Eragon hesitated at the entrance of the tent, brushing damp swamp mist from his cloak before stepping inside. The smell of wax and moss clung to the air, and the floating candles made his shoulders stiffen slightly. His eyes wandered upward, lingering on the unnatural light before settling on the old woman.
At her words, he blinked in confusion.
“Expecting me?” he asked, lowering himself cautiously onto the cushion she offered. His hands rested on his knees, though they fidgeted faintly, betraying his nerves. “I think you may have me mistaken for someone important.”
He gave a small, awkward smile, glancing back toward the tent flap as though considering escape before sighing and relaxing slightly.
“Well… I suppose my story isn’t much,” he began. “I come from a small village far from places like this. Nothing special — farms, muddy roads, and people who thought the world ended at the next hill.” He chuckled softly at the memory.
“I grew up listening to travelers talk about ruins, kingdoms, and creatures I thought only existed in stories. Eventually…” he shrugged, “I realized I didn’t want to hear about adventures anymore. I wanted to see them myself.”
Eragon's expression dimmed slightly as he looked around the dim tent.
“So I left. No grand destiny. No prophecy. Just a pack, a rusty blade, and more confidence than skill.” He laughed under his breath. “Truth be told, I’m still figuring out what I’m doing.”
His gaze returned to the hag, curiosity overcoming his unease.
“But if you were expecting me,” he said carefully, “then maybe this town has something worth finding after all.”
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