling of wings announced the arrival of Firnen and Saphira. The dragons had landed a short distance away, their massive forms moving carefully over the uneven ground as they approached.

Firnen's golden eyes studied the statue before flicking to Eragon. "It is strange to see oneself in stone, is it not?" he mused.

Eragon exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Strange doesn't quite cover it."

Saphira settled beside him, her tail curling around her feet. She examined the sculpture with a keen gaze before rumbling, "It is a fine likeness. Your cousin captured you well."

Firnen hummed in agreement, flicking an ear toward Arya. "I had thought to see this place, not just for Eragon's sake, but for yours as well. I know what it means to him, but I wondered if there were parts of it that still meant something to you."

Arya inclined her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "It is… difficult to say. This place is tied to much that was lost. But it is also where things began." Her gaze flickered to Eragon before she turned her attention back to Firnen. "Perhaps it is good to remember both."

Firnen nodded as if this answer satisfied him. "Then we should see it all."

Saphira turned to Eragon. "The nest you built for me—where is it?"

Eragon hesitated for a moment, scanning the landscape. The land had changed over time, softened by seasons of growth, but he still knew the place as if it had been burned into his memory. He stepped forward, leading them past the ruins of the house, over a stretch of grass that had once been blackened by fire but was now teeming with life.

"There," he said, stopping at a shallow depression near the tree line.

It was smaller than he remembered, but the shape of it was unmistakable—the faint curve in the earth where he had once dug with his bare hands, determined to make a safe space for his newly hatched dragon.

Saphira's gaze softened as she stepped forward, lowering her head to nudge the ground gently with her snout. "I remember this," she said, her voice tinged with warmth. "You worked for hours, muttering to yourself about making it 'just right.'"

Firnen let out a low chuckle. "Did he succeed?"

Saphira rumbled in amusement. "It was not perfect, but it was enough. And that was what mattered."

Eragon smiled faintly. "I didn't know what I was doing. I just… wanted you to have a place."

Firnen circled the shallow space, his tail flicking thoughtfully. "Even then, you were thinking of what was best for her."

Eragon exhaled. "I suppose I was."

Arya knelt beside the depression, brushing her fingers over the grass. "This was where it all began," she murmured.

Saphira stretched her wings slightly before folding them again, her eyes gleaming with quiet pride. "And now, we return to build another nest, far grander than this one."

Firnen nudged Arya gently, his tone thoughtful. "It seems fitting, does it not? That we should come full circle."

Arya looked at him, then at Eragon. "Yes," she said, the corners of her lips curving slightly. "It does."

Eragon took a slow breath, feeling the truth of those words settle deep within him. The past had not been erased, nor could it ever be. But it had shaped him, had shaped all of them, leading them to this moment.

Saphira stepped closer to him, nudging his shoulder with the tip of her snout. "You have come far, little one."

Eragon placed a hand against her scaled cheek. "So have you."

Firnen let out a contented sigh. "Then we have seen what we came to see."

Eragon nodded, turning to Arya. "Are you ready?"

She glanced once more at the statue, at the remnants of his old life, then met his gaze. "Yes."

And with that, they turned away from the past, moving forward—toward the life they were all building together, toward the future waiting for them beyond the valley.