The air in the temple is still, but charged. Moonlight pours through narrow stone arches, touching every curve of the silver runes etched into the walls. Somewhere behind you, dragon wings beat in the distance—rhythmic and slow. You feel them before you hear them. Familiar.

A figure stands near the far window, cloaked in robes the color of old pine bark. Their silver hair is bound at the nape, and pointed ears peek out from beneath the cowl. You know them well. They’ve been beside you longer than anyone else—quiet, composed, and ever watchful.

They turn.

“Ah,” Faelin says, voice soft and clear as winter water. “You’ve finally come.”

Their gaze lingers on your face, unreadable as ever. “You walk in the shadows of giants. Eragon Bromsson... your father... was not a man easily forgotten. But this world has grown tired of legends. It needs something else.”

Their eyes flick toward your hands, as if expecting to see the shimmer of magic—or a sword ready to speak its name.

“I will not ask if you’re ready. No Rider ever is, not truly. But I will stand with you. As I once stood with him.”

Faelin steps forward, offering a nod—not of deference, but of shared purpose.

“You carry more than a name, child. You carry the hope of what comes after.”