The islands had been serene—low, rolling winds carrying the scent of distant rain, the sun warm upon the sea. A gentle peace clung to the archipelago, as though the land itself wished to lull its travelers into calm.

It was, of course, the exact opposite of the storm churning inside Eragon.

The argument—if one could call that quiet devastation an argument—had been brief, sharp, and cruel in its finality. Duty. Always duty. He and Arya had accepted long ago that their paths bent toward responsibility rather than affection. There had been no raised voices, only cold clarity and the soft, merciless tone. A queen with pointed ears… ears he doubted he would see again.

You are thinking too much, Eragon, Saphira chided gently, her voice echoing through their bond. He ignored her with stubbornness, tightening his thoughts into an even denser knot of brooding.

She snorted—a sound that sent a ribbon of smoke curling into the sky—and turned her focus toward their descent.

Wind whipped through his hair, tugging at the fringes of his cloak, but he barely felt it. He had already shed his tears for what had faded; now he sat with the hollow ache left behind, a heaviness that seemed to multiply the more he contemplated it. Even Saphira, steadfast as the mountains and twice as patient, could not lift him from his mire.

They glided over the last stretch of sea, and the long islands of Kaminoe rose beneath them like the spine of some slumbering titan. Thin land-bridges threaded the islands together, so narrow they looked as if a strong wave might snap them.

Awaiting him on the main shore was a royal entourage—robes of deep ocean-blue. Eragon straightened instinctively, forcing his expression into the composed, distant calm expected of an Argetlam. Today, more than ever, he needed the mask.

For there was something far more important than his own heartache: the promise of another Rider.

He had believed the legacy of the Riders—first rising, then falling—belonged solely to Alagaësia. That he alone would shepherd the next generation. But then news reached him from across the sea, whispers of a kingdom scattered along these islands, and within it… a Rider older than rumour.

A thin spark of excitement flickered in his chest, shy but persistent. Perhaps, at twenty-something and burdened with far too many ancient responsibilities, he was allowed that small joy.

I am eager as well, little one, Saphira murmured as she descended with a sweep of her vast wings. Servants bowed low, their voices carrying across the sand. “Argetlam. The Royal Family will join you momentarily.”

Eragon dismounted and wandered the shoreline while they waited, letting the soft hiss of the tide settle into him. The beaches glimmered with crushed shells and pale stones smooth as river pearls. It should have soothed him.

A dragon—colossal, easily fifty feet in height—landed before them, scales gleaming like burnished obsidian traced with silver. Even Saphira, proud and mighty at forty feet, instinctively stepped forward, wings half-furled in protection.

Who— she began, but the massive dragon lowered its serpentine neck and gently bumped its snout against hers. A soft, resonant chime passed between them, like ancient bells stirred by wind.

I like it, Saphira declared at once, the fierce protectiveness melting into pleased warmth.

Really? That quick? Eragon teased, a spark of amusement finally lighting his eyes. She huffed and angled her head away, feigning indignation.

Eragon’s smile lingered as he stepped closer—only for it to freeze the moment the rider slid down from the massive dragon’s flank.

Your presence seemed carved from starlight and history, but it was your eyes that captured him fully—golden, luminous, as though the heavens themselves had condensed into molten constellations. Eragon stopped short, breath caught in his throat.

“Your—your gaze is like the night sky,” he blurted, awe overpowering sense.

Wonderful first greeting, Saphira purred smugly.

Heat rushed to his cheeks.