As Crown Castle and all its misery sank on the horizon, Eragon's fury faded with them. For the first time he flew without being shackled by oaths. He deeply inhaled the salty air, relished the open wind over his wings. His only true boundaries were the sea and sky.

Saphira.

Aye?

He bared his teeth in a grin. It's a shame to let the rest of this day go to waste.

Saphira smirked right back. The joy across their private link only multiplied as their escorts realized they were planning mutiny. Indeed. I have lessons yet to teach you.

That was all the warning he received before she lunged to the left, snapping at his wing. Eragon was too clumsy to dodge in time. With a playful growl he dove after her. At first Brede stared after them. Then she only shook her head and continued her dignified progress east. Following her lead, the other fliers never broke formation. Even when their prince spun and skimmed too close in his game of tag.

They still had every intention of visiting their Standa relatives. Their flight simply happened to involve more surging into the clouds and skimming the waves than planned. Brede tried and failed to keep her smiles down. Ciar only stared stoically ahead. The other daonna-arach eventually gave up on looking scandalized, settling into expressions of disgruntlement or amusement.

Eragon had nothing left to prove to them. His and Saphira's first true flight together came above any weredragon notions of propriety.

As the hours dragged on, even Eragon's seemingly bottomless well of energy tapped out. He rolled out of his dive, snapping open his wings to glide upward on a gentle thermal. Fine, Saphira. You win again.

Saphira elegantly spun around him as they fell back into line with their escort. Of course I did, dearest. I am the best flier alive. You simply can't ever hope to match my grace.

He rumbled wryly, flexing his bulk. Some of us are built to fly and others to smack those like you out of the sky.

If you can catch us first. Saphira learned in close enough to brush her wing against his own. Truly, you're a better flier by the day. Even with my year's head start you'll catch up in no time... as much as you ever will.

Until our roles reverse, Eragon pointed out. One day you'll be able to swat me like a gnat. When you're the size of a mountain I won't be that much larger than Brede. Then I'll finally be able to fly circles around you.

If Saphira grew so fast. If he was not a tired elder barely able to keep himself aloft anymore.

Their moods both soured at the unwitting reminder Eragon's awoken dragon blood still did not bridge the gaps between them. With his immortality apparently erased, perhaps the rift had widened more than ever.

To take his mind from it, Eragon turned his attention to his surroundings. Their path passed over ocean, only skirting over isles. Green shores always loomed on the horizon. So did daonna-arach simply going about their days, gliding over flocks or diving into the sea with fishing nets in their claws. What land they saw always seemed to be fields or open pasture.

Brede, he called, how much land out here is forest?

Woodlands are far and between except on the largest isles, my prince. They have been since before men landed on these shores. Brede snorted in mental amusement. The dragons banished to these isles sought to expand their hunting grounds by burning the tree cover back. In these days lords guard their forest for their game and timber more jealously than they do their gold.

It made sense. With limited land and massive appetites, of course daonna-arach cultivated all they could. Where their isles could not provide, they turned to the sea. What kelp and seaweed their flocks did not graze on the shores they gladly harvested. From the sea itself were hauled up fish, seals, and whales. Eragon, who not dined on seafood since his stay with Brom and Jeod in Teirm, was served at least one dish of it with every meal. Saphira grumbled about what the saltiness and the oiliness did her breath, but had come to like it all the same.

Brede caught on to his hungry thoughts. The Eastern Isles are renowned for their wild game, my prince. You will find no shortage of game meat. I personally miss a good bison.

Some of the islands they skirted past might have been little smaller than Vroengard, with mountains that soared into the sky and trees on their slopes. There still was not enough to support wild beasts the size of cattle. Even in the Spine bison were rare, hunted for their meat by men and Urgals alike. They avoided human settlements and dwelt in the deep mountains, where the Urgal tribes had their strongholds.

Union Isle, my prince, Brede announced at last.

Eragon and Saphira beheld the seat of Clan Standa. Union Isle was at least the size of Green Isle, if not even larger. At first glance he thought its open slopes uninhabited, for there were no freestanding cottages. Daonna-arach did not build with wood and clay. Their homes were sprawling hills, houses of stone and earth, visible only as rocky entrances in a hillside or from smoke drifting up from chimney holes.

Saphira rumbled in appreciation. More sensible than the flammable little homes your people built.

