I stare at my feet
My home where I should be
Magic is dead here
Alagaësia calls me
I speak in the ancient tongue

4. Inheritance

The ink fades to beige
A voice pulls me from the page
But the boughs and hills remain
Desperately, I muster
My eyes, alight—brisingr

3. Departure

He hunts in the Spine
The woods erupt warmth and light
The deer bolts, affright
A blue stone? No – dragon’s egg
She, Saphira Bjartskular.

Dust motes catch the light
The world sighs in shades of grey
My hand reaches it—
A blue cover, curled edges
One sharp breath, I turn the page