A Song of Scale and Shadow - Chapter - 3

When Eragon finally regained consciousness, his cheek was pressed against something cold and unyielding. For a moment, he thought he must have rolled into the stream in the Spine. But when he drew a shaky breath, the air bit into his lungs so sharply it made him cough. He pushed himself upright, snow clinging to his sleeves, and stared around in a rising swell of panic.

Everything had changed.

Where there had been green ferns and towering old oaks, there was now an endless sea of white. Snow lay thick across the ground in every direction, broken only by jagged black stones that thrust up like broken spears. The trees themselves were wrong—tall pines, their dark boughs heavy with frost, not the moss-hung giants of the Spine. He turned in a slow circle, heart hammering, but there was no sign of the clearing where he’d stood, no trace of the elk he had pursued. Only wind, hissing low over the drifts.

For a few long moments, he could do nothing but stare, breath coming ragged and hot in the frigid air. His eyes darted down to his hands, and there it was—the blue stone, cold and smooth, sitting innocently in his palm. A surge of dread washed through him. It had done this. Whatever it was, whatever power it held, it had ripped him from everything he knew.

His first instinct was to hurl it away, to fling it into the drifts and pretend he had never seen it. But as his fingers tightened around it, another, colder realization settled into his gut: if the stone had brought him here, it might be the only thing that could ever take him home. Clenching his jaw, he tucked it carefully into his pack.

He forced himself to steady his breathing. Staying in one place was no better than waiting to freeze. His clothes were warm enough for a night in the Spine, but not for whatever this place was. He looked down the slope—steep, treacherous, studded with bare stone—but there was no other path. He would have to move or die.

With his bow slung over his shoulder and his flint and steel pressed into a side pocket, Eragon began picking his way down the mountainside. Each step sank knee-deep into the drifts, and the cold gnawed through the thin patches in his trousers. He did not look back. There was no point in hoping the forest would reappear behind him. The world he knew was gone. Only the unknown remained.


By the time Eragon reached the bottom of the slope, his legs burned with exhaustion, and every breath came in short, steaming gasps. The valley stretched wide before him, a vast hollow between rising ridges, blanketed in snow so pure and bright it hurt his eyes. He stood there for a moment, shivering, and tried to steady the trembling in his hands.

As the wind curled around him, colder than any winter he had known in Palancar Valley, his mind reached for something—anything—to hold on to. He thought of Brom, sitting by the tavern hearth in Carvahall, his lined face half-hidden by shadow as he spun stories that could hush any room. Brom always seemed to have a tale ready, whether it was the old epics about the Riders and their battles against Galbatorix, or smaller parables with lessons tucked inside them like secret seeds.

He remembered one in particular now, as clearly as if Brom were standing beside him: the story of two boys who set out across the hills to visit distant kin and were caught in a sudden snowstorm. For days, no one knew if they had survived. But when the storm finally broke, they were found alive, huddled in a hollow they’d dug beneath a drift, kept warm by nothing but a small fire and their stubborn refusal to lie down and die.

Brom’s voice echoed in his memory: “Winter is no friend to the unprepared. The sun will leave you early, and the night will finish what the cold began. So you must know how to outlast the dark.”

Eragon swallowed, tasting fear and determination in equal measure. His own clothes were nowhere near warm enough, and night would fall faster here than he was used to. He could already feel the cold leeching into his bones.

He glanced around, searching for any sign of shelter—a hollow, a cave, even a stand of trees dense enough to break the wind. If he didn’t find a place to make a fire before dusk, he knew he might not see the morning.

Drawing a shaky breath, he shifted his pack higher on his shoulders and forced his numb legs to move. Survival was all that mattered now. And for the first time, he truly understood the lesson Brom had meant in that old story: in the heart of winter, there is no help but your own will to endure.


Eragon moved steadily through the snow, forcing himself to keep going when all he wanted was to collapse and let the cold swallow him. Every few steps, he stopped to gather what he could. The pines here grew thick and dark, their lower branches heavy with old needles. He broke off armfuls of dead wood, the brittle branches snapping easily in his gloved hands. When he found a thick wedge of hardened resin clinging to the bark, he chipped it free with the edge of a rock. His uncle had taught him that resin burned hot and bright—better than any tinder if you were desperate.

With each handful of fuel, he felt a little less helpless. As he worked, the wind picked up, carrying drifts across his footprints and stealing the last warmth from his skin. He knew he couldn’t stay exposed much longer. That was when he spotted it—a dark shape tucked against the base of a ridge. Not a proper cave, but where an enormous slab of rock had slid halfway down the slope and come to rest at an angle, leaving a narrow pocket beneath. It wasn’t much, but it would protect his back and head.

He trudged toward it, boots crunching through the crusted snow. The space was just wide enough for him to crawl inside, though he’d have to hunch his shoulders. Still, it was shelter. He spent the next hour hauling stones and stacking them in a low wall across the open side to break the wind. When he finished, he had something close to a refuge—ragged, cold, but better than nothing.

He fetched more pine boughs, breaking them into heaps and spreading them over the frozen ground to make a rough bedding. Sleeping straight on snow would only sap what little heat he still had. When the nest was done, he sat back on his heels, breath steaming, and felt the first cautious spark of relief.

