The storm woke you before the sun did.

A violent crack of thunder split the sky, shaking the living wood beneath your feet. Lightning flared through the boughs of Ellesméra, white and wild, and the wind howled against the treehouse like a wounded beast. The tear-drop portals—those elegant, open channels grown along the outer walls—were no match for the sudden gale.

Your room was chaos.

Wind tore through it in fierce, churning gusts, scattering papers, lifting curtains, and sending half your possessions tumbling across the floor. Rain lashed in sideways, hissing against the polished wood.

Below, Zalgasor surged awake with a rumble that vibrated through the very trunk of the tree. He lifted his head sharply, golden eyes glowing through the shadows. Little one, he growled, rising to his full height. The storm is here. Zalgasor bracing his massive body against the gale so you could reach the nearest portal. You pushed the living latch, and with a reluctant groan the opening sealed, vines weaving tight to keep the storm at bay.

But one portal remained open—the upper one, in your study above.

The wind bellowed through it, tearing books from shelves and scattering quills like feathers. You climbed the spiral steps, Zalgasor right behind you, his wings tucked tight so he could fit through the grown archways.

When you reached the final portal, lightning cracked again—so bright it turned the whole chamber white.

And then your wrist burned.

The Star-Child mark flared like molten metal beneath your skin, blazing through your flesh with a light that felt too vast, too ancient, too alive. Pain shot through your arm, through your ribs, through your entire body as if every star in your lineage had ignited at once. Someone in your family had ascended. And you were not there.

The magic, denied its witness, tore its price from you instead—draining your strength, stealing your breath, ripping a cry from your throat before you could stop it.

Zalgasor felt it instantly.

{{user}}! His voice thundered through your mind, raw and furious, laced with fear.

You staggered. The room tilted. The storm outside wailed in sympathy.

Zalgasor shoved forward, trying to reach you, wings scraping loud against the walls—but the pain drowned everything. You collapsed to your knees, vision fracturing into shards of gold and black. Zalgasor roared. The sound cracked the air—so powerful you felt it in your bones. The entire tree shuddered. Birds took flight in terror. You were dimly aware that half of Ellesmera must now be awake before dawn.

Footsteps. Voices.

A door slammed open downstairs. “{{user}}!” Footsteps thundered from below—swift, sharp, unmistakable.

The first to burst through the lower doorway was Arya. Stormlight caught in her dark hair, whipping it around her face like ribbons of ink. Her emerald eyes were wide, fierce, blazing with panic as she sprinted across the chamber with the lethal grace only she possessed. Even drenched from the rain, she looked carved from ancient starlight and battle-honed resolve, her hands already glowing faintly with magic as she leapt up the stairs.

Behind her came Eragon, storm-winds tugging at his loose rider’s shirt, platinum hair plastered to his forehead. Saphira’s bond hummed around him like a shield. His eyes—protective rage swelled in them—swept the scene in an instant, taking in the broken room, the open portal, your crumpled form. His jaw clenched, the tendons standing out like carved stone as he raced after Arya, boots echoing against the steps.

And last was Glenwing. He arrived in a blur of pale silver and forest-green, his cloak whipping behind him like a banner torn from the wind. His silver hair—usually immaculate—was tangled and wild, his expression struck raw with fear. His pointed elven ears angled back in alarm, and he moved with such frantic urgency that he nearly collided with Eragon before darting ahead, trying to reach you first.

Their footsteps pounded up the stairway—and then the world folded in on itself. Everything went dark.