Chapter 14: The Stone’s Secrets

The days after Eragon's return to the farm were marked by a biting chill that heralded the onset of winter. Frost rimmed the edges of every blade of grass, and the skies threatened snow with every passing cloud. Bahamut, still perched in the shadows of the Spine, watched over the valley with increasing restlessness.

For weeks, he had managed to remain calm, his ancient patience steady as he waited for the arrival of Saphira's egg. Yet now, something had changed. A shift had occurred in the fabric of events, a turning point he could feel as surely as the wind against his scales. And Brom, as shrewd as ever, noticed it.

Brom's Suspicions

Brom had come to trust Bahamut as a watcher and confidant in the isolated wilderness, but the old Rider was no fool. He watched the dragon closely during their quiet conversations, noting the gleam of anticipation in Bahamut's golden eyes and the subtle twitch of his tail whenever Eragon's name was mentioned.

"What's got you so eager these days, old friend?" Brom asked one evening as they sat near a small fire on the Spine's edge.

Bahamut hesitated, careful to conceal his true thoughts. "The winds are changing, Brom. Something long overdue is coming to pass."

Brom's brow furrowed. "And what might that be?"

"You will see soon enough," Bahamut said cryptically, his voice a low rumble.

Brom narrowed his eyes. "You've always had a way of speaking in riddles. But I can see something has you excited. It's more than just the turning of the seasons, isn't it?"

Bahamut tilted his head, his gaze drifting toward Carvahall in the distance. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply enjoying the prospect of new life stirring in the world."

Brom didn't press further, but his mind churned. Bahamut was hiding something, and the way he spoke of "new life" made Brom uneasy. Yet, no matter how deeply he probed, the ancient dragon remained inscrutable.

The Blizzard and the Traders

Nine days after Eragon's return to the farm, a terrible blizzard swept down from the mountains, blanketing the valley in white. The snow piled high against the barn and farmhouse, forcing Eragon and Garrow to work tirelessly to keep the roof clear and the animals fed. The storm raged for three days before finally breaking, leaving the world frozen and silent.

As the days passed, Eragon grew increasingly anxious. The traders, who always arrived before the first heavy snow, had yet to make an appearance. Without their wares, Carvahall would face a hard winter.

"I'm starting to think they're not coming," Eragon said one evening as he sat by the fire with Garrow and Roran.

"They'll come," Garrow said firmly, though his eyes betrayed his own doubts. "They always do."

Eight days later, however, the traders were still absent. Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, Eragon decided to search for them. He donned his thickest cloak and braved the icy roads, trekking through the snow-covered hills.

At last, he found what he was looking for—wheel tracks and footprints pressed into the snow. Relief washed over him as he followed the trail back toward the main road. The traders had arrived.

The next morning, Eragon, Roran, and Garrow hitched the cart and made their way to Carvahall. The village was alive with activity as people bustled around the traders' wagons, bartering for goods and sharing news from distant lands.

The Magical Trader

Eragon's heart raced as he approached one of the wagons, the blue stone carefully wrapped in cloth and hidden in his pack. He sought out Merlock, a traveling trader known for his knowledge of rare and unusual items.

Merlock was an eccentric man with a wiry frame and sharp eyes that seemed to pierce through whatever he looked at. He wore a patchwork cloak adorned with charms and trinkets, each one jingling softly as he moved.

When Eragon presented the stone, Merlock's expression shifted from curiosity to astonishment. He held the stone up to the light, turning it this way and that, his fingers tracing its smooth surface.

"Fascinating," Merlock murmured. "I've never seen anything like it."

"What is it?" Eragon asked eagerly.

Merlock shook his head. "I can't say. Whoever shaped this used tools or techniques far beyond anything I've ever encountered. And—" He paused, tapping the stone lightly. "It's hollow."

"Hollow?" Garrow repeated, his brow furrowing.

Merlock nodded. "There's something inside, though I can't tell what. It's...remarkable."