Human children can't sneeze fire, Eragon pointed out.

Human children did not have parents larger than their cottages. Human children never needed to fear monstrous abominations ripping down their walls every moonless night.

Crown Castle was hewn into the island itself. At first Eragon believed the Standas' castle to be only the relatively small, squat stone keep defensibly built atop an artificial hill. Then he realized its true extent; the thick walls of earth and stone girding side entrances into not only that large hill, but three smaller ones flanking it.

But it was not the castle Eragon stared at. His eye was drawn to the horizon. There sprawled a darkness he had first mistook for a large island, stretching north to south with no apparent end. It was no isle at all.

"Alagaesia," he breathed aloud, mind shuttering closed to all but his bonded.

Not quite, Saphira murmured. We're far too north.

A land the Riders had never put to map, if they had ever ventured so far. Somewhere south where the living walls of Du Weldenvarden. Did their masters believe them dead or tortured into puppets of the King?

No wonder the East never wanted for wild game or timber.

Ever so slightly, Eragon drifted off course. Brede blinked sedately after him.

He casually corrected his flight. Soon, he vowed Saphira.

She glided just close enough to brush her wing to his. Soon.

Supper was just a family affair. Saphira had supposed it to mean Torin Standa, his mate, and their three children. Instead accommodations in the great hall were far tighter than she'd imagined. Crowded in with them were Brede, Brede's parents, and grandparents. The Standas by blood were easy to distinguish. All had scales some shade of blue, from pale blue-gray to cobalt.

Perhaps there would have been more room if the grand settings intended for the Lord and Lady were occupied. However Eithne and Torsten Standa were 'sleeping' and not to be disturbed, for the pair had been interred in the crypts below for years. Weredragons were not quite dead until their remains were burned. As such their grandson Torin was still merely Lord Regent, intended to act as if his grandmother might return to her seat at any time.

Such strangeness came from the human side of their family.

Conversation revolved around simple, surface topics. The Standas waxed poetic on the gifts and beauty of the Eastern Isles. The name Beline was not spoken once. Instead her grandparents were fondly spoken of as if they were still truly alive and not rotting in the floors below.

Marit Standa, Eragon's great-grandmother, received hearty toasts in her memory. The tempestuous Righ was quiet as a lamb when she quirked her brow at him just so. Her fires could sear twenty Serpents on a Long Night, for she fiercely flew as a flier rather than the comparative safety of the caster. Her family spoke of her with such love and sorrow that Eragon listened intently.

The stories passed through Saphira's ears. Her attention was elsewhere.

She stared. The Standa children gawked right back. Brede had claimed them close to Eragon's age. The triplets were ten. Six years might have been trivial to weredragons, but not to humans. They were the first weredragon children Saphira had the chance to study in detail. In turn she supposed she was their first true dragon.

The triplets were around the size of ponies, still growing out of the ungainliness of infancy. Their snouts were a bit too blunt, wings too large for their frames. Deirdre, the daughter, had vivid blue scales darker than Saphira's own. Her brothers were unnervingly identical to each other.

"Children," the mother murmured under a fond recollection by Marit's aunt. "You aren't insulting our guests, are you?"

Her children snapped up to attention, wings and tails stiff.

"No, Mother," primly answered the boy called Domnall. Or perhaps he was Conall.

"But you were," their sister hissed.

"And you were too!" retorted her other brother.

Just once, their mother blinked.

The triplets scrambled to dip their necks, eyes darting downward. "My most sincere apologies, Saphira," they near blurted as one.

Saphira shoved her laughter down deep. Outwardly she only flicked her tail in easy forgiveness. It's quite all right, Aila, she answered graciously. Were I in their position I'd be no less curious. She winked to them. I've had my fair share of admirers before. Please don't be afraid to ask questions.

Three sets of eyes pleadingly flickered to their mother. "Within reason," she allowed.

Saphira had idea what she unleashed until it crashed down upon her. The floodgates opened. Three streams of questions, all wildly different, bombarded Saphira.

Outwardly Eragon shook as if holding back a cough. Across their link he roared in laughter.

I see the family resemblance now, she cut in.

Of course, Saphira. They're as enamored with you as I am.

She puffed out her chest at the compliment and decided to indulge her admiring audience.

It should not have taken her twenty minutes to clarify, no, dragon eggs were nothing like chicken eggs.

