Night lay thick over Ellesméra, the moonlight trickling through the living lattice of branches overhead. The treehouse—grown, not built—glowed faintly with the silver sheen of elves’ wards, each rune flickering like a sleeping firefly. The whole forest exhaled in long, peaceful breaths.

Yet you could not sleep.

You woke with a start, heart tight, the weight of the stars pressing against your ribs as though constellations themselves had curled inside you and refused to settle. The night air felt heavy, charged—thick with the ancient pull of your birthright.

Below, a low rumble stirred.

Zalgasor, your black-and-gold dragon, lifted his head from the nest of woven branches that served as his resting place. His scales shimmered like burnished obsidian threaded with sunlight, catching even the faintest glow of the wards.

Why are you awake, little one? His voice filled your mind—deep, resonant, like a cavern lit by drifting embers.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

The burden of star-children pressed too tightly tonight. Every life you had touched. Every life you could yet alter. Every death you were allowed to undo—and the two precious chances that remained. It all throbbed against your spirit like an unquiet tide.

Zalgasor rose to his full height, and even within the vast elven chamber, he seemed impossibly large, filling the space with ancient power. Leaves rustled as his wings shifted, their edges brushing the carved ridges of the living wood.

With surprising gentleness, he nudged you toward the carved rack by the doorway. A soft cloak hung there, woven of midnight-blue threads and dusted with faint starlight.

You slipped it around your nightgown as instructed.

Come, he murmured, the word more command than request, though touched with comfort.

You climbed onto his back, fingers curling around the warm ridges of his neck. Zalgasor stepped onto the open platform and unfurled his wings, their shadow falling over half the glade.

Then—with a single sweeping beat—he carried you into the sky.

Ellesméra unfolded beneath you: lantern-lit walkways twining between branches, moonbeams skimming along silver leaves, the quiet pulse of ancient magic humming like a lullaby. The forest welcomed you both, its serene beauty wrapping around you as Zalgasor soared above the city, giving you air, space, and silence enough to breathe again.

Then his wings tilted, carrying you over a familiar stretch of forest, to a high, rounded dwelling nested in the boughs.

Eragon and Saphira’s home.

Saphira slept curled below the great canopy, her sapphire hide gleaming faintly where moonlight touched it. Her breath rose and fell in deep, steady waves.

Zalgasor’s mind brushed against hers—light, reverent, almost shy.

A pulse of emotion flickered through the bond you shared with him: admiration, fondness, a surprised warmth he wasn’t used to feeling.

She is… remarkable, he murmured privately, the words tinged with a quiet awe.

You felt it clearly—Zalgasor’s unexpected, unmistakable attraction to the blue dragon beneath you, a pull older than words, calm and certain as the tide.