Working fast before the last light was gone, he piled the dead branches and chunks of resin into a loose pyramid near the entrance. He struck flint to steel, again and again, until a spark caught in the resin and flared into a flickering flame. He fed it steadily, coaxing it higher until the heat finally reached his fingers.

Around him, night was gathering fast. He could feel hunger gnawing at him, a hollow ache in his belly that seemed deeper for how tired he was. He hadn’t eaten since morning, and whatever magic had ripped him through the world had stolen the strength from his bones.

Eragon drew his knees close, wrapping his arms around them, and stared into the fire. He was alone, farther from home than he could comprehend. But he was alive. For now, that would have to be enough.


Eragon rose before dawn, woken by the cold pressing against his cheek. For a moment, he lay very still, listening to the faint creak of the snow settling outside and the whisper of wind along the ridge. He had survived the first night. That alone felt like something to be grateful for.

When he crawled out from beneath the sheltering slab of stone, the sky was still deep blue, with only a pale line of light growing along the horizon. His breath rose in pale clouds as he stamped feeling back into his feet. He had no map, no idea which way might bring him to help—or even whether help existed in this place. So he picked a direction, one that seemed slightly downhill, and began to walk.

As he trudged through the drifts, he couldn’t stop thinking about home. About Uncle Garrow rising before dawn to tend the animals, and Roran tramping across the yard with his half-smile and easy laugh. They would be searching by now, he was sure of it. Maybe combing the Spine, calling his name in the gullies where he used to hunt. The thought hollowed his chest, but he forced himself to keep moving. Regret wouldn’t help him survive.

To keep the loneliness at bay, he let his mind drift to the bright pieces of memory he carried with him. He pictured the traders’ boats nosing up the Anora River, the way the sun would catch on the barrels and cloth bundles piled high on the decks. He thought of Roran and Katrina, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the smithy’s steps, too shy to hold hands in front of anyone. He remembered Uncle Garrow’s lined face bent over a broken plow, and the quiet satisfaction when the blade finally fit back into place. Each recollection steadied him, gave him something to cling to against the vast emptiness all around.

By midday, he’d caught sight of movement along a stand of pines—a pair of snow hares darting between the trunks. With deliberate care, he nocked an arrow, waited until the nearer one paused, and let fly. The arrow struck true. He had the second before it could bolt. The small victories felt enormous.

When evening came, he built another small fire at the base of a sheltered outcrop. He dressed and cooked the rabbits, the smell reminding him painfully of the stews Roran used to make. As he ate, he touched the blue stone tucked safely in the inner pocket of his coat. Whatever else happened, he couldn’t risk losing it. It might be his only path back.

He sat long after the meat was gone, staring into the flames. Then he banked the coals, pulled his cloak tight, and slept in the knowledge that he would rise in the morning and keep walking—because stopping was the one thing he could not afford.


Eragon had always heard the old saying passed around in Carvahall’s long winters: In the starving season, a wolf will challenge anything with a heartbeat. Even a dragon, Brom claimed, would think twice before tangling with a starving pack. He’d never thought to wonder whether that was exaggeration—until the night he saw the glint of eyes in the dark.

He had built his fire as high as he dared, the flames crackling and spitting sparks up into the cold night. Sleep would not come. He kept imagining shapes moving just beyond the reach of the light, shadows sliding between the trunks. When the low growl finally reached his ears, it was so close it turned his stomach cold. He tightened his grip on the thick length of burning wood he’d pulled from the fire, heart thudding.

The first wolf came into view with a soundless step, pale in the snow except for its dark, hungry eyes. Another moved in on the opposite side, and another behind it—three, then four, then more, circling, waiting. They knew better than to rush the fire, but they also knew he couldn’t stay there forever. One began to pace in and out of the glow, testing him, trying to draw him away from the heat and light.

He raised the burning branch, thrusting it toward the closest shapes. Sparks hissed where they scattered across the snow, but the wolves only flinched back a step before settling again, patient. He felt their hunger, their terrible certainty. They would wait as long as it took.

When one slunk nearer, lowering its head to spring, Eragon dropped the branch into the snow and raised his bow. He drew in a slow breath, willing his hands not to shake. The arrow flew true. The wolf crumpled without a sound. Another bounded forward in a rush of pale fur and snapping teeth, but he thrust the second burning log at its muzzle and loosed a second shot in the same motion. The creature fell thrashing into the snow, and the others scattered into the dark, growling.

The rest of the night passed in a tense, unbroken vigil. Every time he thought he heard them return, he threw more wood on the fire, driving the shadows back to the edges. He did not dare close his eyes.

When the sky finally turned gray with dawn, Eragon emerged stiff and trembling. The snow around the camp was churned with tracks and spattered dark with blood. Three wolves lay still where they had fallen, their coats rimed with frost. He stood over them a long moment, forcing himself to steady his breathing.

Then, with grim purpose, he set about skinning them. The work was slow and ugly—he had never done it himself—but each pelt would mean a better chance at surviving another night. When he was finished, he wrapped the furs in a bundle and pressed his palm against the blue stone hidden inside his pack. For a long moment, he closed his eyes.

He had chosen to live. Whatever it cost, whatever this place demanded of him, he would not give in.