Domnall, Conall, and Deirdre had stared at Eragon in apprehension for all of ten seconds before realizing, royal blood and heritage aside, he was their cousin and thus a perfectly suitable target. The fact he looked a normal duine-arach had swayed them quickly. Saphira, as a true dragon, had been regarded in fearful awe until she had shown herself friendly underneath her slit eyes and unnerving silence.

Now, in the light of a new morning, Brede and Ciar watched their prince half-vanish until a pile of play-fighting fledglings. Saphira circled them anxiously, unsure whether to intervene. When Eragon collapsed and pretended to be dead, the triplets swiftly swarmed their new target. For a moment, the older she-dragon froze, before growling playfully and snapping gently after them.

Did she never play before? Ciar mumbled across the privacy of their bond.

Dragons are vanishingly rare now, Brede retorted sadly. Her only playmate would have been Eragon, and she would have fast outgrown him.

No duine-arach truly outgrew play. There were friendly games of snapping after tails and games of chicken, all mostly done under the heady light of a full moon. Every adult made time when the young of their clan deigned them to play. Children were so precious now. Even the Righ, proud and imperious, had stood still as a mountain as his infant grandsons clambered and squealed and fought atop him.

Eragon and Saphira were not adults. Not truly. As adolescents they were caught between worlds. However dragons grew, Eragon would not be fully mature until his thirtieth birthday.

How young, to have bonded souls for the rest of their lifetimes. But not unheard of. Mated pairs were but one facet of the bond. Close siblings moved as one. Friends could forge connections beyond all others. Those bonded at such at a young age were said to be the strongest fighters, moving as one on the wing or fighting side by side. Even upon physical maturity not all romances sought need be binding.

And yet...

Ciar twitched his tail. Perhaps we should watch them around the alcohol this full moon. Emotions will be running high enough.

Please, Ciar, Brede sighed. Not even at my drunkest did I ever make a pass at you. Gawky ravens aren't my type. Saphira and the prince weren't even born the same species.

And now the prince is a fully-fledged duine-arach, the strong and sincere type the young ladies eat alive, Ciar noted in frustrating calmness. I doubt Saphira is without taste.

Brede almost retorted dragons did not sully their blood with half-breeds. They had cleaved stronger to the system than the daonna-arach themselves. Their mud-blooded cousins to the east had been scorned as outcasts and mongrels. True dragons had always known a duine-arach on sight. Those seeking illicit pleasure in the west had been driven back home with fang and fire.

She realized with a chill Saphira was not a... free dragon. She had been bonded to Eragon since hatching. The connection had endured even after the Spark had eaten away at the foul magic twining their souls. Their connection was genuine.

Humans, not so aware, had unwittingly taken more than a few daonna-arach to bed over the centuries. Brede's own ancestors and those sworn to their clan had been the biggest offenders. Bastards had inevitably been born. Before the Fall the Standas had discreetly swept the northwest human settlements once a decade, claiming those children with the Spark before their fire had devoured them from the inside out.

No such children had ever been conceived dragon and duine-arach. Not with a parent that had remained a dragon.

In their play fighting with the children, Eragon and Saphira tumbled until each other. For a moment they gaped at each other, tangled wings and steaming breath. Only at the innocent urging of the Standa triplets did they pull apart and playfully growl after them. Their touch on the other lingered heartbeats too long.

Brede and Ciar simultaneously shuddered and flicked their claws outward to cast off that dreaded misfortune.

In their hearts of hearts they knew the gesture futile. Eragon and Saphira had already proven themselves tangled near to the point of choking in fate's web The Sky-Father had already lost his war for the day. The equinox had come and gone. Whatever misadventure awaited that ill-fated pair upon the Spirit's Moon would be reaped a thousandfold.

As a reminder not all bonds are romantic - some are parental and others platonic, forged by best friends or siblings or comrades-in-arms. Not all platonic bonds made in early life survive puberty.

Like their dragon ancestors, weredragons have very strong opinions on territory and are allergic to change. There is no reason to go tampering with ancestral homelands unless expansion is needed. That... has not been the case for a quite some time. With living triplets in this generation and a healthy lord and lady about to take their seat, the Standa clan is considered blessed by duine-arach standards. Torin himself has no siblings and his only aunt on the Standa side was Marit. Brede is the only youngish of her branch of the Clan.