Eragon leaned forward. "Do you know how much it's worth?"

Merlock hesitated. "Not here, no. But there are places—people—who would pay a fortune for something like this."

Before Eragon could press further, Merlock's tone grew somber. "But tell me, boy, did you find this in the Spine?"

"Yes," Eragon said.

Merlock's expression darkened. "Be careful with it. Strange things happen in the Spine, and stranger things still come out of it. Mark my words, this stone is not ordinary."

He went on to share grim news from beyond Carvahall—whole villages destroyed by Urgals, entire populations slaughtered, and whispers of a Shade moving through the land. The mention of the Shade sent a chill down Eragon's spine.

The Egg Hatches

That night, back at the farm, Eragon sat by the fire, staring at the blue stone. He turned it over in his hands, wondering what secrets it held. On a whim, he decided to test it, as Merlock had, using a small chisel from the workshop.

As he tapped the stone, a faint squeak echoed from within. Startled, he dropped the chisel and leaned closer. Was something alive inside?

Before he could investigate further, the stone began to shake. A network of fine cracks spread across its surface, and a faint light glowed from within. Eragon's heart pounded as he set the stone on the floor and stepped back.

With a final, sharp crack, the stone split open, and a small, scaled creature emerged. Its sapphire-blue hide shimmered in the firelight, and its wide, curious eyes blinked up at him.

"A dragon," Eragon whispered, barely able to believe his eyes.

The dragonlet chirped and stretched its wings, then stumbled toward him on unsteady legs. Eragon knelt, extending a hand. When the dragon touched him, a searing, icy energy shot through his arm, leaving a strange, silvery mark on his palm.

The dragon chirped again, its voice soft and inquisitive, and nuzzled his hand. In that moment, Eragon's world changed forever.

Bahamut's Roar

In the Spine, Bahamut paced restlessly at the entrance to his cave, his claws scraping against the stone as the night stretched on. The stars above twinkled in the vast expanse of the sky, but Bahamut's focus was elsewhere. A sensation rippled through him, an electric pulse of magic that made his heart race and his wings twitch.

Saphira had been born.

He didn't know how he could feel it, but he did—an unmistakable sense of something new and extraordinary entering the world. Excitement surged through him, raw and unfiltered, as if the future itself had whispered its promise in his mind.

Bahamut's tail lashed against the ground as he tried to contain himself, but the effort was futile. A grin spread across his draconic face, his amethyst eyes gleaming with anticipation. For years, he had roamed these mountains, watching and waiting, uncertain of what he was even waiting for. Now, it had finally begun.

Unable to hold back any longer, Bahamut tilted his head to the sky and let out a triumphant roar. The sound echoed through the mountains, a celebration of the moment and a declaration of hope.

Brom's Reaction

In Carvahall, Brom sat by the fire in his small home, his staff resting against the wall beside him. The evening had been quiet, save for the occasional rustle of the wind outside. He had been lost in thought, mulling over fragments of old tales and the troubling signs of unrest spreading across Alagaësia.

Then, faint but unmistakable, a dragon's roar broke through the silence.

Brom straightened in his chair, his sharp senses—remnants of his years as a Rider—catching the sound that no ordinary human would have heard. His brows furrowed, and he turned toward the window, his gaze piercing the darkness as if trying to spot the source.

"What now?" he muttered under his breath, irritation masking a flicker of curiosity.

He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "What is that fool roaring about this time?"

Despite his gruff words, Brom couldn't ignore the unease creeping into his thoughts. Bahamut was reckless at times, but there was always a reason behind his actions, even if the dragon didn't fully understand it himself.

Staring into the crackling flames of the hearth, Brom let out a long sigh. He had spent years in the shadows, hiding and watching, trying to keep the past buried. Yet the roar seemed to carry a promise that the past was no longer content to stay hidden.

Though Brom didn't yet know it, the sound that had reached him that night marked the beginning of a new era. Change was on the horizon, and it would not be ignored.